#and he wants him to have some good memories untainted by death

[jackdaw-and-hattrick]

Teetering

Tw/Swearing.

Ao3

Previous-Next

There was no sun here, but the day was bright as Damien ran through the garden. The plants chased after him, vines and roots snaking and snapping around his feet. Above him, Phantom floated, weaving in and out of branches. Suddenly, a willow branch snapped forward, and Damien had to duck out of the way: a front roll and a flip as he dodged the greenery. Then a petunia, teeth bared, lunged, and he jumped backward, not seeing the island's edge until he was rocking back. His foot slipped, and for a sickening moment, Damien was falling down into the endless void of the Infinite Realms. Then Phantom catches him and holds him in his arms as they fly to the great tree at the garden's center, where they land on the highest branches. From here, Damien can see the whole island. It is beautiful, lush, and wild, so different from the training grounds back home. He goes to pick one of the odd black fruits, which hang heavy and ripe, but he's stopped.

“Don’t,” Phantom says, “The fruit isn't safe.”

“But I've seen you eat them.”

“Yeah, but I live here.

You have a home to get back to.”

.......................................................................................

Pennyworth was the first to recover. Stepping past the floor-bound form of Todd balled up and wheezing from laughing, though Damian couldn't think what was so funny, he swept what family he could towards the living room. Damien was unsure just how much of the family was planning on joining them for dinner, but for the time being, it seemed to be just the five of them. Phantom, for his part, gathered his board-line hysterical boyfriend up into his arms and followed after. It was odd to see such a thin person carrying a man at least two hundred pounds heavier as if it were nothing. Strange, Damian faintly noticed he was smiling. When did he ever?... No matter.

The sitting room was, like all of the manor, spacious and decadent, with paneled wine-red walls stretching up so high they seemed to curve to the chandelier, not as large or beautiful as the one in the main hall or even the one in the dining room but still magnificent in its own right. If there was one thing Damien appreciated about living in the Manor quite as much as the freedom it afforded him, it was the sheer beauty and care given to each room. As much as he'd hate to admit it, he didn't know how Pennyworth maintained such a large space on his own. There simply where not the hours in the day. Even attempts to shadow the man had proven fruitless in explaining how he managed.

Finally, Todd seemed to have calmed himself to the point where it was no longer a struggle to speak over him. Father, standing stiffly in the corner where the light was weakest and glaring daggers through Phantom, was the first to speak.

"Who are You."

Damien opened his mouth to speak, only to be cut off with a sharp glance.

"I mean..." Phantom hesitated, seemingly unsure about how to continue. " I'm Phantom. I used to babysit Dami when he was little."

"You were part of the League of Shadows?"

"No!" Phantom seems somewhat over-emphatic in Damien's opinion, not that anyone had asked.

"No, I'm..." He glanced over to Damien, "I'm the king of the Infinite Realms, Dami just used to visit sometimes when he wanted to get away for a bit and I would keep an eye on him."

"What are the Infinite Realms? How did he get there?"

"Oh you know," he floundered, "League of Shadows... Forbidden magic... all that Fun Stuff."

"Elaborate"

Surprisingly, it was Todd who spoke next.

“Look, the League had a natural portal to the Realms they kept squirreled away ok? It was a whole big secret; only the top members were supposed to even know about it.”

“Like the Lazarus Pit.”

“Yeah,”

“Is it dangerous?”

“It's a giant hole in reality leading to another dimension,” Todd said, irritation evident, “ not a fucking Chucky Cheese. Of course it's dangerous; that's why we closed it.”

“We?” Phantom snorted

“Yeah, yeah Mister I-close-holes-in-reality-for-shits-and-giggles. Not all of us can be fucking One Punch Men. ‘Sides, I helped. Hell knows when you were gonna get around to it if I didn't threaten to leave you sleeping on the couch.”

“Hel doesn't know anything about scheduling and you know it.”

Father cut in, interrupting their fond bickering. Silently, Damien wondered how long Todd and Phantom had been dating.

“So the portal has been taken care of.”

“Yep!” Phantom said, “I closed that dumb thing right up!”

“Are there any others?”

“Yeah, but most natural portals don't stay open long enough to be a problem. A stable portal is a little like a fairy; real, but rare enough that you can keep the salt at home.”

Father blinked, unsure how to react to that answer. Damien remembered this; the strange explanations that brought up more questions than answers. As a child, Damien had always found this extremely irritating. It was reassuring to see that this had not changed.

“What is the Infinite Realm?”

Again, Todd answered.

“Exactly what it says on the tin; it's a realm, and it's infinite. Basically, it's a space between universes connecting them all together, and ‘cause there’s infinite other universes, there’s infinite space between them. It's like driving through Kansas. Most folks don't think about the people who take care of those endless corn fields.”

Father glared at Todd, clearly frustrated with his butting in. He very purposefully turned to Phantom.

“Damien said you were king?”

“Yep! Won the title after I beat the last guy into the ground when he tried to flatten the midwest!”

“What does that mean?” Father gritted his teeth, not used to all of this talking. “What duties come with being King of the Infinite Realms?”

Again, Phantom hesitated, glancing over to Damien as if trying to decipher some great mystery, and again, Todd stepped in. Interesting. Irritating.

“Same shit that comes with being King anywhere. He sits through boring ass meetings and makes sure no dumbasses try and kill each other.”

“Hn”

“So,” Greyson said, stepping purposefully between Father and Todd, “How’d you two meet?”

He flashed his signature “socialite” smile. Phantom met it in a wide parody of a grin, eyes impossibly wide and hair glowing ever brighter. Before he could speak, Pennyworth, who Damien was sure had been by the door leading to the front hall, stepped in from the dining room.

“Excuse me, sirs,” he said, voice as level and unreadable as ever, “but it seems dinner is ready.”

Tag Cultists

@mur-ururu @krzys2000 @soren1830 @fisticuffsatapplebees @emergentpanda-blog @heirxofxtime @plotwholls @phoenixdemonqueen @avalnfear @historyboiiiiii @rangerhorsetug @zgirlxy @mistrfuzzles @thegreawizards @aroranorth-west @emeraldcorpral @the-archer-goddess @gin2212 @undead-essence @eleiteranger

[sageandred]

This is a bit long, but my thoughts on Carlos/Season 5:

Gonna say something controversial, but Carlos' storyline has been foreseeable for a long long time now and the show has been laying the groundwork as early as season 1.

Carlos being a ranger and "following in his dad's footsteps" has been hinted at since the first season, and definitely in the works since his investigative journeys with Grace and the missing girl when his boss tells him he should take the Detective Exam. This isn't surprising. Carlos in "Bad Call" was shown to have good instincts and his dad couldn't admit to it (for protocol reasons), but they were shown at a point of contention for their differing work tactics and disagreeing on the kidnapping case with TK. And maybe Carlos "never wanted to be a ranger" and this goes against his beliefs — I get it, but I've always viewed it as he was scared and becoming a detective was inevitable. The moral compass of the Texas Ranger angle and his dad having potentially corrupt actions on his record is interesting and will definitely be a point they address for Carlos either going down a bad path or being conflicted within his rank.

I've had thoughts on this relating to a different topic, but there's a lot of storytelling they could do with Carlos taking on the same title as Gabriel. Could Carlos struggle in this position either with corruption and tough decisions or because following his dad ends up being "too big of shoes to fill"? Could he become so obsessed with the investigation that he loses himself completely and his morals along the way before he pulls himself back? Will Carlos' career upgrade actually make him an even better "officer" and be more fitting of a job calling for him where he challenges the history of the job and sticks to his belief system? This is obviously a connection to Gabriel and his motivations for doing it will come out upon the premiere, but he still has the opportunity to make his own path if he sticks with the title by the end of the season.

Another controversial take, I need to get off my chest: Gabriel and Gwyn's deaths were necessary and narratively vital to progress the characters Here's the thing with Gabriel: he and Carlos did not have a good relationship; they were on the path to mending (..kind-of), but they didn't see eye-to-eye and Carlos' hurt from his coming out was/is still present. I don't really see how they could keep him alive without sacrificing some of the deeper exploration into Carlos' progression and insight to his character. They already set-up the "Carlos, you and dad got along so well" narrative that he doesn't remember via his sisters.. This is important. I've always seen Carlos as viewing Gabriel as a strict father and (with 4x18's knowledge), he didn't fair well as the only son (who's also gay). Carlos is going to have to revisit some childhood memories and the memory of his dad and I don't think he would ever come to some conclusions without the death. Tbh, some mending and epiphanies only come in grief and Carlos realistically probably would never feel close with his dad the way he should've or have untainted views re: his upbringing without the event happening. He will probably feel closer to his dad and come to see Gabriel's personal perspectives & truths more than he ever has, if I'm right about the storytelling.

Lastly, I wanna talk about tarlos and their differing inputs on kids, or uncertainty for the future. I think it's cool that Carlos is shown to lean towards not wanting and they settle to desiring to be together in their own way in the end. If Carlos never has a definitive desire.. cool! I think they'll be fine and the story will be an uncommon on-screen representation of where it works out. However, as someone who's more leaning towards not wanting kids, I don't really think that's Carlos based on what he's said. It seems to me, Carlos has concerns about being a father AND being like his father that hinder him from feeling comfortable about this (no hate to Gabriel; again I think Carlos' experience of growing up conflicts to Gabriel's perception of being a parent and how others' viewed them together). The fact that the kids conversation happens in season 4 means the writers knew they were going to kill Gabriel off at the end of the season and were well on their way to setting up the story they're trying to tell for the audience. I know if Carlos grows fond of parenting or he has a new conversation with TK about his thoughts, there are going to be some people that say he "changed his mind" when the story is laid out evidently from where I'm watching.

Stories are set up with purposes that have beginnings, middle, and ends that you can usually tell where they're going once you make it so far in the journey. And you can predict this with every well-known character that I even just implied yesterday that Wyatt would struggle as a dispatcher, because that makes sense narratively (with what we've seen from him in the past), and when Grace is absent, he's the only option that makes sense to take her position rather than someone random (from a show-development point of view).

[mysterious-animated-skulls]

I like to imagine that Vivi navigates around people disbelieving in the supernatural. She believes even before she has concrete proof - the cave, Mystery, Shiromori, Lewis, etc. - and has no interest in arguing. People will believe what they want to believe.

Which doesn't annoy her any less, however.

Applying this to crossovers can be very funny. Let's take Detective Conan for example. The titular Conan doesn't believe in ghosts. Yes, he has some good instincts which I can accept.

But he's also got a death radar. And 'bad things are happening' radar. Conan has the argument on his side that bad things tend to happen. But with how he homes in on the location and the exact moment?

That's definitely a sixth sense, not investigative work or instincts.

And just the way his luck works, he and associated civilians regularly encountering murders and other crimes. But no, Conan claims it's nothing special.

Vivi would side-eye Conan so much for that. She knows by this point that a toxin reverted a 16-years-old teenager by ten years to a grade schooler. She has investigative knowledge coupled with an untainted perception of him and knowing stranger things have happened. Apparently to him, however, science is enough to explain even that.

But eeh, not her problem. If he thinks her silly or naive for her belief in the supernatural, not her problem. She's here for visiting her family and enjoying a vacation. Hot springs, haunted sites, and hot food are calling her name!

If there's anything she's judging Conan for, it's what he's doing to Ran and everybody else around him. But especially Ran. He has been lying to her for months and deceived her several times, to "protect" her. Made her doubt her own mind, when she should know what danger he and SHE is in.

Vivi has a visceral, hateful reaction to discovering that secret.

(She's still struggling with the consequences of Lewis' magic altering her memories. People indirectly lied to her about him, which was understandable because any memory of him used to hurt her. But they still lied. And Mystery hid an important secret with the intention to protect her, only for that secret to blow up in their faces.)

She understands why Conan is keeping that secret. She would be more sympathetic if not for how many people that are not Ran know it by now.

Some of the ghosts following Conan claim that he has connections to U.S.A. secret services. Some of them have been helping him maintain the ruse that he's not Kudo Shinichi (deceiving people included). They're hunting for the same organization.

First, what the fuck?

Second, no chancing to get the kid's deeper attention. He's curious. Vivi approves of that in a detective, but not here, not from him.

Okay, she's biased. Who can blame her?

She mentions the events of the Cave, around the cover story she's developed. She leans into her love for the supernatural to have people dismiss her. She can't do anything if Conan wants to investigate the Mystery Skulls, but she'll definitely make it more difficult. She'll also make fun of him the entire time.

Of course, it's at this point that a murdered pins their deed on Vivi.

Said murdered happens to push all of her issues and she tears verbally into them. (And maybe with her bat.) If said rant also indirectly calls out Conan and everybody covering for him?

Well, only she knows.

[crimsonlyinglilly]

A Broken Promise - Part Two

Notes:

This is Kazuki's Pov of the latter half of last chapter.

Warning - this chapter covers underage prostitution, includes description of violence, death and sex.

------------------------------------

Kazuki was fifteen the first time he sells himself, it wasn’t planned.

He was just so tired and hungry.

It had been raining for weeks and he had wanted to be dry. The man had offered him food and a roof over his head for the night in exchange. He had agreed.

If he felt dirty even after being allowed to have a shower, then was it any different than his new normal. He decided feeling dirty was better than actually being dirty when he managed to get more food, charity, smiles anything really when he was actually washed.

He made sure to think things through after that, perhaps his memory of the calm nice boy was right, he needed to plan. He had found something he could offer to get what he wanted in return.

He starts introducing himself as Kaze, as he can't stand the thought of his real name being called, while he may not remember his parents he feels he should at least keep the one thing he has from them safe, and untainted.

Eventually he was able to earn enough to rent an apartment on the edge of the red light district, getting a pair of roommates to spilt the rent and for safety, finding them doing the same as him. Sure it was run down and bare, but that gave him something to do while he wasn’t working.

Fixing the place and making it his in a way he doesn’t remember anyplace being, other than he room he had shared with the boy from his memory.

He had been moved out of it days after the boy left.

He’s even able to start treating himself to a proper cooking supplies and cookbook, and his roommates where more than happy to leave him to cook, so he had people to test his recipes as he relearnt what he had done in the orphanage and when he tried new things.

it was nice, he wasn't alone and while spiltting thier cost, they could look for other jobs and Kazuki didn't need to do it as often.

*

He’s eighteen the first time he kills someone.

His first murder was planned though, for all he would claim it was an act of self-defence if he was ever caught.

See, he had grown up, had learned to think of the future.

The memory of the boy, more of gentle warm hands checking for bruises and a stern but concerned voice, he thinks wouldn’t view this as better but Kazuki had finally learned.

He swore to kill the next one who tried take more than Kazuki offered, and so he did.

He’s already breaking the law to make a living to survive, what does it matter if he adds to it.

Sure, the execution isn’t neat, more blind anger and he doesn’t really remember the knife just the sudden weight of the body, but he cleans up afterwards and disposes well enough.

He takes the body to the closest bridge avoiding cameras and throws him over as a train passes underneath.

The news days later covers the tragic suicide.

*

The second was closer to really self-defence, than murder but he walked away alive the other didn’t.

He was leaving the alley, money in hand when a hand had pulled him back by the hair, he had thought it was getting too long but hadn’t gotten around to cutting it yet and as he was pulled back and thrown into a wall his only thought was that his roommate Sakura was going to be smug when she found out.

The rest is a blur, his face is slammed into a wall, before his turned around slammed again into the wall and pinned there by the older man’s weight.

The snarled insults and words are easy to ignore, he’s gotten so good at letting the words past by, he doesn’t notices the threat until it’s almost too late.

It wasn’t until the hands closed around his throat, cutting off his breath that he really noticed the danger and the man’s face fading in and out inches away from his that he acted.

So he was a whore, he wasn’t going to die in a dirty alley to some middle age man who had to pay for it.

He’s angry, unbelievably so. He remembers the boy warning him of his temper and he had tried so hard to keep it since the last time but surely the boy would understand this time.

It’s the closest he remembers coming to death.

He reaches up to grab the man’s head and drives his thumbs into his eyes, when the man lets go of him screaming, Kazuki twists them to reverse their positions. He uses one hand to catch and pin the man’s wrists moving them above his head and the other muffle the screams and close his nose.

He waits as the man struggles, puts all his weight against him to hold still, until the body goes limp. He stands there for several moments longer, panting, before he drops it.

Blood covers the man’s face and his own hands, there was no way this could be blamed as a suicide. So he doesn’t bother hiding it, he clears as much evidence of himself after stripping the body for valuables and flees.

He returns home with a headache and a grazed cheek, washes his hands and hoodie of the blood before either of his roomates get home.

Sakura cuts his hair and Kazuki takes a few odd backstage jobs at hers and Tsuki’s jobs, for a little while as his cheek heals.

Months later, when he learns this one was the one that got the organisation attention, he considers it lucky.

He’d be more thankful if he didn’t still wake up from nightmares from it.

*                                                                                                                              

The third was the first time he really noticed he was taller, bigger, stronger. The man had attempted to leave without paying and when Kazuki had caught him, had moved to punch him.

Dirty whore, were poor last words but they went with the poor decisions that led him there, it didn’t matter to Kazuki.

It’s later when Tsuki comments on his humming, asking if he had a good day while he tries a new recipe that he wonders if there was something wrong with him.

It’s not like he wants to kill people, not like he enjoys it, he just doesn’t care that he does.

It just, at least, when he does, it feels like he did something, left a sign he existed

Kazuki thinks he should probably feel something other than accomplishment, but he’s gotten used to ignoring his feeling as well as the words thrown at him, if he hadn’t the growing disgust at his job and himself may have ended him.

He also wonders if maybe this was the reason he was too much trouble for everyone when he was younger, that the caretakers at the orphanage had known Kazuki was damaged, that something was wrong with him.

He shakes off the thoughts, dwelling on the past never helped anything and sends a fake smile at Tsuki, reminding him that the apartment needed to be cleared, distracting Tsuki from his question. Tsuki’s grumbling complaints over Sakura’s mess and accusing her of taking a late shift to avoid cleaning it, helped the smile become real.

*

The fourth was easy, he went looking for them, asked around to have the others redirect their worst clients to him.

Nothing happens at first, most seem to behaviour on his first times with those sent to him, and he gets though two weeks, before he finds one.

It starts normally, he’s pushed against a wall, hands creeping under his shirt, groping and leaving Kazuki with his skin crawling as he kisses back and making the right noises to please the man. He begs when the man’s mouth leaves his, to trail kisses down his neck.

At the sharp too hard bite he doesn’t quite managed to cover his noise of pain, but he’s far more annoyed when he thinks about the mark it was going to leave and the fact he’s need to hide it.

Still it seemed to be going normally until moments later.

All it takes is a back-hand.

That body ends up in the river after he stripped it.

There are still bruises on his cheek and neck, when he meets Kyuu days later.

*

Kazuki really should have thought more about it, when a stranger offers you something that sounds too good to be true, it is. Kazuki has lived on the street for six years, he knows that.

An assassin, really.

But there’s something about Kyuutarou that makes him want to trust him.

He thinks it might be the way he looks like his faint memories of the boy or that fact they have similar names.

But he shrugs it off as a coincident, if the man really was Kyuu-Nii he’d tell him, Kyuu-nii was older so had to have better memories than Kazuki.

Besides a long lost brother returning and saving him from the streets was something that only happened in tv shows and books.

[voidtouched-blue]

musesofawolf-[Kaleh'a Quickdraw]--[Prior]

He shivered lightly, and then averted his gaze from her face, turned back towards the scene of death, and whispered out again. "Why? Why did this happen? And how did so many die?" He glanced at her stone, still glowing, pulsing, as if drinking in the aether around them as he shook his head again and shuddered. "What can we do to help this?" He felt broken. Defeated. He had expected a skirmish, a battle gone wrong, with most of them alive, the ones they had healed. He hadn't expected whatever this was. A...a... "Massacre."

The last time she had seen this much death was during her escape from Garlemald, and it had been at her hands. Her eyes glazed over as the memory of it replaced the view of the present, trapping her to yet another violent moment in the past.

Her ears flattened against the sides of her head as the distant sounds of gunfire, the cries of men as they laid dying in the snow, and machinery exploded in her mind. The smell of the burning ceruleum stuck at the back of her throat as she watched her own bloodied form unleashing the pent up rage of the last decade of her torture upon the enemy. A silver glimmer in the snow caught her attention, nearly invisible against the blanket of white save for the blood that covered its limbs.

The guttural roars that erupted from her throat in the vision had sent a shiver down her spine. It was a sight she had hoped would stay buried in the depths of her mind, but it hadn't been that long since then. It had been just over a year and a half, and still the memory continued to haunt her.

The sound of a collapsing machine under its own weight snapped her out of that trance. The shriek of that warped metal was enough to have her gripping her ears to protect them from the sharp sound. Dazed from the shock of her Echo, she looked around. It was always disorienting going from the present to the past and back to the present in such a short amount of time.

Her starlit gaze fell upon the distraught hunter at her side.

"What can we do to help this?"

The healer hadn't the heart to tell him that this would take time. She was grateful at least that the enemy had retreated back into their fortress, leaving their dead to pollute the ground of the Shroud. It meant that they could at least investigate somewhat. Not that it did either Keeper any good. But to understand the sheer scale of the battle was enough to make her realize exactly how many resources were being lost to these scuffles.

They're people, not resources.

She was quick to remind herself.

"See what you can find. I want to know what started this. I'm going to try to disburse some of the stagnant aether." She felt her claws pressing into the skin of her palm even as they had wrapped around her staff. "Will you be all right?"

Cyra had stepped forward, looking at how all of the light had dimmed from his eyes and his face at the sight. It wasn't easy to see so much violence, even the aftermath of it, in one small space. Even for the tortured healer, this was almost too much. Yet she worried more for his untainted psyche, than the pain she bore in her own heart. He hadn't seen this, he didn't need to see this. This was a suffering she couldn't heal, the pain of reality descending upon the unknowing.

"It's all right if you need a moment." She said softly.

[yuyuntianyu]

[2HA analysis blog] To love you is torment but leave you I cannot

I wanted to write this (hopefully not-too-long) blog to give 2HA fandom a different perspective of the events in the past timeline. I noticed that there are many little things that could not be carried over to the English language. These little things can give more explanations to our characters’ actions so I hope sharing this would help the novel make more sense. This blog focuses on Taxian-jun and Chu Fei.

Warning: Spoilers ! ! ! Taxian-jun and Chu Fei are their own trigger warnings ! ! !

Despite the novel having 350 chapters, we really know little about what happened between Taxian-jun and Chu Fei besides the abuse and mistreatment and that little is relayed to us by the Most Unreliable Narrator of the Cultivation World - Mo Ran Mo Weiyu. If we only take Mo Ran for his words then a lot of his and Chu Wanning’s decisions told later on would seem irrational and almost silly. So let’s dive deep in the past so we can understand how the great cultivator Beidou Xian-zun could raise such a dumb husky since the events in the past would explain the more irrational decisions made by both main characters.

Given Mo Ran’s narrator is about as reliable as his character in the first 120 chapters, we have to look at other more subtle clues and some of them are due to cultural and linguistic differences.

1. I used to like you a lot

At his coronation day, Taxian-jun stated that he once greatly looked up to Chu Wanning and that he used to love and respect him dearly. Maybe I am reading into this too much but this is my theory: The flower could erase the memory itself but cannot erase the feelings associated with the memory. He had his memories of the good deeds Chu Wanning did for him erased but still remembered that he used to love and respect him. It doesn’t make sense unless it is indeed that the flower could not erase its host’s feelings. So throughout the novel, Mo Ran’s complicated emotions are complicated possibly because he could not remember how he came to have these feelings. Similarly, Hua Binan could mess with the undead Taxian-jun’s memory to a great extent but could not erase his obsession with Chu Wanning.

2. I gave you a new title

Chu Fei. 楚妃. In the Imperial Chinese harem hierarchy, “Fei” means consort and not concubine (嬪 “Pín"). Consorts were highly respected positions in the palace weidling much political power and were only seconds to the Empress Consort. Another major difference is a consort would be married to the emperor while a concubine would not. So if Taxian-jun had truly wanted to only humiliate Chu Wanning and keep him for the carnal pleasures (I am intentionally ignoring his breeding kink completely), he would keep him as a concubine but he gave Chu Wanning the Consort title and hid him from the world. At this point, Taxian-jun had almost lost Chu Wanning once and had spent a lot of effort to bring him back from the verge of death after hearing Chu Wanning’s apology so his anger might have softened a bit. Also, given that Chu Wanning is a man, having a legitimate offspring ( (I am still intentionally ignoring Mo Ran's breeding kink completely) is not an issue so although this is not clearly stated, I believe Taxian-jun wanted to force a relationship and somewhat proper marriage on Chu Wanning. Another hint of this is in an Extra chapter where Taxian-jun tried to get Chu Wanning a birthday gift. He recalled that in his past timeline, he had wanted Chu Wanning to give him something on his birthday as well and that he had wanted Chu Wanning’s heart.

3. Shizun likes to write letters and poems

On Book 3 Chapter 247, Chu Wanning sat down and wrote a few unsent letters to the people he used to know. He also wrote a few lines of poetry. In the first few lines taken from different literature works, he expressed his sense of helplessness and his wish to remain untainted despite the circumstances. The more important two lines are from a poem written by a real poet named Fàn Chéngdà ( 范成大) who lived in the 12th century Southern-Song dynasty. The two lines read:

“May I be like the stars, may you* be as the moon. Night after night, may we shine together side by side.” **

*In the original work, the character used instead of you is “jun” 君 (as in 踏仙君 Taxian-jun). 君 could mean king, emperor, lord, or gentleman ** This is my rough translation - I haven’t found an English version of this poem

These two lines are commonly used in romantic novels as a way to express one’s unchanging love and loyalty to another person despite the circumstances. He compared himself as the stars and wanted to remain by Taxian-jun whom he viewed as the moon. Chu Wanning wrote this to express his willingness to stay but he would never voice this out loud. In the next timeline, he did the same thing by quietly loving and caring for Mo Ran 1.0 despite the mistreatment and was content with never expressing his feelings vocally. Mo Ran was rather uneducated and thus could not fully comprehend these two lines and misunderstood that Chu Wanning was missing Xue Meng.

4. You are all I have left

In chapter 252, after Chu Wanning returned to The Red Lotus Pavilion, he found Taxian-jun already waiting for him. Taxian-jun told Chu Wanning about a dream he had and said:

“I am afraid I don’t resent you… I want to resent you… Otherwise, I…” “In the end, it’s just you and I”.

This is not the first time he expressed that Chu Wanning was all he had left or they only had each other. I believe that at this point, Taxian-jun might have somewhat believed Chu Wanning and recognized that his memories were missing. His words and behaviors seemed a lot more gentle and he mentioned they did have periods of time where their marriage was easier. I believe it was after this point. He told us about the numerous times he attempted to spoil his consort or expressed his affection through gifts, a trip outside the palace, goods, jewels, and even teaching Chu Wanning how to cook or personally taking care of Chu Wanning when he was sick. At one point, Taxian-jun expressed his wish for a more peaceful marriage with Chu Wanning through his breeding kink by saying that if they had children, perhaps they would be more civil towards each other.

Edit: I really wanted to go about this blog without having to refer to their particular taste in bed

5. Are you still mad?

This is a smaller detail but in the original text and the Vietnamese official translation, the way they talked to each other had a bit more of the “husband-wife” dynamic. Especially Chu Wanning ( l┐(︶▽︶)┌ ), the comment section said he sounded like when your wife is mad that you didn’t take out the trash but still says: “I’m not mad” and Taxian-jun, the husband, would come around and ask “Are you still mad at me?” after every fight.

6. I did not think you would really leave me.

On Chapter 99, Mo Ran recalled the fight between him and Chu Wanning after an assassination attempt. In order to convince Mo Ran to not go to Taxue Palace, Chu Wanning said:

“If you destroy Taxue palace, if you kill Xue Meng, I will die before you”.

Now the line “I will die before you” in my language is less of a suicidal ideation but more of a threat. It's used when a person already knows that they are important to the other person and is using their own death as a threat to make the other person do something. This line is thrown around a lot during heated arguments between people close to each other but they almost never mean it. (Even my mom said it numerous times before T_T . I personally think it’s manipulative). Therefore, it is understandable Taxian-jun did not take this line seriously and replied almost mockingly. After all, they had been married for almost a decade at that point, Taxian-jun probably felt somewhat comfortable that Chu Wanning would not do anything reckless. He could not foresee that Chu Wanning meant what he said and actually followed through with his words. I believe that if Taxian-jun had known that Chu Wanning was serious, Taxian-jun would not have gone to Taxue Palace. 7. Don't leave me, ok?

Then Chu Wanning died and Mo Ran spent two years alone. In those two years, we know he basically went insane because of grief, talked to a corpse everyday, and deep fried his Empress Consort. But strangely enough, Mo Ran 1.0 did not immediately mention this after being reborn although it was the main reason he committed suicide. And at that point, it had been well over a decade since Shi Mei faked his death in the past timeline, yet Mo Ran 1.0 seemed to still hold a lot of resentment towards Chu Wanning. Also, he said he could accept Shi Mei’s death but would never accept Chu Wanning’s. So honestly, it did not make sense to me the first time I read the novel and I believed Mo Ran resented Chu Wanning for a different reason.

The answer was first hinted at in chapter 9 when Mo Ran scolded the sleeping Chu Wanning. He called Chu Wanning a donkey hoof (lol) and this is actually an idiom to scold someone who is disloyal and unfaithful in love. The puzzles came together when the undead Taxian-jun showed up and immediately went after Chu Wanning (and not Shi Mei). He believed Chu Wanning used his death to hurt him and was angry at Chu Wanning for leaving him. This is the resentment Mo Ran 1.0 carried over to the next timeline. He hated Chu Wanning for abandoning him. This is solidified in chapter 262 by the undead Taxian-jun pleading to Chu Wanning:

“Don’t betray me” “Don’t leave me the second time. The first time you left, I could choose death as a relief. This time, even death is not an option any more… I won’t be able to bear it…”

So there it is! I hope this blog brings some new information and feel free to discuss! Let me know if you have any questions for me ＼(￣▽￣)／

Disclaimer: Plenty of this is my conclusion drawn from the already ambiguous original text and various translations. Unless Meatbun says it, it’s not canon. I am looking at the novel in three different languages so I might have made some mistakes. Pls forgive. Also, I am not making excuses for Mo Ran 0.5’s actions nor am I justifying the abuse in any way. Chu Wanning never said Mo Ran 0.5 was innocent of these crimes nor will I.

[translations-by-aiimee]

The Husky and His White Cat Shizun - Chapter 14

Original Title:  二哈和他的白猫师尊

Genres: Drama, Romance, Tragedy, Xianxia, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 14 - This Venerable One is Married

The red veil was thin and hung in front of his eyes. Although he could still see things, he couldn't see them clearly. Chu Wanning had sullen eyebrows and a calm face and was brought to the flower hall by the ghost bridesmaid.

Looking up through the soft red, seeing the person standing there, the temperature of Chu Wanning's whole body suddenly dropped several degrees.

Mo Ran was also dumbfounded.

No. . . shouldn't it be Shi Mei who came out?

The "bride" in front of him had bright red makeup and his face is covered by tulle. Although his facial features were slightly blurred under the veil, it was still Chu Wanning's handsome and murderous face, just staring at him, his eyes filled with the intent to kill.

Mo Ran: ". . ."

He was at a loss at first, and then his expression gradually became extremely complicated. After all kinds of emotions cycled on his face, a strange silence settled between them. Chu Wanning looked at the other, the atmosphere becoming extremely embarrassing.

It happened that the golden boy and girl behind the two chuckled. They clapped their hands and began to sing.

"The water of the White Emperor, the waves are clear; the ghost mandarin ducks are greeted with flowers.

In the coffin, they lie in the same cave; before life, the intention is clear after death.

From now on, they will be together in the underworld, and the lonely souls will never leave each other."

The lyrics were eerie, but they were also full of lingering feelings.

If he could speak, there was only one word Mo Ran wanted to say.

--"Gross."

But he couldn't speak.

There is a pair of paper mâché men and women in front of the stage. Although they had no faces, they were dressed richly and gorgeously. They were slightly loose and bloated. It is supposed to refer to a person who has reached middle age in the main hall.

The official of the ceremony began to sing with a sloppy tone: "The bride is charming and shy, with low eyebrows and soft eyes, a red veil covering her face and delicate smile. Please come and let the groom lift the veil."

". . ." Mo Ran was originally very reluctant, but when he heard this, he went crazy holding back his laughter.

Hahahaha, the bride is charming and shy, ahahahahaha!

Chu Wanning's face was blue, and he closed his eyes while holding back his anger, as if this would make him deaf even with his ears.

The ghost bridesmaid laughed and handed Mo Ran a folding fan. "Fan" and "good" are pronounced the same, which means that the marriage is a good fate.

"Would the groom please lift the cover?"

Mo Ran held back his laughter, but he submitted. He held the fan handle to lift the light veil in front of Chu Wanning's eyes. His eyelashes smiled cheekily, going to look at Chu Wanning's expressive face.

As if feeling the sneering gaze of the other party, Chu Wanning, who had endured it for a while, did not hold back. He opened his eyes abruptly, a pair of eyes flashing with lightning, full of a sword-drawn, murderous aura.

His red gaze seemed to match his fiery red clothes. Although the intensity didn't lessen, the reddish ends of the eyes caused by anger and grievance had a unique romantic style.

Mo Ran looking at these eyes, unconsciously startled, and his smile instantly froze. The shizun in front of him was suddenly so similar to the one in his previous life that he almost forgot what day it was.

Even though it was only for a moment, it was enough to make Mo Ran break out in a cold sweat.

He had once done three vicious things to Chu Wanning:

Firstly, kill him. That is, make a fatal move against Chu Wanning.

Secondly, humiliating him, forcing Chu Wanning to have sex with him.

Thirdly. . .

Thirdly, it was the most painful thing he did in his previous life, and it was also the thing he regretted the most.

Of course, the emperor of the human realm wouldn't admit that he regretted something he had done, but he couldn't escape the internal suffering it brought in the end.

Damn it. Why did he think of that crazy past again and think of Chu Wanning from back then?

Mo Ran shook his head, biting his lip, trying to shake off that memory of Chu Wanning's face and re-assessing the person in front of him.

Chu Wanning has been staring at him with eyes that screamed "I'll kill you". Mo Ran didn't want to provoke this prick, so he had to pretend to play innocent with a helpless smile.

The official said: "Bride and bridegroom, perform the Rite of Washing."

The so-called "Rite of Washing" is that the newlyweds should dust and clean themselves before wiping and washing each other's hands.

The ghost bridegroom brought a porcelain jug filled with clean water and lifted the jug to ask the two of them to wash their hands. The washing water was followed by a basin underneath.

Chu Wanning's face was full of disgust, but he had to wash the other party after washing himself. Because Mo Ran was a little distracted, he looked quite restrained, silently washing his hands for Chu Wanning. Chu Wanning didn't have a good temper. He splashed Mo Ran with the whole pot and soaked half of his sleeves.

". . ."

Mo Ran stared at the wet half of his sleeves for a while. He didn't know where to look, but there was no expression on his face, only some subtle lustre flowing deep in those dark eyes.

He thought in a daze.

Chu Wanning hasn't changed, has never changed.

What he does, what he thinks, in his past life and in his present life, he was exactly the same, not changing a bit. . .

He slowly raised his head. For just a moment, he felt that he was standing on Life-Death Peak, standing in front of the Wushan Temple. Chu Wanning walked towards him from the bottom of the stretch of imperial steps, and the next moment he would kneel down on him in front of him. The noble head would fall to the ground, and his straight spine will be bent and humiliated. Chu Wanning would lie down in front of him and couldn't afford to worship.

"The Rite of Washing is complete."

The ghost bridesmaid suddenly sang a long song, snapping Mo Ran out of his thoughts.

He regained his senses abruptly and met Chu Wanning's eyes. The dark pupils gleamed with cold light, like a sabre covered with snow, which was truly frightening.

Mo Ran: ". . ."

...Uh, his previous life was his previous life after all. Thinking about Chu Wanning kneeling down to him was enough for this life. The price he would have to pay to make it happen was too great. . .

After the Rite of Washing ceremony, there is the Rite of Togetherness, and then the Rite of Drinking from Nuptial Cups.

The ghost bridesmaid sang slowly: "The couple will drink one cup of wine together, and from now on, in this world, they will never be separated."

The cups were crossed and then they worshipped the heavens together.

Chu Wanning seemed really close to going crazy. His slightly upturned slender phoenix eyes narrowed dangerously. After Mo Ran left, he would probably pound the Master of Ceremonies Ghost into the mud.

But he really couldn't look at Chu Wanning when he was like this.

Even if he took another look, he could fall back into those messy and dirty memories, and he wouldn't be able to drag himself back out.

"The first bow—— kneel to the heavens——"

He thought that even if this was all improved, Chu Wanning was too arrogant and stubborn to kneel, but he did not expect that he would need to in order to complete this set of steps. He twitched his eyebrows and closed his eyes, but he still knelt down, and the two of them bowed together.

"The second bow—— kneel to the family——"

Come on, just kneel towards those two faceless paper men, they can also be called the family.

"The third bow - kneel - to each other -"

Chu Wanning's eyes were half-lidded. Without even looking at Mo Ran, he turned around, taking a gulp and rapidly knelt down, clenching his teeth together.

Unexpectedly, the two were really out of sync. They got too close and banged their heads together.

Chu Wanning sucked in a breath of pain, clutching his forehead. He raised his moist eyes and staring fiercely at Mo Weiyu who also rubbed his forehead.

". . ." Mo Ran felt he had to say: "I'm sorry."

Chu Wanning didn't say anything. He grimaced and rolled his eyes.

Then there was the Rite of Binding Hair. The official sang: "Binding hair as husband and wife, the love between them is clear." The ghost bridesmaid handed over the golden scissors and Mo Ran couldn't help but shrink back, lest Chu Wanning be displeased and stab himself to death. Chu Wanning seemed to have this intention, but in the end, he only cut of a piece of each other's hair. He put them into the pouch presented by the golden boy and girl and they were put away by the "bride" Chu Wanning.

Mo Ran was tempted to ask him, you won't use my hair to curse me in a rage, take out the villain, right?

The tribute officer sang: "The Rite - is complete -"

Both were relieved and got up from the ground. Unexpectedly, the official yelled leisurely at the next moment:

"The time has come to send the bride to the bridal chamber——"

What. The. Hell!!!

Mo Ran froze instantly.

A mouthful of old blood almost spewed out!

What a joke. If he dared to sleep with Chu Wanning, this wedding was going to be a real fucking marriage! If he should die beneath a peony flower*, he would still be charming as a ghost. . . No, the person he wanted in his two lifetimes was the untainted Shi Mei, not this cold-blooded devil Chu Waning who would tie up anyone who coveted him and throw them into the mud pond to humiliate them!!

(T/N: peony flower is a metaphor for a beautiful woman)

Is it too late to run away from the marriage?

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[bakatenshii]

Flushed

Dabi x Reader (BNHA)

word count: 5.1k

TW: 18+, smut, dub/noncon, drug use/abuse, corruption, virginity, (mild) blood

A/N: I am 12 days late for Sunny’s birthday, but my heart beats for one person and one person only— the light of my life, my wife @blahkugo​, who wrote me two (2!!) Shig fics for my bday Charity & Sludge, that I reread on the daily like the morning news. Cheeky shoutout to @thisisthehardestthing​ for writing one iconic sentence in here that I would have framed if I could. 

flushed

/fləSHt/

(of a person's skin) red and hot, typically as the result of illness or strong emotion.

cleanse (something) by causing large quantities of water to pass through it. 

Dabi doesn’t prowl for prey, he’s not on the lookout for fowl to take home for dinner. No, they come to him. It’s easy, always so obvious, he plucks them out like chicken in a hen house, ripe for breeding. 

It wasn’t hard to spot a desperate girl burning out, Hell, the campus’ full of them. But you had something more, something fun, something that made his lips quirk up and his dick twitch— you were uncorrupted. 

He can just tell, despite the airs you try to give, the aura of a virgin’s akin to an omega in heat to a starving alpha. Sweet, honeysuckle, the tiny flinches when a man gets too close, the breathy lilt in your voice when they propose something too risque; he inhales it all, commits it all to memory like you were desperately trying to do as you chewed on the tip of your pen and scratched out lines on the book in front of you. 

He didn’t need to push, you were already teetering the line, but he did it anyways— because it was fun. 

It was elating to watch you stumble into class the next day, eyes dark with sleepless anxiety, misery painted into every crevice of your features while your notes were tucked neatly into the drawer in his room. Really, you shouldn’t have left them so open on the lecture hall table, it’s like inviting a robber home and cooking him a three course meal. 

Finals season marked the end of your social life, and the beginning of Dabi’s career. It was almost boring, the repetitive nature of his job; too easy, too simple, a mockery of the entitled bookworms who look down on scummy repeaters like him. But the entitlement is what fuels him, over-achievers fearing for two simple digits on a crumpled sheet of paper as if it’s worse than death itself.

He thrives off of their stubbornness to accept anything below perfect; the hilarity of it all, the irony that their insurance to achieve higher standards than that of a scum like him only fuels his lifestyle, bringing him deeper down the depths of degeneracy. 

He sat behind you closer than usual, spoke a lil louder than usual, dropped in the most nonchalant comment about a study drug kids are crazing over these days. He watched as you flinched, hands stopped moving to listen in to the spiel he was spewing, the fishing hook he was dangling in front of you. 

A magic pill, one that’ll help you concentrate, kill any sleepiness, get you buzzed for hours on end— best of all, it’s totally legal, he gets it from a pharmacist, scout’s honour. 

That’s what he told you when you turned around to him at the end of class, whispering in hushed fear, nerves bouncing off your skin in goosebumps on your exposed arms.

Why he’s selling it? Because he needs some extra cash, he said. He knew you didn’t believe him, but he knew you were desperate enough not to care. 

When you met him in the dead of night at the empty carpark of his building, he knew he’s got you; hook, line, and sinker. No self-respecting girl would meet bottom-barrel trash like him in a deserted location at half three in the morning, no, you were untainted, but you weren’t pure.

He didn’t need to know it worked, doesn’t matter what your test results reflected, all that mattered was that you came back to him a few weeks later, met him at the same dingy carpark, hands trembling slightly less this time. 

He pretended to scold you, reveled in the way your lips curled into a soft pout, and warned you that tolerance builds fast. Do it in moderation, he had said— he’s the world’s biggest hypocrite. 

You came to him only a week later this time, and Dabi had pretended to be shocked. He wasn’t, he gave you a lower dosage the last time, there was no way you’d have been satisfied. Microdosing leads the unsuspecting to addiction, the one fact he learned from school. He lectured you, asked you if you’d built up tolerance too fast, if you wanted to try something different?

He watched as your eyes lit up, pupils dilating in excitement at the promise of something different, something better. It really was too easy. You were too easy. 

That night he invited himself over to yours, said he’d wanted to make sure you didn’t have any side effects. It was new, after all, and it was stronger. He’d sit there and be quiet, he promised; it was all out of the kindness of his own heart. 

It was almost embarrassing how eagerly you’d lie to yourself in hopes of a better grade.

Dabi wasn’t gonna do anything to you that night, trust takes time to build up after all. Besides, it’s no fun to pounce on the prey before they started running. You studied the nonsensical scribbling on annotated novels, he studied your tiny movements, twitches, nervous habits; etched them into his brain for future use. 

A too-long breath, a gasp, a clench of the fist signaled your come-up. He timed it, approximately thirty-five minutes for the initial peak, then smaller spikes at half hour intervals, totaling in four hours before you came down. Impressive, still, considering he’d given you the same dosage as the first time. 

He stuck to his words, staying quiet only until prompted, offered you water every once in a while, really, he deserved an Oscar for playing the best supporting dealer. It only took two more sessions before your tolerance peaked again, calculated and timed to perfection right before the next assignment.

The beauty of seeking out an English major was that they’re always searching, reaching into the void for any type of inspiration to translate into eloquently formed words. The beauty of seeking out you, was that you were already in too deep, hooked by the lil pills and plunged into the bottom of the ocean. 

Your grades rose while your inhibitions sank, a dramatic irony, isn’t that what they called it?

It’s cute, really, he only had to give you a nudge this time. Asked you how your assignment was going, played the sympathetic friend, and offered you something completely new, completely different. ‘Have you ever tried 2CB?’

Silly question, rhetorical, almost; of course you hadn’t. Innocent sweet girl like you never would’ve even touched weed, much less a hallucinogen. But he poses it to you in an eager tone like he’s genuinely waiting on an answer, like this isn’t just one big game to him. He laughed when you said no, asked him what it was— do you want him to show you?

You trust him, don’t you? He’s helped you through your exams, supported you through your assignments, honestly, he deserved a pat on the back. Don’t tell him you didn’t trust him, come on now, that’d break his heart. 

He didn’t expect you to put up a fight, but you gave in almost too easily, guess those lil pills really did migrate and nest in your bloodstream. 

The safety of your own dorm room was always granted to you, a faux-sense of security to veil you in, shield you from the true depth of depravity you’ve sunken to. He held you underwater in a net, ensuring you that he’d pull you up whenever— ‘just say the word.’

The net had long been cut, he’d admired the way you’d comforted down there, paddling aimlessly in hopeful conviction. 

It’s become routine, almost. Dabi lets himself in easily, settles into the couch across your desk, pulls out a baggy and passes it to you. “A psychedelic,” he explains, “you’ll see colours you’d never seen, find beauty in everything, an artist’s best friend,” if he does say so himself. 

He watches you pop the lil pill in your mouth, follow the stream of water pour down your throat, traveling the rips and divots of your tongue, before it drops down your throat into your bloodstream with a bob of your larynx. You’re so pliant, so obedient, he reminds himself to thank your parents for grooming such a cute lil doll.

You let out a loud gasp an hour and a half later, and he watches your fingers curl into themselves; and for the first time he speaks unprompted. 

“You good?” It’s almost genuine; the curiosity, at least. He wants to know how articulate you are, needs to know how deeply submerged your consciousness has become. 

He watches as you meet his gaze, little tongue dashing out to wet your lips, and nods once, twice, slowly. You shake your head almost immediately after, croaking out an, “I feel ill,” before pushing meekly at your desk to stand your body up. Cute, weak.

Just how he likes them.

He reaches an arm out to you, pulling you into his chest easily and nests your head into the crook of his neck. “Nauseous, aren’t you?” You nod, and he smirks. “Don’t worry princess, it’s just a rough come-up. I’ll make you feel better, I promise.” 

It’s almost believable, how sickly sweet he sounds. Too many sitcoms accumulated in recycled dialogues to woo girls in any situation; mix and match, simple yet effective. 

He can feel the restless rise and fall of your chest pressing against his, short quick pants as if gasping for air, a small hand scraping at his arm; yeah, you’re definitely coming up. 

He picks you up and nestles you into your own couch, so easily as if handling a ragdoll, then walks to the kitchen and pours you some water. The perfect friend, the perfect support, the perfect dealer. You’re so vulnerable, so exposed, you don’t even know it; it makes his brain fog over with carnal desire to pounce— but he doesn’t. Not yet.  

He lays back on the couch with you, arm snaking around your shoulder to coax you into a subdued euphoria. All the words he’s garnered throughout the years of fishing for his next meal come bubbling out so naturally in practiced scripts, “It’s okay princess, it’s a stronger pill. It’ll make you feel better, I promise.” He’s promising a whole lot, tonight. 

“Hey,” he tips your face to meet his with all the tenderness of a lion stalking its prey, “I’m here, right? You trust me, don’t you? I’ve never let you down. I’ll never let anything happen to you.” 

It’s hard to force down the gagging noise on cue with his disgustingly fake, rom-com lines, but the way he can feel your body loosen, relax, and mold into his tells him he’s close. So close. 

This is the best part, this is what he’s good at; the last stretch of patience while stalking his prey, with footsteps so light, treading so carefully, until the air slows down around him and he can taste your scent wafting through the air.

It happens in an instant, a whole-body jolt as you tense up, euphoria announced with a sharp gasp. The smile that crawls up his face is nothing short of sinister, predatory, but he knows you don’t notice. You can’t. Your eyes are strewn shut, basking in the high, and he takes the moment to swallow the pill he’s held under his tongue. 

It’s no fun to tripsit, he doesn’t get anything out of that, and Dabi doesn’t do things for free. He feels your head fall back onto his shoulder, short breaths warming a ripple of goosebumps up his neck, and watches as you push your heavy lids open to gaze at the ceiling.  

He can feel your giggles reverberating through his chest before he hears them, innocent, pure, unsuspecting. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, because virtuous girls like you like to be treasured, made to feel special, safe— he can make you feel safe; no one’s told him not to play with his food before he eats it. 

He watches as you flutter your eyelids at him, sigh into his touch, really, you’re the textbook prototype, he doesn’t even need to adjust his tactics. “You feelin’ good?” A hot breath into your ear, and he revels in the way your lips pout to let out a soft sigh. 

Funny how differently you react when you’re high out of your mind, maybe it’s the drug, or maybe it’s just Dabi? You’ve always wanted a bad boy like him, didn’t you? Good girls like bad guys; it’s textbook cliché, and you’re the blueprint. 

He doesn’t wait on an answer, he knows it: you’re feeling good, great— divine. He’ll be right there with you soon, he promises.

“Tell me what you see, princess,” Dabi’s not listening when a cascade of nonsensical descriptions come bubbling out, he doesn’t care. It’s all to get you to keep talking, shift your attention elsewhere while his hand slithers down your arm to play with the hem of your shirt.

At the first brush of his finger on the bare skin of your waist, he feels you purr into him, eyes rolling back in bliss. It’s his cue to give you more, invitation for him to snake his other hand up your naked thigh and knead the flesh gently. 

Gentle does it, he’ll bring you higher as you go. 

He ghosts a breath just under your ear, nipping at your lobe, and admires the full body shiver tumbling through. Moans, loud and needy, come panting out past your lips and echoes off the walls before bouncing back to him. He lets you symphonize short breaths and whiney pleas with each lick and suck traveling down your neck, painting blooms of purple and red as his hand travels dangerously high. 

A firm grip is all the warning he gives you before he tucks his fingers into the crease of your thigh, laughing almost at how obediently you spread your legs. What happened to that pure, innocent girl? Guess under all that laid a dirty whore, just like the rest of ‘em. 

It was slick, so wet, pussy dripping past the delicate lace and drooling over his fingers. Lace, befitting of a slut who lured him in with the fake charms of a virgin. He slides a finger down your slit, gathering up all the juices before presenting it to you. 

“What do you see?” He holds up his finger, slick dripping down like syrup, and watches your pupils dilate in effort to focus. He can see the way your lips part, string of saliva connecting the two soft molds, before gasping out, “melting ice cream.” 

“Want a taste?” 

You clamp over his finger before he even asks you to, sucks on the digit like it’s a melting ice lolly, before your eyes shoot open and mouth twists in disgust. Of course it doesn’t taste nice, normal food isn’t even edible when you’re rolling like this. You’re sticking your tongue out, in an attempt to air out the taste, or maybe you’re just a dumb dog, a dumb bitch, he’s not sure. He doesn’t really care. 

The same hand, now slick with saliva, grips your chin and crashes your lips into his. His tongue finds yours first, tip licking up the crevice of yours lolling out, and he sucks it into his mouth like it’s a crime for it to be kissing the air. 

There’s no modesty, no gentleness, his tongue pries your lips open, and he feels the weakest form of resistance before he’s thrusting the muscle down your throat. He lapping over the back of your teeth, traces over each bump and rugae on the gummy sides, and snickers at your shit attempt to kiss him back with your slack mouth drooling out the corners. 

He feels a pawing at his arm— your hand meekly grabbing at the sleeve of his shirt to bring him in closer, press his chest into your soft tits, crowd him into you more, more, more. 

It’s cute; it’s stupidly desperate. 

He gets it though, it’s no worries. Human nature is all it is; the desire to climb higher and higher— he wonders if he can get one out of you before the pill hits him. 

There’s no gentleness in the way his hand slots between your legs and cups your dripping cunt this time. He wishes he has more time to admire the way your legs quiver and twitch with every firm pat against your clit, but he’s on a time crunch. There’s so much time to spare, he can play with it all he wants later.

He can feel your needy moan vibrate through his lips and reverberate straight into his brain, sloppy mouths working simultaneously together and against each other as he rips your panties and shorts off in one go. Any self respecting girl would shut their legs in shame, in embarrassment, any attempt to protect their dignity, but you don’t. He doesn’t let you, anyways. 

A hand moves under your shirt to roughly grip at your tits in the same breath he sinks a finger into your sopping hole. Inhale; squeeze, thrust, exhale— you moan. It’s tight, as tight as a virgin pussy should be, but not too tight that it fights against the foreign digit ramming into it at a relentless pace too rough and quick to befit an unexplored hole. 

He can feel the pulsing around him, gummy walls milking his finger for all its worth, and he digs his palm into your swollen bud; it’s all he needed for you to come undone. You don’t squeal, you don’t scream, the 2CB in your system rendering you incapable of anything except long breathy sobs of his name. 

His finger pops out with a wet squelch, and he brings it to his mouth to taste it; tarty, thick— he’s still sober. You’re blubbering out drivel about the stars you saw, the colours swirling around at the peak of your euphoria, you think you saw God— is Dabi God? 

Dabi had to laugh, pat you on the head with his hand covered in syrupy slick, watch it leak and clump your strands of hair. He picks you up with your shorts and panties drenched through dangling at your ankles, and walks you to your bed.

You don’t notice, still basking in the afterglow; he knows this. Not that you’d push him off, tell him to stop. Not in your state anyways. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. 

He drops you once the bed’s in frame at the same time he feels his pulse rise, heart palpitate, and a wave of nausea threatens to bubble over. It doesn’t; he doesn’t let it. An experienced veteran would never. It’s a welcomed sensation, one he’s all too familiar with, and he gives himself a brief minute to breathe it in, savour it, before glancing back down at your limp body on the bed. 

Is it your body? He can trace your silhouette from the dip of your waist, the full of your hips, something glistening, gleaming in the light— your pretty little virgin cunt. His eyes roll back at the next inhale before he finds himself landing on the bed on top of you, forearms digging into the soft mattress of your bed. 

He hears your voice singing into his brain, soft lulls of his name stringing out in DabiDabiDabi— the desperation and need shooting straight to his cock, he doesn’t even need to look down at your soft pliant body, welcoming him, inviting him in. 

“Feels good, yeah?” His voice comes out rougher than usual, low and strained, and laughs at how eagerly you nod, watches your chin catch the air and paint strokes of colour following the route it takes, “Who makes you feel this good?” 

He knows, he knows because it’s all you’ve been able to say the past while, the only word on your mind that you can even blubber out— 

“You, Dabi,” your pants grow heavier; his pants grow tighter, “it’s you Dabi, please—“

A hand reaches up to cradle his cheek, your soft, uncalloused, hand, and he grips it by the wrist before bringing it up to his face. He traces every line that curves and meets on your palm with his tongue, letting it be covered entirely with drool before wrenching it down under his joggers and into his boxers to cup his aching erection. 

His hips rut into your palm almost immediately as a knee-jerk reaction, every hump into your tiny hand has him panting into your face, sweat beading at his temples. His tongue drops down to lick at your lips, asking for entrance, begging for access. Your lips might’ve parted just a fraction, maybe just to let out a breathe, but Dabi takes it as permission to thrust his tongue in and prod at your dormant one.

He can feel you gag at the sudden intrusion, throat convulsing to push back the unfamiliar slimy muscle, and he briefly considers yanking your hand out and shoving his cock down that pretty little mouth of yours. 

But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t have the patience. He needs it urgently, needs your tight virgin cunny stretching and agonizing over his overbearing size, needs to feel the flutter of the gummy walls with each thrust; he needs it bad, he needs it now—

Your hand is wrenched away as he yanks both waistbands down to his thighs. He looks at you, eyes blurring through kaleidoscopic vision, and makes out your disoriented gaze staring back at him. Disoriented with toxins, disoriented with need, lust, desperation— a hand reaches behind Dabi’s neck and pulls him back down to crash bruised lips together. 

It’s all the invitation he needs, not that he needs it, no, what he needs is to sink his painfully hard cock into that sweet, sweet cunt of yours. There’s a faint squealing coming from underneath him, and he thinks he can feel nails digging crescents into his nape, but all he can feel is your warm, wet walls clenching around him. 

There was no need to prepare you for any longer, there’s no point if he doesn’t stretch your virgin pussy out with his own cock; it’s wasted on fingers, his fingers don’t deserve to feel the way you walls quiver and contract around it. The pitched cries stop eventually as he feels your body go pliant and soft, and he has half a mind to realize you’re probably starting to come down soon.

He doesn’t wanna deal with that, you won’t be sober for another few hours, but you’ve peaked already, and not with him; that’s not fair, that’s no fun. His cock stills inside you with half still unsheathed and he reaches down into his pocket to take out a baggy of powder. There’s a spoon in, thank fuck, and he feeds a small bump right up to your nose. 

“Inhale,” he slots it right up your nostril, “it’ll make you feel good, didn’t you feel good?” Your head lowers to nod, bumps the edge of the spoon right into the cartilage of your nose, and inhale. Good girl. 

The baggy is tossed haphazardly before he’s working his dick into you again, cockhead pushing through the doughy walls in search of that pocket at the end of your pussy.

You don’t struggle anymore, instead clinging onto his shoulders and carving half-moons into the flesh. It hurts a lil, and Dabi doesn’t like it when it hurts, not when he’s the one hurting.

He snatches your hands off him and pushes them above your head, into the plush forgiving mattress. His teeth are back on your neck, biting over the ripples of purple and green and red and blue, reveling in your cries and moans that come out in symphonies. 

It feels good, great— divine, it’s what he deserves for bringing you to Nirvana. He’s basically your muse, after all, how can you truly describe rapture without experiencing it first? 

He can hear your moans ringing out from underneath, can see them traveling in the air in hues of reds and pinks and reds and reds— there’s red on your bedsheets, of course there is. He forgot that’s what comes with a virgin cunt; blood, mixing with the translucent coating his cock, dripping down and painting the crisp white sheet red, drifting into the air and congesting the whole room with red. 

He inhales the colour, sucks it into his lungs, and uses it to fuel the pistoning of his hips. Your breaths turn to pants, turns to sobs of his name leaving your lips again, and he thinks you look good, so good, taking his cock like this. You should thank him for bringing you to your second orgasm. 

Just look at you, crazy isn’t it? Crazy what a lil pill can do. But he’s got something better, something so much better, something that’ll bring you to a new dimension. You want that, don’t you? C’mon don’t be shy, Dabi will bring you right there, don’t you worry.

There’s still the faint cries from your orgasm when he flips you over and pushes your face into the untainted sheets. He watches as your hands sprawl up to grip and grasp at something, anything, and his hands ease up on the hold on your skull for a second to let you wheeze and greedily gasp for air.

He flickers a trail of blue down your back, watches the flames dance and rage in a mirage, every bouquet indented by the ligament of each tender rib, and there’s a faint scream. The pitch rises with the flames, taunting it to go higher, faster, paint murals in every swell of your back until he can’t see anything except ash coal char. 

Dabi blinks, squints his eyes as he throws his head back to focus on the paint chipping on the ceiling. It cracks and crinkles, shying away from his pointed glare, before he sucks in a deep breath and looks back down at you. 

There’s no ash, no char, only warm tanned flesh, pressed flush against the pristine white sheets underneath. It burns against the pads of his long fingers splayed out across your back, and he winces in annoyance at the irony.

You don’t seem to notice his pause, too fucked out or fucked up to register what’s going around you probably. A mixture of both; Dabi can’t really remember what he’s given you or how long he’s been there. 

He can’t decide if he wants to stay there anymore,  can’t make out the pros and cons of either. He counts them off with each painful yank of your hair, each harsh thrust into your abused virgin cunt— it was that, wasn’t it? 

He was there because he sniffed out a cute lil virgin, one so untainted and untouched, one begging for him to corrupt. He’s not known to be very generous, but sometimes he gets into one of those moods; it can’t be helped when there’s a desperate doll waiting to be torn apart. 

He knows what you want, can read you with his eyes closed— you don’t need eyes to feel the pulse of a greedy cunny; it clenches with every slap of the face, damn near clamps down entirely as his slender fingers slither around to the front of your throat.

Two fingers shove past your lolling tongue and yanks your head back by the digits hooked on the corner of your mouth. There’s drool, and spit, and so many fluids coming and entering all at once— and then you’re coming, again, probably, for the third time that night. Fourth? 

It’s methodical, straightforward, he reads the instruction manual once, maybe twice if the first one’s a bit faulty, and he’s got it down to muscle memory.

At the sound of heaving he looks back down again, admires the feel of two of his fingertips fucked straight into the back of your throat, and pushes down on the rugged gummy wall. You gag, and he laughs. It’s cute, so cute, you’re real cute, you know?

“Such a good lil whore aren’t you?” He digs his nails into the flesh of your hip and rams his cockhead until he can feel the kiss from your puckered cervix. “All fucked out of your mind, bet you can’t even hear me, can you?” 

He watches as you gurgle out words past his fingers wedged down your slack mouth, and choke on the pools of saliva drooling out. It’s the funniest sight, fascinates him to death, really. 

A slap to the face might bring you out of your daze, so he slips his hand back out of your sloppy mouth and revels at your body propelling forward straight into the headboard. He grasps at the tips of your hair and wrench your body back towards him before any satisfying impact could sound out. It’s a shame, but concussions are not in his agenda. 

“Been fucked so loose, filthy slut can’t even keep your body up,” he rolls your hair around his hands and yanks back until your skull meets his chin; it’s excruciatingly painful, probably, and that’s why it’s the best. 

It’s the perfect way for your mouth to fall open naturally, to scream, squeal, fluster around in attempt to be freed from the position— it creates the perfect hole for him to spit in. He watches as your face contorts in disgust, tongue pushed out to let his spit drool out the sides, but that’s no fun, not very nice of you, is it?

“Swallow,” he assists you with an extra hard thrust, and you choke on the moan coming out. His hand comes forward from your hip to rest under your chin before pushing it up so it clamps shut, “I said, swallow.”

Your eyes flood with tears that waterfall down your face, and God, he thinks you look the best like this— wrecked on his cock, body littered in purple and red, covered in sweat and blood and cum; his perfect lil cocksleeve, just for him. 

It’s emotional, almost— religious, even, he can feel the palpitations in his heart thumping against his chest echoing off the headboard banging against the wall, and lets the euphoria consume him, wash over him as he coats your walls with hot ropes of cream and white, hips stuttering with your greedy cunny fluttering and clenching around it, milking and sucking in his cock in deeper, deeper, more.

He thinks you might’ve cum, might still be cumming, but all he can hear is the Messiah calling for him, choir singing lulling him into an infinite jubilation; he closes his eyes to bathe in it, let himself be cleansed and washed over with ecstasy. 

When he pulls out, your body flops onto the mattress, and he watches as white dribbles out your quivering hole, mixing with the red on the sheets, creating a puddle of pink and magenta, before passing out in the fuschia.

[nerd-at-sea5]

bedroom

nancy’s room might be a little childish, but she refuses to change it-and no one really knows why. unfortunately for her, steve and robin are very curious people.

cw-mentions of death

they/them robin, everyone else is canon

the title may be deceiving, but there is 0 smut in this

steve.

he noticed it the first time he snuck into the wheeler’s house, that nancy’s room was all pink and frilly and he wondered if he’s gone into holly’s room for a moment until he saw her on her bed doing her homework.

he assumed she’d change it, but each time he was over-up till after the mall, it was always the same. nothing new, nothing changed-ever.

“hey nance, why’s your room still all pink and shit?”

she froze, eyes trained on her paper and shrugged stiffly, “never had a chance to change it.”

steve cocked his head to the side “oh, well i can help. robin’s got a hundred of old movie posters they keep taking from the store, and jonathan can get you any music stuff you’d like, i’m good at putting stuff up-i did rob’s room for her when we got a place!”

but nancy refused, and no matter how many time’s he’d mention it-she’d brush it off, always tensing and shutting it down.

robin.

robin first noticed that nancy’s room hadn't changed when the two of them we’re looking through an old wheeler family photo book, when they saw mike and nancy jumping on the bed-nancy couldn’t have been more than 8, mike maybe 4-and how nancy’s room was exactly the same as it was-almost a decade later.

“dude your rooms the same.”

nancy looked surprised, “i know.”

robin lay back onto the bed, their hands behind their head and nancy smiled, “you ever think about changing it? i could hook you up with some killer posters!”

but the sad smile nancy gave them in return with a small shake of her head set the wheelers turning fast in robin’s head, “no thanks rob, i’m ok.”

“you sure? i don’t mind taking the lamer posters i know you like, ‘greese’, ‘the princess brid-’”

“robin buckley don’t you dare say you dislike the princess bride i’ve seen that poster under your bed.”

they smiled and laughed as she poked them in the stomach, “fine, fine-but really. just say the word.”

nancy nodded, “okay, but i won’t.”

robin frowned, now even more curious-preparing to push a little further, “what-”

nancy learned over and shut them up with a kiss.

nancy.

the last time it happened was when they where all over at her house.

nancy was used to the suggestions, almost everyone who came into her room had the same look of surprise, the ‘why does this 18 year old have a 6 year old’s bedroom?’ and she knew that steve and robin didn’t mean to be rude, they we’re just curious, trying to be helpful-she couldn’t blame them-it’s not like nancy asked for anything these days.

she’d comfort robin when they woke up screaming, hold them until the shaking wore off, kiss their forehead and tell them that it’s ok, that it’s all over.

she’d see steve with his head in his hands in the kitchen of his and robin’s apartment, the lie of telling the kids he was grabbing a snack lingering while she rubbed his back and gave him water.

nancy listened and helped but she always hid her shaky hands, her habit of triple locking doors, checking to make sure mike and holly’s windows we’re bolted shut, making sure they all called her or mike when they got home-always slipping band aids and gauze into max’s red backpack when she saw a new cut or bruise badly hidden by the teen.

but never spoke out. did her best to hide it and keep it away, after all-she didn’t want to be a bother. she kept her memories-untainted and of friendships and laugher, finger painting in 3rd grade-memories of barb, locked away in her room, her room with it’s pink walls-her and barb's favorite shade even 15 years later. it’s frills that they used to drape around themself while they prank called the stores in town.

so when the three of them are talking about a new movie, the outsiders, and robin mentions that they have the poster-stolen from work, when nancy says it might be her favorite movie.

“want the poster? you can put it up!”

she knows they know the answer, “thanks but no thanks. i’m good.”

steve sighs a little, “why do you never change your room? i don’t wanna be rude-please know that nance, but.....why?”

she almost lies, she almost says that it’s just because she never has time, or that her parents would be mad. almost, almost-

“because barb and i decorated it together.”

and they both go silent.

“i have a box. like a breakup box but it’s mine. letters, photos, clothes she left the last time she....she..-” tears are filling nancy’s eyes as she blinks rapidly, steve’s hand shooting to rub her back, robin’s to grasp her hands, “books she loaned i’ll never finish or return-birthday gifts, music. i can’t look at it, i can’t bring it out. but-but i can’t change my room. i look at the walls and i know that it’s childish, i know it’s stupid but i feel like if i do....i’m throwing away every-everything that we did t-together.”

she’s fully crying now, she can’t see, but she can feel robin’s arms pulling her into them, steve’s weight shifting on the bed.

“we’re so sorry nancy. if we had known-” steve started, his voice soft.

“we never would have said it so much.” robin finished, their voice shaking as they pressed a kiss to nancy’s hair.

they stayed like that for what seemed like hours, nancy didn’t know she was allowed to be like this.

to just lay there, crying into robin’s arms, let steve be the one to tell her funny jokes to cheer her up, to let them take care of her.

she didn’t realize that she needed it-she needed to be taken care of.

nancy couldn’t even recall the last time she’d been held, cried into someone and not a pillow.

she was always holding mike-after will ‘died’, when he was being teased at school, holding holly when their parents would fight, max when billy died and the younger kid didn’t know who else to go to-who else had lost a sibling.

because that’s really who barb was, a sister. one that she could go shopping with, try to learn makeup, sneak into movies.

so she let herself cry, and she let them hold her.

[hobidreams]

october 1864.

but nothing gold can stay.

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: angst words: 1.3k contains: historical au, descriptions of accidental parental death and blood, grief a/n: for ease, Yoongi’s father is referred to as King Min even though it’s not technically correct. 

moonlit throne index. this is drabble 11. start from the beginning?

They said it was an accident.

She had slipped reaching for a precious herb around the side of the cliff. It had been raining the night before so the stones had still been damp. Too damp to support the weight that had been placed a smidgen too far, a tad bit wrong and then mother was just… gone. They couldn't stop the bleeding in time. And even though you told her to be careful with a warm smile that morning, even though she said she would be back very soon with a pat of your head, none of that means anything anymore.

You stare at the empty, unused bedspread beside yours and feel the warm wetness slide down your numb cheeks. You barely register the tears. Not when they've become so commonplace.

It's been three days since they gave you the news; it's been three days since you've ventured outside this room. It hurts so much to stay here but you are afraid it might hurt more to leave. If not for the kind person leaving meals outside your door (you managed to make out a swish of green robes once; one of the eunuchs it seems), you surely would have starved. But even the heat of the rice porridge doesn't seem to spread through your body, your fingers stiff and cold from lack of use.

Mother would absolutely scold you if she saw you like this.

It was she who always insisted on being independent, regardless of the strict rules that society placed on your gender and your rank. She taught you how to make the best of the resources you had, but also never to take any opportunities for granted when they came by chance. She is the best person you will ever know, and you… you owe it to her to take care of yourself.

Borrowing her strength, you push up from the blankets. You've relied on the mystery benefactor enough. You can get yourself a cup of hot water, damn it. Wrapping your mother's coat around your hanbok, her scent hugging you in comfort, you pad down the halls towards the kitchen with your head bowed.

It's a bit of a walk down, but the air helps clear some of the fog in your mind, even if you know it'll soon return in the end. Having a goal helps move you forward. That's all you need right now. To just keep going.

"Jeonha has issued a full funeral procession for her?"

Your quiet steps hesitate just as you cross the closed door of one of the tea rooms. The words worm directly into your brain. The voice is vaguely familiar, one of King Min's concubines maybe? But there is no chance that they would be talking about...

"Yes, for a mere uinyeo! Who would have thought?" A second speaker, this one harsher, sharper. She punctuates with a laugh.

With a frown, you move closer. Pretend to inspect a piece of the building tile that has come loose.

"She did help deliver the crown prince all those years ago. That would buy her some favoritism."

"Hmph. That wouldn't warrant such a fuss as this. But... I did hear that jeonha picked her off the streets himself, and that's how she first entered the palace. Imagine that — a cheonmin coming to live here!"

"How vulgar."

"But that’s not all one of the maids told me. That cheonmin…” Her voice lowers so you barely catch it. “She gave birth not long after to her daughter."

Another low laugh. "You don't think it’s the king’s bast—"

You rip away from the door, desperate not to hear the end of that sentence.

You’re going to be ill. Violently so. Or burst into the room and do something you’ll heavily regret later. Your feet move so fast you nearly fall over as you back away from the room, clutching the jacket before turning. You run back the way you came, water forgotten, the fresh sting of tears in your eyes.

Is that what they have thought of your mother all this time? Twisting her hardships and the kindness of the king into something so dirty when they knew nothing of the truth. Speculating so wildly when it was your father had abandoned you both. The truth: mother had been near death when the king happened upon you. She used the resources he allowed her to teach herself literacy, and then proper medicine to repay him with a lifetime of pure, untainted loyalty.

You throw aside the door to your room with a furious slam. You’ve never wanted so badly to break something, anything as you scan the place. Your temper flares hotter when you think of all the times mother refused to come to bed and rest because she was too concerned about the concubines and women like them who came so frequently to her for help. She talked to them, hand-fed them, cared for them. She sacrificed so much and this is how they thank her—

You make a wild grab and your hands land on unfolded laundry.

The first smack of it on the floor feels good. No permanent damage but the exertion of grabbing and hurling towards the ground is a like welcome release.

You do it again, again, again, something so deeply satisfying about seeing everything precise rumple and come undone before you as a result of your own actions. Not anyone else’s. Not even the universe’s. You snatch up another handful and prepare to throw.

“You’re packing? You’re leaving?” It’s a sharp voice, bordering on frantic.

You whirl.

It’s the prince, holding a pastry box, his eyes blown uncharacteristically wide with surprise. If this were any other time, you’d probably laugh at his thinking this scene has any semblance of proper intention and order.

“No,” you snap. But then you consider it.

You… You could leave, couldn’t you?

After all, there’s nothing tying you here any longer. Being in the palace will only remind of you of life before she was ripped away. The memories of her smile and her love have yet to scab over and you’re so terrified that they’ll always be there as festering, chafing wounds. You could still serve and be loyal to your king from within the town walls. Maybe open that clinic mother often talked about as a wild dream. It’d be difficult, so difficult, but you could maybe run it yourself, with a few helping hands. Yes… Yes, you could!

The more you think about it, the more you want to do it. An escape from this suffocating place. The easy way out.

“Actually, yes,” you hear yourself saying. “Leaving.”

No one would miss you, a cheonmin’s daughter. The thought of those women and their poisonous words makes you scrunch your fist, only to find you’re still holding clothes. Your heart catches when you realize it’s mother’s blouse. Yours now, you suppose. Yours to take with you and never look back.

“Don’t.”

Your heart leaps as you jerk your gaze up.

“Don’t go.”

You shake your head. “The uinyeo will be fine. All of them are more experienced than me.”

“No, they won’t be.” He grits his teeth. “They need you.”

“Seja-jeonha, I—I don’t belong here.”

“Bullshit.” Always stubborn to the end. “Stay.”

“I can’t—”

“Please.”

The way he looks at you now… you’ve never seen it before. The wobbling of his lip. The irregularity of his breath. It’s like he is truly, completely uncertain. Almost to the point of fear. As if he knows that your paths won’t cross again if he lets you leave now.

“Stay,” he says again, and you think of mother. You think of how much she loved living here where it was safe. How much she loved helping the women even if some of them were undeserving of it in the end. You think of the queen, and the affectionate kindness she always extends to you without fail or question. Then you look at Yoongi. At that charcoal storm in his eyes, and you think maybe there’s more left here for you than you thought.

You draw in a deep, quiet breath.

“Okay.”

[lysmune]

Hoarfrost Heart

Human still

Pairing: KaeLumi CW: Kaeya has an anxious breakdown near the end, and a lot of this fic deals with his trauma of not opening up to people.

  Blood is a loyal follower to Kaeya’s truths, a faint whisper that reminds him of everything that could—has—happened if he slivered an inch of his thoughts. It is the scent of iron he could never wash out, not from the thin line of death across the necks of so many people, not from his hands, nor from the soles of his feet, split open as he walks across the evergreen growth of thorns, fed fat from his deceit.

   These are only skin deep, is how he convinces himself as he tucks the unease behind a veiled smile that pinches his cheeks. Flesh wounds will heal but honesty, baring an unguarded heart out upon his sleeve, is a dangerous game and Kaeya has no desire to tempt mortality again.

   One narrow escape is enough.

   Sweet words, sweeter lies, he offers those instead. They always repay him in trust, a valuable currency he never quite could give away, so he sacrifices what spare human feeling he has for the pristine beauty of a white winter when he responds. Clean, untainted, pure.

   It is easier to deal with the disease that is loneliness than a knife to the back.

   A laid-back, duty-shirking cavalry captain, whose dull seaward lineage is made riveting through ten rounds of Death After Noon. That is who Kaeya is.

   That is how he introduces himself to Mondstadt.

   That is the image he’ll set in the starlit traveller’s mind.

   That is who she, with unabashed vocality, politely refuses to believe.

   Lumine chalks it up to the vagueness of a hunch, and he can’t help but roll his eyes, click his tongue. Sure, he might enjoy throwing the same reason around, but it feels like complete nonsense to have it flung back at him. He pouts, intentionally puppy-like and innocent, and pleads with a tone of feigned hurt.

   Lumine laughs.

   Laughs and looks at him with topaz-cut eyes, eyes like honeyed spring water. Kaeya can’t decide whether he should feel offended at her subtle dig, or honoured that he’s made her smile. He settles on brushing it off with a shrug and a, “Well, you’ve got me there.”

   “I know,” is Lumine’s response, a simple phrase that holds much more depth than it lets on, and he wonders if she’s seen just what it is he’s truly hiding.

   The prospect sends chills down his spine. Does she know me, more than I do?

   Kaeya drowns those fears in the tavern, his local safe haven, a place away from his worries and her all-seeing gaze. It is short-lived some nights, languorous on the others, but at least, here, the chatter is comfortable. Leaning forward, he listens to the slurred words, the odd secrets, to keep his thoughts at bay.

   And yet

   And yet, Kaeya finds himself following the wide expanse of her back, her small frame belying her insurmountable strength as she carries every single burden in silence. “Trust me,” she would assure with her sunlit smile. Kaeya would never admit it, but he does—he wants to.

   But what has trust ever given me?

   Rain and ichor, and festering wounds.

   Everything is unflinchingly loud. How laughable, how maddeningly soft of him, to be so weak in his resolve. Against the hushed humdrum dawn, he watches her leave the gates.

   They say if you stare too long at the sun, you’ll go blind. In her presence, Kaeya feels robbed of his vision. He looks to her footprints instead, at the trail of fireflies she leaves in her wake. They don’t hurt him as much as her wayward glances do, not as much as the sincerity in her voice when she reminds him that he can always seek her company when he needs someone to talk to.

   “I won’t stay long in Mondstadt, anyway,” Lumine laughs, laced with melancholia. “Whatever your secret is, I’ll bring it with me.”

   Kaeya’s chest tightens, constricts. “How fun would I be without my mysteries?” he hums and she scoffs.

   “Well, either way,” she says, shrugging while she goes to her feet, “I’m here to listen.”

   He knows, he knows, that’s why it’s proving difficult to keep all his bottled thoughts neatly safeguarded. Everything is easier around her, as though he can just be honest and loose-lipped, and bare, and Kaeya despises it.

   He despises how vulnerable he feels, how vulnerable she makes him feel.

   Each passing day only serves to coddle that parasite of an idea, the frail, tempting whisper at the shell of his ear, gnawing at him endlessly. The words coagulate in his throat, begging to be spoken and put to death all at once, barred only by gritted teeth and sheer willpower.

   Lumine never quite pries him, not when he excuses himself of her company through the blatant lie of working through his commissions; nor when he hides at the corner of the bar when they celebrate her victorious homecoming; nor when his nightly patrols loop him back to her in some cyclical torment.

   She gives him his space, lets him breathe. Kaeya isn’t sure if he enjoys the consideration, the lack of judgement, the misplaced respect.

   A clean-cut, clinical distance maintained. Lumine never quite meets him again, and he never bothers. It’s easier, it’s easier, he tells himself, chanting it through like a broken record.

   It’s easier, Kaeya convinces, even when he finds her perplexed at her usual spot at Good Hunter, bathed in the scarlet red of a sunset.

   “My,” he greets, pulling up the chair reserved for him, “I don’t think I’ve seen you quite so bothered, Traveller.”

  Lumine’s eyes never quite meets his, even when she’s turned her body to his direction. A chill creeps up the length of his spine.

   “I’m leaving for Liyue,” she says under her breath, so quiet it’s near indistinguishable from the wind. “Tomorrow morning.”

   “Oh,” is all Kaeya manages to muster. She doesn’t speak after that. He doesn’t either, all the sentences tangled and fumbling on his tongue, and It’s easier this way, he reminds himself still, even when she’s long receded into Mondstadt’s crowd.

   There’s a ringing in his ears, a loud, obnoxious pounding against his skull.

   Lumine’s leaving.

   The creature in his chest twists, writhing as he inhales deeply, like it is wounded and angry. Isn’t this what I wanted?

   Iron fills his mouth as his teeth bite into the inside of his cheek. He’s never once looked at her, not in the longest time, and before he knows it, Kaeya’s letting his feet lead him to the home she’s staying in, blood cold and hands trembling.

   The last time Kaeya’s ever held a person so warm dear to him, he burned to ashes.

   Something old and ancient stirs, an acquaintance he thought bygone. Wrapping around his shoulders like a winter veil, it hovers, large and engulfing.

  What has trust given you? Trauma sneers. Kaeya swallows. Rain and ichor, and festering wounds. Scorched skin black to its bone, pain still as new and fresh as spring. All that hate and fear, and loneliness.

  His hand rests quietly on the door, shaking softly.

  Intimately, anxiety slithers around his neck, a spurned lover begging for a second chance. His back is soaked in the frozen thunderstorm, the terrorised flesh on his arm throbbing painfully, this memoir he’s carried with him since eighteen.

  I should leave. I should go. There isn’t much point in this.

  Flashes of white dancing at the peripheral of his eye, embers sparking like coals. Kaeya balls his hand into a fist, breaths shallow and ragged, the smell of carbonised ozone filling the air.

  This was a terri-

  “Kaeya.”

  His demons fall quiet.

  Her fingers are warm around his wrist, comfortingly so, a hearth on a winter’s eve, and Kaeya’s heart steadies. Everything does.

  I’m scared, he realises when he keeps his gaze to the ground, when he struggles to look back at her, when he’s being honest to himself past all those pretences, a lost child navigating uncharted wasteland.

  I’m scared, he realises, of learning how to trust. It feels like centuries since he has. What has trust given you? Rain and ichor, and festering wounds.

  Her grip on his wrist tightens.

  A home. A friend. A brother. Tiny, stumbling memories that fill with laughter.

  Kaeya swallows and turns around, and this time, he meets the gold of her eyes. In the dying light of day, she seems to glow brighter still, undying and unyielding.

  They say if you stare too long at the sun, you’ll go blind. As long as it’s her, he can learn to live with that, to have faith in her promises and follow her lead.

  “Are you alright?” Lumine questions, and he’s touched by the worry in her voice. Kaeya allows himself to smile, just barely, and nods.

  “I’m here for that offer,” he says. There’s an unusual tremor in his words, a nervousness that he’s not quite felt in ages, and ages past. She blinks, once, twice, and Kaeya wonders if he’s misread.

  Maybe-

Lumine laughs, then, like chimes in the wind, and Kaeya can’t help but chuckle along. With practiced ease, she slips her hand around his, linking their fingers together.

Kaeya lets her.

“Make yourself at home,” she guides him through the door and into her space effortlessly, seamlessly. Within the four walls she calls hers, in the incandescent ardour of her presence, he feels safe. Safe and heard, and at peace.

  It isn’t likely that Kaeya will tell her everything he’s been shouldering within the day, nor the coming week, or month, or possibly a year, but he knows he eventually will. If it’s her, he wants to, and when she offers him a gentle sunburst smile, he’s certain of it.

 For the first time since eighteen, Kaeya offers his heart, bare and beating, and him.

[thelordofdarkreunion]

Agents of the Golden Throne

It took me longer than I wanted to write this, but here’s the follow up to the current story thread.  We see more of the Inquisition and their methods, we have what I sincerely hope to be a heartwarming moment, we touch on the subject of xenophilia, and, of course, we get to see the Grey Knights bust heads.  I hope you enjoy the story, and, as always, no one except Drake and his crew belong to me. 

“I carry with me an Inquisitorial Seal.  It is a small, unassuming object contained in a neat box of Pluvian obsidian.  It is a modest thing.   Relatively plain, adorned with a single motif and a simple motto.  Yet with this little object I can sign the death warrant of an entire world and consign a billion souls to oblivion.”  -Inquisitor Flast of the Ordo Malleus

“It is Mankind’s holy destiny to rule the stars, and rule them alone.”  -Lord Inquisitor Knael of the Ordo Xenos

“Do not worry: your memories will return with time.”  The deep bass voice of Lord Hector Rex cut through Vir’s headache.  He was aboard the Fury of Deimos, the heavy starship that served as the headquarters of Rex and the Grey Knights.  He looked around him, taking note of the gloomy gothic architecture and the massive cathedral windows of the hangar bay.  A cadre of humans stood around him; individuals that he was sure he knew but couldn’t really remember.  His memories were in the back of his mind, flitting things that he tried in vain to claw back to the forefront of his brain.  He remembered being on some strange planet… something that had to do with the color red.  There was some sort of white orb, too.  Nothing else besides that.  He couldn’t recall the interior of the Fury of Deimos, something Rex unabashedly told him they permanently deleted.  No one save the most powerful and dedicated servants of the Ordo Malleus could come aboard a starship of the Grey Knights and still leave with their memories.  It was explained to him as a simple security measure, but it still irked him.  He could, though, remember the probing, the strange devices… the pain.  It was the singular most painful experience he had ever gone through, and that was saying a lot.  Ripping through someone’s mind to make sure their soul was untainted did a number on the pain receptors of nerves, not to mention the utter wrongness of such an act.  

But, apart from the pain and the memories of the elderly Inquisitor guiding him through his recovery, he could remember nothing except brief hints; shadows of what he once was.  Then there were his companions, people who he was certain he should know but didn’t.  There was a brown haired, easy-going man dressed in a black and yellow jumpsuit.  It was something he would have found ridiculous except for the sense of respect he felt for the individual; that particular memory ran deep.  

Looking rather confused was a man with close cut hair, wearing what Vir vaguely remembered as a combat armor bodysuit.  Faint memories of competence, fighting side by side, something in common…  This man was some sort of friend.  Trustworthy.  

The third perplexed individual was wearing high boots and a leather jacket vest, similar to his own.  This one Vir held slightly in awe, somewhat like the first man.  He remembered hearing stories about this one, but, frustratingly, couldn’t remember.  

The last had a black coat and boots matching his equally black hair.  Blue eyes roved suspiciously around the hangar, looking with untrust at the Inquisitor and the other Imperials.  A series of conflicting feelings rose from the sight of this man: good advice, utter hilarity, slight insanity, and a disturbing amount of large explosions.  What the hell…?

“How soon will our memories recover?” asked the black coated man.  Rex scratched his head.  Vir could tell he was frowning behind his mask.  

“This is not an exact science.  I would estimate a day, perhaps two, for all of your memories to fully come back to you.  It could be as little as an hour, or, in the most extreme, as much as a week.”  Rex noticed the alarmed looks being cast his way.  “Though that is unlikely.  I can give you my utmost assurance that all of your memories, except for the ones of the halls of this ship, will return.”  Another man entered the room, this one dressed in a distinctly Imperial style, with an elaborate, overly-embroidered greatcoat and cap.  Vir remembered him… from somewhere.  He thought this man had been on his ship before.  His ship… what was his ship called?  Something fierce, he hoped.  The man bowed to Rex and spoke in a worried, but polite tone.

“Greetings, Lord Inquisitor.”  

“Greetings, Commissar Cain.”  All four of the non-Imperials in the hangar looked up sharply.  Cain.  They remembered him better with a name to go with a face.  “I trust your stay in the hangar has been satisfactory?” inquired Rex.  

“It has.”  Ah, yes.  Cain stayed here because he didn’t want to get mind wiped.  And he didn’t touch the orb, like we did.  That’s why we’re here!  The orb!  Cain cleared his throat.  “With all due respect, Lord Inquisitor, and I do recognize that this is your area of expertise, but was it necessary to completely mind-wipe them?”  Rex cocked his head curiously.

“We did not mind-wipe them.  Unfortunately, it is a side effect of the process that makes sure they are untainted.  If we could avoid it, we would, but there is simply no other way.”  Cain nodded.  

“Very well.  I thank you for your explanation, Lord Inquisitor.”  He glanced at the still confused four mind-wipe victims.  “May I take them back to their ships?”  

“You may,” replied Rex with a nodd.  He made a curious symbol on his breast, folding his thumbs together and outstretching his palms.  “May the Emperor guide you, Commissar Cain.”  Cain returned the gesture and bowed. 

“And you as well, Lord Inquisitor Rex.”  He gently guided the four to a shuttle.  “Come now.  We need to get you back where you belong.”

Rex watched them board the shuttle and take off.  They were strong of mind and soul, those ones.  That must have been why the Prognosticators of the Grey Knights had told him not to interfere with their business.  He had been annoyed that xenos had seen the Knights, but it was inevitable, he supposed.  After all, the Sons of Titan had teamed up with the enigmatic Aeldari to fight the daemons of Chaos when necessary.  More xenos, especially ones deemed necessary to the future by the seers of the Grey Knights, couldn’t hurt too badly, he supposed.  There were worse enemies out there.  He did, however, chafe that those pesky GA delegates were still around.  He had pulled rank and ordered the Knights not to destroy them.  That would cause too much of a political headache.  Though, he did discreetly mind-wipe them with his powers, and pull the orbital defenses of the Rundi homeworld from the chairwoman’s mind; information he had subsequently turned over to Inquisitor Vail.  They wouldn’t ever remember meeting him.  A good thing, all things considered.  They had neither the training nor stomach for fighting demons.  He spun on his heel and strode into the hall of the Deimos.  There was work to be done.

Aboard the shuttle

The shuttle had roved from ship to ship, dropping off passengers that barely remembered where they were going.  The yellow-shirted man, who had introduced himself as Kirk (some more slight memories came from that realization… something about a TV show?) was left on a ship called the Enterprise (a good name.  Adam hoped his ship was named something just as good.)  The First Mate, a tall thin man with strange pointed ears, had sighed as if this were a regular occurrence and led Kirk deeper into the ship.  

The short haired man was left aboard the Normandy (memories of beaches, and machine guns, and mass death in a war a long time ago.)  A raven haired woman wearing a bodysuit that left little to the imagination greeted them.  

“Ah, Commander.  Welcome back.  I trust everything went satisfactory?” she asked.  The other man stared at her.  

“You have a strange accent,” he said at last.  “Where are you from?”  The woman, who Vir presumed to be the First Officer of this ship, merely cocked an eyebrow.  Cain rolled his eyes and stepped in.  

“Ms. Lawson, the Inquisition performed an intensive interrogation on Commander Shepard, the side effects of which include the temporary, and I stress temporary, loss of memory.”

“He has no idea who I am.  Or anyone else,” stated Lawson bluntly.  Cain nodded and pushed Shepard from the shuttle.  

“Off you go Commander.  Hope the doctors don’t take you apart.”  The shuttle ramp closed, veiling the sight of a very confused Shepard and very exasperated Lawson.  It took off, slipping through the void.  The silver shape of a large, rectangular ship flitted through the viewport.  Vir looked out in wonder.  This ship… this one’s mine.  What is it called…?  Harbinger?  Harbinger sounds right… but… no…

The shuttle touched down in a large, open hangar.  A shorter, brown haired woman stood at attention there, waiting.  The ramp came down with a heavy thunk, and Vir and Cain exited.  

“This is our stop,” said Cain.  “Will you two be alright?” he asked the shuttle’s other two occupants.  The black coated man nodded jerkily, still staring into space.  

“What?  Oh.  Yes.  Don’t worry about us.  Commissar Cain.  Admiral Vir.”  He rattled off their unfamiliar names, the taste of the words strange on his tongue.  As the shuttle took off once more, the woman approached Vir and Cain.  

“Admiral,” she said with a crisp salute.  Vir looked her over, trying desperately to remember who she was.  Obviously some sort of ship’s officer.  

“Ah… yes,” he stalled, trying to buy time for his memories to return.  “Uh…”  The woman stared at him.  

“Are you… alright, Admiral?” she asked, perplexed.  Before he could do anything to embarrass himself, Cain stepped in.  

“Ah, Simone.”  Simone!  Yes!  Now he had a name to go with a face.  Simone was his… assistant?  Maybe?  “As you know,” continued Cain, “Admiral Vir was interrogated by the Inquisition.  The side effects of which include temporary memory loss.”  Simone’s mouth set in a hard line.

“Those utter-” she stopped herself, realizing who she was talking to.  “Ah.  Yes.  Commissar.”  She turned to Vir, clearly trying to ignore that she almost criticized the most deadly and powerful organization of Cain’s home government.  “Admiral… you really don’t remember me?”  Vir shook his head a miserable ‘no’.

“No.  I don’t.  There are bits, and pieces… but not much.”  

“Well, you should probably get settled.  Go to your cabin; someplace familiar.  I’ll make sure Kril doesn’t kill you,” said Cain with a wink.  He strode off, Commissar’s greatcoat swirling.  Simone watched him leave.  

“What did they do to you…?”  muttered Simone.  “I’m your First Lieutenant, Admiral.”

“Ah hah!” came Vir’s triumphant shout.  “Yes.  Simone.  I remember you are my first lieutenant.  It’s coming back.  A bit.”  

“Alright, then.  I’ll take my leave, Admiral,” she said.  Vir shook his head, still confused.  He wandered through the hangar, somehow knowing where the exits were and where they led.  He knew his cabin was somewhere towards the front area of the ship, near the bridge, but found his feet taking him a different way.  He walked through the bowels of the ship, saluting the crew he passed with automa-like precision.  It was mechanical.  He remembered none of them, but for an unknown reason kept walking until he reached a door near the engineering area.  He instinctively stepped inside, though he did not know where it led or why he did so.  

The room was bare, with empty metal walls and a corrugated steel floor.  The walls were covered with elaborate weapons blueprints and armor designs.  In the corner, huddled over a workbench, a large figure welded something.  Flying sparks illuminated a sleek blue carapace and four arms.  Vir had no idea who this was or what sort of creature it was… but he knew it.  He trusted it.  He felt safe here.  Hearing his footsteps, the figure turned around and lifted its welding mask.  

“Adam?  You got back already?” He felt something stir inside him at her (he knew it was a her) voice.  

“I… I can’t remember anything,” he confessed.  “The Imperials interrogated me… one of the side effects was temporary memory loss.”  The blue alien stood to its full height.  

“Those bastards…  You don’t remember me?” she asked.  Vir shrugged.  

“Tell me your name.  It helps with remembering,” he replied.  She stepped forward and took his arms.  

“Sunny,” she said.  Suddenly, everything clicked.  

“Sunny,” he replied.  It was a statement.  A sentence spoken by a weary man who has finally come home.  

“You… you do remember me?” asked Sunny with concern.  

“I remember your name,” said Vir with a smile.  “Clearness.  Blue skies.  Light.  Warmth.  Happiness.  Sunny.”

“Is… is that it?  You don’t remember anything else?”  Vir stepped forward and threw his arms around her.  He felt tears go down his face as he buried it into her chest.  She drew him close, her four arms wrapped around him.  

“Yes.  I remember that I love you.”  

Aboard the Millennium Falcon

The Falcon was full to capacity.  Nearly fifty individuals were crammed inside.  Han Solo and Chewbacca were quietly flying in the cockpit.  Not a single word passed between them, for the First Mate realized his Captain wished to be alone with his thoughts.  In the small recreational spaces of the ship, sitting morosely in the chairs that controlled the dorsal and ventral guns, slouching in the hallways and resting in the cargo holds were dozens of the Apocalypse’s armsmen.  

After Thomas Drake had returned from the Fury of Deimos, he had instinctively gravitated towards Richter and Ordelphine, whom he had told his predicament.  The two had immediately and bluntly set him straight, giving him the beginnings of his memories back.  He had been lucky; most of who he had been and what he was doing returned within the span of hours, no little thanks due to his First Lieutenant.  He had been scrolling through his computer files when a note to himself had popped up… and he had a sudden epiphany.  Which was why the Falcon was currently headed to a small but busy moon in the far reaches of this galaxy known as Noctopolis.  

The note, and the realization it brought, was simple.  The Holy Ordos of His Divine Majesty’s Inquisition and the laws of the Imperium of Man were harsh.  They were known to declare all those who dealt in alien technology Excommunicate Traitoris.  This meant that the individual in question was expelled from the Church and light of the God-Emperor and cast out of the human race to be hunted down and executed.  If such a punishment was fit for those who merely traded technology crafted by aliens, then what of those who romanced, or even copulated with aliens?  The punishment for such an act would be… unbelievable.  Unfortunately, xenophilia was an accepted act in five of the nine galaxies that now made up reality.   Should His Majesty’s Inquisition find out that such people were accepted, it would mean instant and eternal war.  

Drake realized the Inquisition could deal with aliens by themselves, for if the aliens fought alongside humanity against larger threats, then they were an asset.  However, if Holy Humanity debased itself with aliens, and to the Inquisition, if aliens were treacherous and convinced humans to perfore perverse acts with them, then the Inquisition would have no other choice but to step in.  This would result in any alien race that had any sort of xenophiliac history with humanity to be exterminated, and human civilizations that thought xenophilia was acceptable to be brought under Imperial compliance.  

The civilizations and the xenophiles themselves had no idea of the storm that was about to bear down on them.  With Inquisitor Amberly Vail of the Ordo Xenos now in this galaxy and presumably finding out whatever she could about it, Drake had what he believed to be four options.

One, he could do nothing.  The simplest option.  If he stood by, Vail would find or overhear that Admiral Adam Vir had convinced the Galactic Assembly that xenophilia should be legal.  In that case, Drake could claim plausible deniability and the Inquisition might believe him.  Regardless, the xenophiles would be rounded up, the GA destroyed, and this galaxy would become part of the Imperium of Man.

Two, he could turn the xenophiles over to the Inquisition.  For eradicating such a large heresy, the Inquisition would probably give him whatever he wanted: advanced weapons technology, one of those delightful gothic starships, perhaps his own private moon.  However, innocents would die, the Scoundrels would be broken up, and Vir, Quill, Kirk, and Shepard would despise him before being forever silenced.  

Three, he could tell his compatriots or wait for them to do something.  However, Thomas Drake had succeeded and survived in life through one maxim: if you wanted something done right, then you did it yourself.  

Four, he could side with the xenophiles.  He would have to do this carefully, as, otherwise, the full wrath of the Inquisition would come down on his head.  He would have to get them underground, undercover, completely invisible from any prying eyes.  Already, he had sent warning messages to the Milano, Normandy, Omen, and Enterprise.  All were hand written and hand delivered, all written in Drake’s camera-less cabin.  No one could hack into handwriting.

The question was hard.  The answer was simple.  He was siding with the xenophiles.  Why?  At the moment, the xenophiles were sitting there, doing nothing.  The Inquisition, on the other hand, had gone and messed with his brain.  All moral concerns aside, he was siding against the Inquisition ‘cause fuck ‘em, that’s why.  Ah, spite.  That most excellent of motivators.  

The Falcon touched down on the putrid streets of Noctopolis, the polluted air swirling around the landing gear.  Drake and the armsmen disembarked, leaving Solo with Chewbacca to reclaim the last vestiges of his shredded memory.  The armsmen wore garb similar to Drake, all in heavy boots and trench coats.

Good: the trench coats were not armor or uniforms, and thus they would not be easily recognized.

Bad: a group of people wearing black coats and strutting about an overcrowded criminal-ruled moon would be seen and possibly remembered.

Best: trench coats could conceal weapons.  A lot of weapons.  Each of Drake’s armsmen wore clothing that was reinforced to stop bullets, and had enough guns on them to fuel an army.  No one would be messing with them today.  

They walked through the streets, their massive numbers and intimidating bearing making sure no one got in their way.  Making their way down fetid alleys and downwards, ever downwards, they reached a gorge with red smoke, pollution from some nearby factory, billowed.  They made their way through a deserted alley and reached a door.  Drake knew it hid a deceptively large building.  

“Fan out,” he ordered the armsmen.  “Surround the building.  No one in or out without my permission.”  The armsmen nodded.  Weapons were pulled from concealment, the larger ones assembled quickly by their wielders.  First Squad had drawn duty today, and Saul stood by Drake’s side.  Two black coated women stood next to the door, shotguns at the ready.  He wasn’t expecting it, but there could be hostiles inside.  You never knew when you might need a hot breach.  Drake rapped on the door.  There was a long pause.  Drake and Saul stood unmoving.  The armsmen were ready with their weapons, turning the door and the alley into a kill zone.  Eventually, a slit opened and a pair of human eyes peered out.

“What do you want?” asked a somewhat surprised voice.

“I’m a friend of Adam,” replied Drake, the grin on his face unable to hide itself.  There was a snapping and rattling of chains and locks being undone, and the door opened.  Drake and Saul stepped through, two other armsmen who had been ready to provide support with compact submachine guns hot on their heels.  A man with electric blue hair stared, frightened, at the quite obviously mercenary soldiers that had just walked through his door.  Before he could say or do anything rash, Drake held out a calming hand.  

“Relax.  In this case, I really am who I say I am.”  He held out a paper, which the man took and carefully scanned.  

I, Admiral Adam Vir, hereby state that Thomas Drake is a close confidant and can be completely trusted.

Drake had papers with similar messages from all the Scoundrels.  He had forged their signatures and had their fingerprints on file.  It was, perhaps, a breach of trust, but he would not be offended if they did the same to him.  It was just good business.  Plus, such documents were very useful.  Very useful indeed.  As the man puzzled over what was happening, Drake held up a finger to his comms device.  

“You know, you really should change your passwords.  And your back door code is 0-0-0-0.  Sloppy,” sighed Drake.  “Very sloppy indeed.”  The blue harried man gapped up at him.  Drake sighed again.  “Can we, perhaps, go somewhere to talk business?  That is, of course, why I came.”  The man nodded, still slack jawed, and led the mercenaries through what seemed to be some sort of club and into the back rooms.  A group of strangely dressed humans and aliens stood there, apparently summoned by the blue haired man.  Drake sat in a vacant seat, the cheap leather scratching through his coat.  Saul and the two other armsmen stood beside him, their coats open, ready to grab hidden guns at a moment’s notice.

“Are you here to kill us?” opened one of the humans abruptly.  The other faces at the table were silent, but held the same worry.  Drake sighed for a third time.  

“I only kill those whose deaths are necessary or deserved.  You are neither, so you have nothing to fear from me.”  There were a few audible sighs of relief.  

“Then why are you here?” asked a small, furry alien. 

“I come with warnings.  There are those who would kill you, and I wish to prevent that,” replied Drake calmly.  There was a splatter of derisive laughter before another human held up a hand. 

“Are you… one of us?  Why would you want to warn us?”  Drake gave a rictus grin.  Some of his table-mates visibly shrunk back.  

“No I am not.  Frankly, I don’t care about you or your opponents here.  Let us just say that it’s better off you weren’t mass murdered by zealots.”  That brought a series of murmerings.  

“What?” asked a Drev.  “I think you’d better start from the beginning.”

“Indeed,” replied Drake.  “It is always wise to start at the beginning.”  He settled into his chair.  “I’m sure many of you are familiar with the fact that there are now nine galaxies in this universe, not just one.”  A chorus of yeses greeted this fact.  “You may also be familiar that in one of these galaxies resides a government known as ‘The Imperium of Man.’”  A chorus of hissed curses greeted that name.

“Xenophobic scum,” muttered someone.

“Hmm.  Yes,” replied Drake neutrally.  He leaned back even further and crossed his legs.  “At the present moment,” he continued, “The Imperium’s secret police, known as the Inquisition, is here, in this galaxy, investigating a completely unrelated matter.”  More mutterings.  “They are bound to investigate everything they can about this galaxy, and when they do, they will find out about your existence.  If this happens, you will all be tortured to death, and the GA, with most likely every alien race here, will be exterminated, with the galaxy coming under Imperial rule.”  Drake smiled over their horrified faces.  “I do not wish to see that happen.  Which is why you must do as I say.”  They all leaned in, desperate to hear if he could save them.  “One, you must disperse.  Groups attract attention.  I found this place easily, because I knew what to look for.  The Inquisition is even more adept than me.  Two, you must leave this place.  If a trail can be found, something I am trying to erase, believe me, but, if a trail can be found, it will lead to this moon.  Three, you must never, ever practice any sort of xenophilia, or have anyone suspect what you are.  Four, if you do as I say, and are still captured by the Inquisition, you must tell them that you are alone; a singular degenerate alone and unloved in this universe.  They will ask you to betray your comrades; don’t.  They will kill you either way.”  There was a stunned silence, before the room went up in shouts.

“No!”  

“Absolutely not!”

“You ask us to give up everything!  Everything we’ve worked so hard for!  To no longer be ourselves!  Adam Vir would never do this!”

“Adam Vir is not here!” thundered Drake.  “You are dealing with me now.”  He stood and rubbed his forehead as he paced.  “Nothing I have told you, or will tell you, is a lie.  My colleagues are, to a man, all better people than I.  However, they are, at times, unbearably naïve.”  He spun around and fixed them with his most intimidating glare, the one that made corporate oligarchs, high generals and planetary governors quake in their boots.  “Be grateful that you are dealing with someone who knows precisely what they are talking about.”  The table sat back down and watched Drake.  He frowned.  “Now, I can get you off this moon; get you to wherever you want to go.  I can give you new identities, multiple identities, just in case, food, tickets, papers: whatever you need to start a new life.”  He paused.  “However, all things come at a price.”

“I knew it!” hissed one of the humans.  A tesraki held up a hand, silencing the other members around the table.

“What do you want?” 

“I want information.  And you are going to give it to me.”

“What do you want to know?”  The voice was resigned to its owner’s fate.  Drake leaned forward. 

“Everything about the LFIL, everything about Admiral Vir, and everything about this galaxy that I don’t already know.  Give it to me and follow my directions, and I can ensure you will survive.”

Aboard the Fury of Deimos

Lord Inquisitor Hector Rex stood on the command bridge of the Grey Knight’s ancient ship, surrounded by the mindless servitors that crewed it.  In front of him were winking holograms of Admiral Vir, Captain Kirk, and Commander Shepard.  Deep into the blackness of space, a space station, so sleek and unlike anything Imperial, orbited an empty planet.  A camera feed from inside the research station flickered through the terminal in front of him.  What it displayed was clear signs of daemonic presence.  

“We got word just recently that this research station went dead,” said Vir.  “They apparently had some sort of artifact they were studying here.  It only came alive in the past few days.”  The cameras showed an infestation.  The artifact had spread throughout the station.  Twisted masses of white bone, flickering with red energy and black ooze, clung to the floors and walls.  Dark energy, lit with crackles of red, pulsed through the ceilings as if the station were some living thing.  As if the red crackling were arteries, filled with blood, flowing to the artifact, the beating heart of corruption.  The station’s crew were all dead.  Their bodies were held up by tendrils of bone, some twitching slightly as the horrible mass grew inside them.  Bone spread through every empty space in their bodies, growing through their eyes and mouths, infesting their noses, even going through their very veins.  To the watching Scoundrels, it was horrifying.  To Lord Hector, it was just a regular day.  

“It was good of you to inform me,” he replied.  “Stay aboard your ships.  We shall take care of this.”  The Scoundrels nodded.  If there were people who knew precisely how to combat this sort of thing, then they would differ to their expertise.  Rex deactivated the holograms and turned, walking off the bridge.  As he strode through the ship, he sent a mental message to Doctor Strange.  Strange was aboard, just in case the Knights or Inquisition needed his help.  He was staying in the hangar bay, though, for he just didn’t want to take the chance of being mind wiped.  

Strange.  We are cleansing the research station here.  Stay aboard.  If you receive word of any other artifacts being activated, you are free to intervene as you see fit.  

Understood, Lord Inquisitor.  I’ll be keeping my eyes open on the areas that celestially connect to Polaris.  

The Scoundrels awoke from their induced slumber with a warning: there were corrupting artifacts, hidden in the locations that Polaris was connected to.  These artifacts needed to be destroyed.  Rex couldn’t agree more.  

Through the halls bearing the symbols of the Grey Knights he walked, until he reached the teleportarium.  The five Knights who had accompanied him on this mission stood there, silently waiting, weapons in hand.  Rex simply nodded at them.  No words were needed.  His sword was always at his side, his armor always on him; no need to go get them.  

The silent party of Ordo Malleus operatives stepped into a large circular chamber, mysterious machinery clanking along the walls.  A servitor trundled forward, and flipped a lever.  

With an almighty crack of displaced air, Lord Hector Rex and the Grey Knights teleported aboard the now derelict research station.  The pulsating mass of bone and energy crackled ominously around them.  They marched inexorably forward, untouched by the corruption.  

“They are coming,” spoke the rumbling baritone of one of the Knights.  “This thing defends itself.”  Without warning, a fallen scientist leapt at them.  It’s eyes were dead and gone, replaced by inky black spots of primordial darkness.  It’s mouth stretched impossibly wide, bone spurs ready to shred flesh.  

It was unnaturally, unimaginably fast.  

The Grey Knights were faster.  

Nemesis force halberds crackled to life with but a thought, pure blue-white energy flowing across their blades.  The Knight nearest to the lifeless abomination spun at speeds the mortal eye could not follow, his psychic powers enhancing his already enhanced body.  The blade of his halberd connected with the thing’s neck, cleaving through bone and thin, lifeless skin like a knife through tissue paper.  The once-human fell, the unnatural life in its eyes gone.  With its death, the station exploded.  

Tentacles of bone whipped forward, seeking to impale the intruders.  More infected bodies darted forth, running at the Knights with speeds that would have astounded a normal human.  The darkness seemed to grow deeper, an unnatural deficit of light swimming forward to fill the halls.  

Lord Hector unsheathed his blade.  The sword was called Arias, an ancient weapon carried by the Ordo Malleus’s greatest heroes, reportedly blessed by the Emperor Himself during the Great Crusade.  It glowed with faint golden light, repelling the darkness around them.  He now brought it forward onto a corrupted scientist; a quick slice, almost as if he were swatting a fly.  The infected form fell, cleaved in two by Hector’s power.  

The Grey Knights spun and swirled through the station as if they were smoke.  Untouchable.  Untaintable.  Their psychic powers churned through the air, leaving blessed purity where there had been corruption a moment before.  They moved in tandem, augmenting each other with their power, exactly in tune with their brothers’ minds.  They were a brotherhood of demigods, slayers of the demonic, a group that brought only death to the damned.  

Lord Rex spun Arias in a defensive pattern, the consecrated blade shredding every attacker that reached him.  He held out a hand, and a dead Vrul scientist that had leapt at him, bone-fangs ready to tear his throat, stopped in mid-air, suspended with his mind.  His fist closed.  The Vrul exploded into bone shards.  

A wall of force, crackling with golden energy, swept away the encroaching darkness, fueled by the combined might of the Knights.  The scientists were all dead now, shredded by the psychic ammunition of the Grey Knights wrist-mounted bolters or cut down by their crackling blades.  The tentacles and walls redoubled their efforts, desperate to make sure the Inquisition didn’t reach the artifact at the center of the station’s corruption.  

With a swipe of his hand, the Grey Knight’s sergeant flicked open the heavy doors that led to the artifact’s chamber.  They saw it, a small mass of bone, swelling with unnatural power.  With a flick of his sword, Rex cut the tendrils that suspended it.  The very station seemed to shriek underneath them, the bone tendrils spasming.  Rex held the thing in mid-air, unwilling to touch it.  

“What shall we do with it?” he asked the sergeant.  

“Put it in a box.  Take it back to Titan.  We must study this,” replied the deep voice.  Another Knight came forward with a purified small metal container, and Rex telepathically lowered the artifact inside and sealed the lid.  With a mental command to the servitor, the Knights and Lord Inquisitor disappeared, teleported back to the Fury of Deimos.  The starships of the Scoundrels and Inquisition erased any trace of the station, its memory gone forever.  In its box, the cursed artifact pulsed, another relic to be taken back to the headquarters of the Grey Knights to be studied.

I hope you liked it.  If you have any requests or want me to write about a specific group or person, please tell me!  Wherever you are, have a great day.  

[avriion]

What I want from tfatws is not Sam and Bucky getting together (cause Bucky needs at least a month of proper therapy before that should happen) but them addressing their sexuality and history in some way so here

Sam at some point mentions having a crush on Steve

Then later in a more serious tone Bucky says that he was in love with Steve since they were kids

And that he never told him because he didn’t want to push him away

But he ended up doing that anyway

And Sam says that that’s bullshit

It’s no ones fault that Bucky was a different person now

And that Steve never let go of the past

Then after a beat he brings up Riley (in either a platonic or romantic way idk)

And talks about how he still feels guilty for his death

But that he also thinks that’s selfish because he should remember the good things about him

And that it’s his responsibility to keep his memory untainted

Then Bucky gets kinda pissed about the shield and Sam can tell

So he says that he thought he was protecting Steve’s memory by not picking up the shield

And Bucky kinda thinks for a moment

And says that he’s right but the shield means more than Steve that he sees that now

And Sam is the man for the job if he’s willing to bear that cross

And Sam huffs cause he knows after walker someone has to fix the image the shield (Idk I’m not the most qualified to right about Sam and the shield)

Also I think they would be friends for a while and fall into domesticity before they actually date

[secret-time-is-here]

An Error's Journey

Chapter 33

Previous - First - Next

Gasping, he was flung out of bed again. Another reset? No, he could hear his glitches buzzing next to him, the soreness of scarred bones, the feel of his soft sheets, the smell of Horror cooking food downstairs. He shouldn’t have woken up yet. Did he already run out of memories? There has to be more than that-there has to be more!

Groaning, he squeezed his skull in his hands, the painful static came back to him like bugs for spring. Unwelcome and annoying. This wasn’t right-this was not supposed to happen! His spine screamed at him, reminding him of his recent injuries. If he could find the damn pain sensor in his code he would’ve gladly switched it off centuries ago. All the negativity that loomed around him seemed to call Nightmare.

Three rapid knocks and he let a string pull the door open, he didn’t bother to look up. The cold of Nightmare’s aura washed over him delightfully, numbing the pain and sucking away his negativity like a sponge… too bad a sponge doesn’t work great in an ocean. Still, he leaned onto Nightmare like a lifeline. The other wrapping his tendrils around him, cocooning him away. Even if Nightmare was centuries younger, he still acts like a dad to everyone; although perhaps that love is a little different when Error is involved.

“...I don’t think stayin’ out of the AntiVoid is doin’ me any good, Night.” He eventually spoke, voice hoarse and uncertain.

“...You don’t want your memories?”

“...I don’t want to relive them.”

“You want to go back? Even at the cost of your sanity and friends? Your family?” He couldn’t look up at Nightmare, although he could feel the other’s eye staring down at him.

Pictures of the present glazing his eyes mixed with terrors of the past. Memories of many days spent with Hearts, helping the other get used to the gang and help him come out with his new name. They were soiled by all the promises he had made, carelessly moving on after they broke up, now happily together with Blue. Ages spent cooped up with Life in her garden, knitting and sewing away as Death stopped by, taking long sips of his tea as he shared his new gossip. Mercy joining them for their light-hearted jokes, no matter how much he said he hated them. All soiled with the fear of what would become of him and Grim in his memories; if they were going to be together and how they would be torn apart.

Yet, there were still things untainted, the gang had come so far. They all crowded him when he returned. The tears of relief he could see in Cross’ sockets as they talked, how Killer-still pretending not to care stayed nearby, watching. How Dust had also stayed close, and how Horror had cried when he returned. The slight tremors he could see in Nightmare’s eye and the ever so controlled shaking in the other's hands. His life as Lapse was still untainted, the G he had earned to help out with the Chara’s, the countless opportunities he could have and currently have available to him...

Would he really give all that up so he didn’t have to live with the pain of his past?

“...how about we talk more after some food? Horror made chocolate chip pancakes… your favorite.”

“Good Morning, Brother!” Papyrus’ loud voice rings through his head painfully, but he hides it behind a smile, “Look At You! You Changed Your Shirt And Didn’t Sleep In As Much! Good Job, Sans!”

“Thanks, Paps.” He spoke through a yawn, “Makin’ breakfast? Somethin’ doesn’t smell burnt.”

“OOO! You And Your Jokes!”

“I’m a humorous guy, what can I say?” Papy’s face tensed with a pout, “Ya want to smile~”

“I Do And I Hate It!” The taller huffed, stomping a foot, “Although, To Answer Your Earlier Question, I Am Making Breakfast. Undyne Gave Me This Recipe For Chocolate Pancakes! The Instructions Say To Cook It A Little Shorter Than I Normally Would, But Undyne Insisted I Cook It As Long As It Says.”

“...sure.” He could still feel Nightmare’s stare.

-----

In the end, he promised to Nightmare he wouldn’t go back to the AntiVoid, and the other agreed to let him leave to attend to other things… although he couldn’t help but linger a little longer.

“...he really was considering it?” Cross’ broken voice sounded from the living room as he stood in the shadows of the hallway.

“Yes… he was… I could see that far away look in his eyes... he’s not doing well.” Nightmare sighed, probably shaking his head

“That’s an understatement.”

“Killer...” Dust drawled,

“Right, right- sorry.” Killer amended, “Not covering things up with jokes- ...he’s been going astray from us for a while. I thought maybe it was because of something to do with the Stars but...”

“These memories are painful, so much so I can’t absorb all the negativity from him. I can feel the guilt eating at him...” Nightmare trailed, “...He’s one of the oldest of the multiverse too, and from the sounds of it-his memories are hardly even halfway through. It’s understandable why he’d want to…”

“Don’t mean is good...” Horror spoke up, his voice low.

“...the question left is: what do we do?” Dust’s voice was calm, but Error was sure he was hiding his fear.

Error decided to leave after that, better to get it done now and not let them get their hopes up. He simply couldn’t live like this. He made a portal to the Antivoid, and stepped through…

Instead of the vast whiteness and nest of vibrant blue strings above, he was greeted with Core’s office.

“Error...” Core looked so disappointed, “I know this is difficult...”

“Ya. Don’t. Know. Shit.” He snarled

“I do know that I don’t want to restart this for the thousandth time… think about how long I’ve had to try and change things, to try and get a better outcome...”

“No one asked for ya ta do that, ya’know.” Error crossed his arms

“Well, my options were to live with only half the multiverse and attempt to make things good in a war-stricken world where everyone was insane or too naive to do much of any help… or change the multiverse for the better.” Core seemed to pause before they started to laugh, “Pfthehe… I’ve practically gone insane with how long this has been going on… I think this is the… 27th? No no, the 29th time we’ve had this exact conversation- the 28th time, well, you killed me.”

Core’s hands steadily shook, “...at least that was over a dozen timelines ago.” Core seemed to shrug off the memory and move on: “Error, do keep in mind, while it will take time. A long time. That I do intend for this all to end. Things along the way won’t always be the happiest. I’ve lost count of how many times you and others have killed me… yet there are times where it’s been bliss in the multiverse too… until our common enemy showed up.”

Core continued further: “There are so many things that I can put a stop to-but I can’t. Because without your suffering, everyone else suffers.”

“Ya sure it’s really for me then?”

“Partially, yes. Everyone suffers a little, so I could push things around to pull the worst from their insanity-from their extremes.”

“Pfft, the multiverse can get worse than it already is?”

“Yes, it can. Ink could go haywire any day. Dream could decide to become a lone wolf at any moment. Death could kill everyone if he wanted to at any time. Nightmare could flip out and cast aside everyone… just like you can decide if you want to restart this multiverse right now.” Core looked at him expectantly, “What do you say?”

Error simply went to his settings and changed his appearance to Lapse, “Good choice, thank you. Error. When all is said and done, I’ll do my best to find a way to reward you… as well as everyone else.”

Error nodded, and walked out of the office, only to bump into Dream.

“Oh, hello, Mr.Mode.” Dream spoke softly, “I was just about to call you, are you free at all?”

“Actually, I am free, what do you need?”

-----

The chatter and warmth of the coffee house calmed the nerves leftover from Core, a warm mug resting in his hands as Dream went to grab the snacks he had ordered. It was a small but busy establishment on Sapphire Avenue, not far from where his workshop would be moved, at least he finally got a good excuse to try it.

The guardian had a free moment for once and wanted to discuss plans for the outfit and trade his scarf over to Lapse, taking him over to the cafe as a neutral spot they could relax and meet. While they waited for their drinks, and Dream his snacks, they managed to discuss a lot. The other was surprisingly knowledgeable on what he wanted and the correct stitching to properly fix his scarf.

Dream returned, a steaming black coffee and a few scones in hand.

“Not to overstep, but I didn’t expect you to enjoy scones and black coffee, my divine.”

“Oh? And do not worry about overstepping,” Dream took a sip of his coffee, not seeming to mind the lack of milk or even sugar, “It is probably the whole positivity guardian means he probably likes cutesy things and sugary sweets, right?” Dream laughed, “Funny enough, I actually hate most sweets, I prefer a good peppermint and licorice over sugar-coated sugar any day.”

“It is a surprise...” Error trailed, taking a sip of his over sugared hot cocoa.

“Pfft, I would assume so. I honestly don’t even get scones often either, still a little too sweet for me… but I indulge every now and again. A childhood friend used to make them for me when they could scrounge the materials…. They’re actually the one who made my scarf...”

“I see… this is quite old material too. Not many fabrics have this attention to detail anymore, I’m going to guess it’s hand-made?”

“Yes, it is hand-made. Poor thing is nearly 500 years old now. I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve had to bring it to repair it.” Dream sighed, eyes drifting across the scarf, “...If only I could get it back to the person who made it.”

“...I’m sorry for your loss.” Error mumbled, taking a sip of his cocoa.

“I… they...” Dream seemed surprised, before only nodding, “...thank you.”

They continued to talk, moving away from the dreary subject to talk of Dream’s new outfit. They tossed around ideas, anything from joking about copying Ink’s “battle” outfit to listing pros and cons of having tights or possibly cuffed pants-Dream hated having to deal with the tights, a pain to get on and off. Dream even brought up an old photo, one of Ink’s older outfit and Dream in his, and talked about the things Dream hated and liked about the old outfit.

Eventually, they landed on a design that Dream wasn’t just happy about but excited to have. Already paying half and more of the promised amount-apart of the contract he had for his commissions, to ward off tricksters who wanted to scam for free designer clothes. Error even promised to have the scarf back within the next few days-while the holes would be difficult to mend, it was a quick fix.

Dream and he barely got out before closing and parted ways. Dream off to make a portal home, and Error to his small studio. Yawning, he committed to finishing the scarf, and carefully put it to the side, pinning the design he had sketched out to his corkboard, and portaling back to Nightmare.

“Error...” Nightmare’s voice was stern, but also held a hint of questioning.

“I’m not gonna do it, Moon.” Error looked him right in the eye this time, despite having to crane his neck with their growing height difference. Nightmare’s eye glared back.

“Are you lying to me?”

“You can tell when I’m lying, Nightmare.” Error reminded, “Core gave me a good talking to… and I can’t do that to the gang… or to you.”

Nightmare seemed to nearly deflate at the last comment but held his composure. Error opened his arms slightly-and Nightmare hurried in. Hugging him tightly.

“Don’t you fucking dare ever scare me like that again-!” He could feel the darker's tears burning his glitches. “Fucking… damned… idiot...” Nightmare clung tighter, and Error returned it.

[rouiyan]

𝘖𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘊𝘈𝘚𝘛 𝘚𝘒𝘐𝘌𝘚 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘚𝘌 𝘞𝘏𝘖 𝘋𝘐𝘌 [ 𝘭.𝘫𝘯 ]

⧏ the second volume of rouiyan’s debut series, till death do us part ⧐

synopsis: “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

✧ prince!lee jeno x crown princess!reader ✧ royalty au

✧ genres : fluff, angst ✧ word count : 5.0k ✧ disclaimers : brief descriptions of nudity (nothing sexual), allusions to sex (nothing explicit), malintent

read volume one here: of the heart.

when the moon, in all her glory, begins to set, Mother Nature begins each new day by inhaling the misfortunes of the day before and blowing out frigid breaths in their stead. this morning is no exception for nothing is so clear as the wisps of fog that lie just beyond the horizon, a velarium of sorts, over the forest canopy. the sun is a little early today, but it is for naught, since its rays are caught between the tendrils of fog right as they begin to show. perhaps Mother Nature woke up in a bit of a fit today, seeing as the skies are already oozing the grays before the blues have yet to surface. Her fingers gently stir the clouds to ensure that they collide right where the earth most needs it and She's joyful in the sense that Her work can be admired from far down below. after all, the paintings She conjures in the skies are nothing short of masterpieces.

like a ceiling folding in with the pressure of water leakage, the clouds from down below give off an air of distress. the air itself is heavily encumbered with a clarity found only after the rainiest of days. and if not for the sake of the story, the author could spend hours droning on about Mother Nature's tour de force, she really would, but instead she will insert a few lines from a symphony: 

The autumn mist drifts blue over the lake,

The blades of grass stand covered with frost,

The flowers' sweet scent is gone,

An icy wind bends down their stems,

My heart is weary.

Der Einsame im Herbst (The lonely one in autumn), from Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde

in the exact opposite sense that Mother Nature loves her leaves, with tender fondness and a forgiving hand, prince jeno's father has never loved his second son more, with an impassioned sneer and a bagful of riches in mind. at least, that is exactly what prince jeno himself thinks as he skims through yet another letter, this time from his father. 

son,

never did i think i would enjoy the prospect of a winter ceremony as much as i would this, perhaps you would also like to see an early coronation. i've made the necessary arrangements, i assure that you will not be suspected in the least but keep caution and wariness by your side, our family name is already a great deal tainted. thought not for long, i'll be sending a carriage to retrieve you for your rounds back home, we've ought to get going on them. the damsel is a sight for sore eyes, i presume, i'd hate for her to foil our ambitions; she is much in your hands to attend to now. i'll see you by the throne soon, my lad. 

king of the southern mines, your father.

the prince's vision narrows upon the words 'coronation, arrangements, suspected, foil, throne,' and he is already a sight of frustration, fingers gripping the paper with such force that his short nails are digging into his palms through it. seething, he tears his eyes from the script before him but instead, they land on the previous letter sat atop the open escritoire. the one from his mother. the stamped edge of the paper lifts with the wind that filters through the window just above it and he has the sudden urge to let it be carried away wholly. jeno crosses the room in four steps. 

with both the pages collected in his hands, jeno crouches by the mantle, the roar of a fire licking up before him. his face is drawn in concentration, jaw stiff and clenched. the lines of his brows are met with a furrow in between, set above the meek lines of his eyelids. his pupils dilate, albeit out of habitual need, in the reflection of the inferno before him. he's ever-so-aware of the distinct scent of burning coals that siphon and sharpen his reminiscence of home. it's sentient, the feelings of familiarity that overcome his senses, halting his movements, his fingers clutching the papers in a way that almost tells of longing. longing of a seemingly different world entirely, one that he has only ever known until a few weeks prior. being washed anew in distant lands and over the course of a single lunation, jeno finds that he's never felt more mismatched from himself, disconnected from the people who raised him in contrast to the people who have brought out the better in him. but the embers are not the only thing he smells, not the only he sees, or heeds to.

the pearly carrara marble of the mantle tells stories in the grayed lines that trail across its posh surface. his eyes rove over the white, the faith and purity of your heraldry binded with the emblem of your family. the white of angels, of untainted relations, sterility in empowerment, the inviolable you. the white tells stories that the black never could.

so jeno finds a warm pleasure in the way the flames overwhelm the papers with eager enthusiasm, the damned words of his parents receding into mere ash. prince jeno thinks he could forever part with the world if it asked him to feast his eyes on this very sight until the end of time. 

despite arousing before the sun, you are disappointed when it starts to chase your wakefulness. there is something edging the growing unease in your mind, as if time is trickling down the drain of the past, too fast and too unforgiving. as if time is berating at your senses, telling you there is much more than what meets the eye but for the life of you, you cannot pinpoint what. for now though, you tend to the pressing matters at hand, jeno has been called home for his rounds, rather abruptly.

"perhaps i should go with you, rounds don't always have to be made by one per-”

jeno cuts you off effectively, "they are very much a one person duty," he assures pointedly. your nose scrunches, the light inconveniences starting to rub off on your exasperation. in a tired voice you mumble, "we could always change it up a bit, i'm sure." jeno chuckles heartily at that, his hand coming up from his side to rub out the lines of stress in your forehead.

"little miss princess, you're saying that as if you do not have rounds to complete of your own. i'm almost certain you host are a far greater amount of people that wish to be invited to the ceremony than i have-"

it's your turn to cut him off now, "why don't you stay with me then?" in attempts to enhance the force of your resolve, you uncover a hand of your own from under the sheets to comb through his locks. the way his eyes instantly close to relish in your touch paired with the little purr he gives is almost telltale of your victory. almost.

jeno pauses, his eyes flicker back open, and a soft knowing smile runs along the features of his face as he shakes his head, in knowledge of your artful tactics to wear him down. "and neglect my kingdom and their desires?"

you've left the feelings of frustration behind, instead deciding to fool around with the boy, to see what you can get out of him for good fun, "but we've yet to decide what flowers to use as centerpieces. and whether we're throwing a private or public ball. wedding preparations are surely more important than handing out personal invites…we can cut corners one some niceties." jeno knows better than to let his guard down. the jeno around y/n isn't to be trusted as easily. he settles for words of comfort instead, "i'll write."

"well, that's of course. silly of you to voice something as unequivocal as that."

a pause and his resolve is slipping, "maybe a few short visits back wouldn't hurt." you lick your lips in good-natured fun, another pause, "i'm sure my father wouldn't half mind if we cut it a week short." your eyes look hazy to him, though in reality they are simply amused, and drawing words from him he isn't even sure he's saying. "or- or maybe i could convince him, or try to at least…," he trails on and on.

your satisfied a certain amount and, suppressing a smile from giving away your plotted schemes, you mutter quietly, mostly for your own pondering, "i'm thinking alliums would make a statement, blue alliums." jeno gives a noise of confusion, unsure of how you've suddenly come to talk of flowers. "the centerpieces, i mean." jeno's silence only urges you on, "alliums, or blue alliums at that, are symbols of unity and good fortune. i think that'd make a nice combination with a base of milkweed, dignity and freedom, if my memory serves me right."

the prince has found his voice, "what of the rounds?" but he's met with a small chortle, "nothing, a month is a month, i'm sure we'll work around it."

"but, i- i'm not sure i understand. you were adamant enough a millisecond ago, and now-"

"and now i'm telling you i was toying with you, dear sir. such fun it is when you let on more than you'd like."

jeno's cheeks flush, the warm color dusting the bridge of his nose, apples of his cheeks, tips of his ears. your warm smile and benign banter bring him the simplest of joys. he's not sure he's ever felt this way before. familiarity. and, not the familiarity that comes from his assigned butler since birth, or the old lady at the apothecary he's been to all his life that's paid to tend to his wounds. not the familiarity that comes with blood and playing house, the type of sickened familiarity he feels with his brother, doyoung, that every second spent with him is forced. the familiarity he feels with you is by choice, by genuine and sincere desire. you want to wake up in the mornings with him by your side. you want to spend breakfast pushing each other's toes away underneath the table. you want to hold his hand when he walks you to your carriage. you want to make love with him in the most ungodly hours of the day. which is exactly what happens that morning.

a day is barely enough to do all the things you've penned in your journal. things to be done before you were to be married, with the one you were to be married to. the list had been written, curated, and refined by nine-year-old you, who you must say, had some very good ideas, though verily a romanticist. 

jeno is departing tomorrow morning, as early as the sun will permit, and suddenly you wish that it would never rise again. whatever the case, you set out first thing this morning, hand tugging along a very tired prince, for the bathing pool. nine-year-old you must have misinterpreted the meaning of 'skinny dipping' for swimming but you thank nine-year-old you because things seem to have worked out in your favor either way. jeno is jolted awake by the gelid water, the seasons now mark three-quarters into fall. 

"go in first," you state simply, hands on your hips and eyes drawn down into the water. the single toe you had dipped in to test the waters is frigid and frozen. jeno, who has yet to finish undressing himself, nodded at your words. if he were looking in your direction he would've noticed the smirk on your face. he stands straight, boxers on the ground behind him as he takes place by your side, "cold?"

"not at all, surprisingly," he's looking at you now and your countenance can't help but decompose in front of him, a small, unsuspecting smile adorning your lips. "oh really, can you attest for that?"

the smile is now blossoming unto your cheeks, "are you telling me to go in first?" the prince nods at that, fully aware of your schematics, "yes, i would like to see you enter the warm water."

"you agreed to go in first just a few seconds ago, don't tell me you've backed out on your word," a feeble matter against the boy but he defends himself by saying, "devious little princess, as if this wasn't your idea."

you're equally defensive when you point out, "not me, directly, but rather me as a child-" he pushes you in. lee jeno, second prince of the esteemed southern kingdom pushes you into the subzero degree bathing pool.

assuredly though, he dives in a few seconds after he's had time to relish in your shocked expression and piercing screams. he's coming up for air, his hands have found your bare hips to make sure that you resurface together. or drown together, you think, because it seems his foot is caught in the crevices between two rocks and since he's writhing like a madman, you're writhing with him too. it's a strange sight, two very beautiful individuals, absolutely in love but absolutely inane, for if jeno had thought to let go of his grip on you, you might've been able to unlodge his foot altogether if he had not been set on wrangling both your bodies about.

it's four minutes later that the two of you are on the leveled bronze rock, now, absolutely loosing it over jeno's lack of common sense. both of you are having trouble breathing, spurts of water still occasionally gushing past his lips. he thinks you're most beautiful in your bare skin, with nothing to define you but yourself. he's running his fingers up and down your torso, lips connecting with the surface of your neck. he appreciates that you kiss him with such avidity, you always do. jeno loves that you make it known to him, that what you say, you mean. and that even if you were never to utter a word again, he would still understand the sheer vehemence with which you love him.

you cross off paragliding, building a snowman, and studying together for a test. not because they've been completed but because there simply is no plausible way to get them done with the deadline closing in fast. the next activity you present to jeno has his eyebrows raised in intrigue. he's quick to reply when you ask him. 

"a moon, a quartered moon." the knowing smile that grows on your face tells him he's chosen correctly.

jeno gives a squeeze to your hand as the needle comes in contact with your clean skin. the first few minutes are highlighted by the sensation of a million bee stings, racking through your brain, but the rest is relatively smooth sailing. yours comes out just as good as jeno's, a small moon, a quartered moon, tattooed into the skin just behind the left ear. there specifically, so that it's known by each other and each other only. 

there will be months passed before the moon becomes a sort of unspoken but affirmative communication instrument. when jeno loves you a little too much, he rubs the inked skin softly. his sleepless nights are cured with the pad of your finger upon the spot. between the many general meetings you're required to oversee in a day, jeno waits outside the conference room for you to exit, his fingers stroking the moon for the duration of the few seconds allotted to him before you're whisked away again. the symbol of night is translated into accounts of bonding, the smallest of things giving way to happiness. 

you would say the uses of the 'lovemark' are amplified as the sun retreats and the mascot of your relationship shines brighter than ever. it's evident in the look on jeno's face, especially, a few feet below you, peering up your skirt with a dumbstruck look on his face. 

"jeno, dear, now is really not the time." the boy clears his throat and looks away, baffled at how you'd caught him anyways. your position is so frightfully awkward, one foot on the top end of your chamber's windowsill, another bent and hoisted onto the flat ledge of your roof. "come on up now, and get those dirty thoughts out of your mind. for heaven's sake, we're here to watch the sunset and stargaze, not to pound into each other."

the prince laughs at your offhanded remarks, arriving himself on the platform. the view is expansive in the way that you can see the forest from here, the ocean if you squint, the hills set in the far distance, and the sky has never felt closer to the earth while the things you've always known to be near appear smaller and more distant than ever. even the gregarious tree stalks of the forest rise to what could be measured as an only inch from this outlook. 

"nine-year-old y/n seems to have known nothing but fun days." jeno muses, leaning his weight back upon his hands. your eyes are glazed in an omniscient mist, "i'd expect so, she was born and raised with everything." the prince picks up on the tone of distaste with which you'd spoken your words. he turns to you and studies the hairs that fall in your eyes, "hardly fair."

you reply not a beat after, "not at all fair. if i were to accomplish one thing during my run as queen, i'd give the children opportunities of a lifetime." the thoughts tumble out of your mind, as if you'd known of this conviction of yours since you were but a child. your drive as a ruler, firm and headstrong to implement your values and beliefs on your subjects has been the sole idea that's grounded you in the castle for your entire time being.

"and what if you cannot?"

your first reply is dealt with in humble humor, "at the very least, i'd like it to be engraved on my tombstone that i tried." the second, is laden with a sorrowful undertone, "housing, schooling, meals and warmth in the winter. we have it the worst here up north. if they are without school, they are left with nothing." jeno's head turns to yours, he sees the slip of a tear and he wipes it away, only to be met with another. your voice cracks in despair, "there are no mining jobs to take up, no farms to harvest, aqueducts to run. i dread that one day i must rule a kingdom of arts."

jeno tries, he really does, to gather you in his arms but your sobs rack your body with such force that he is left to comfort your desolations with words and a hand on your back, "what is there to dread? are the arts so difficult to maintain?"

bitterness forms at the tip of your tongue, "no, jeno. i regress in the face that art is invaluable. but the world seeks to attach a price to every viable thing, to label the passion of others. and now, now the arts are for the rich, only for the rich. have you ever heard of a hungry man paint instead of seeking shelter from the rain? a woman who writes prose instead of feeding her dying children? there is no one who can live solely on art but the heavens have sent me to rule a horde of those very people."

the prince knows you need to voice the thoughts weighing down your mind, so he gives them a platform, a nudge, "a kingdom of arts would be blessed to house a queen with intentions such as yourself, surely there are others who hold the same principles as you." 

"no doubt," your eyes cast on the forming stars, "but as much as i would love to trail a path of meliorism and say that with a tide of willingness, there will be change, i must not forget the real nature of the world we live in."

"and what is this nature that you speak of?"

"the drive of greed and sadism, in exchange for the feeblest of pleasures."

the world comes to a still in this very moment. the moon begins her ascent. the stars unsheath their full luminance. the whites of their gleam reflecting on the rooftop on which the two of you are sat. time and space shrivel in the potency of untainted humanity.

"we will bring change, you and i."

you feel your heart calm as your rambling ceases. jeno looks over at you and smiles.

prince jeno is scheduled to return in twenty seven days time. there is something that feels wrong about him leaving. a feeling that if he leaves, all hell with turn loose and you will be unleashed unto the dogs for ravaging. there is a coated and unspoken thought that splutters in your mind whenever you even dare so much as to begin to think of it. the possibility that with jeno's leave, you'll be left with the realization that it was all a phase of infatuation. that when you see him again, all the feelings that you'd built up over the course of a month and a few days was just a glamourized dream. that he was never real; the real that you needed.

"i'll be forever thinking of those lips on mine, maybe even missing them," you let, comically. jeno eyes you conspicuously, "and i'll be forever thinking of you, as a whole, not just the lips unlike you. a little fixated you sounded there, mind you." his little sniggers are given in response to your hands pushing his chest in frisky response. the prince pulls you closer into a final embrace, the coachman of his black carriage is awaiting his departure. 

he parts from you and you can't help but trail behind him down the paved path. he's over his shoulder now as you let loose a sliver of your deepest worries, meekly, "i hope we never change, jeno."

the prince halts at the bottom steps that curl into the palace. he sees you, feels you, knows you, for he quotes, “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

jeno can hear the light pellets of raindrops hit the roof of his carriage. the gray skies are darkening by the second, it's telling him something that he's sure he doesn't want to hear. his fingers fiddle with the cuffs of his tailored suit jacket, something you'd requested be made for him when his stay was first prolonged. the prince is entirely clad in white and he knows enough to imagine the face his mother will make when she first sees him home. lee jeno doesn't remember a time when he's donned a color other than black, but somehow, the white doesn't feel too far from home. 

with the white, his mind flashes with the events of the past month or so spent in your noble abode. you, on the other hand, rarely ever wore a color other than white, the most differing shade being a cream or beige. but even with all the lights, you never seemed to mind when they were dirtied. almost always, a day in the fields or by the bathing pool would drench a good six inches of your skirts in mud and the unfurled hems of your frocks or crinkled fronts of those sweaters you so often adorned were always beyond your notice. you were free in that way, never stopping to fuss over the little things you deemed unimportant. jeno thinks if he could live that way too and though he isn't sure if he can, he knows he wants to.

jeno can hear the spindles of the carriage gyrating with added resistance against the now watered-down mud of the trodden roads. his eyes are caught in the sky that looks as if it's to detonate at any given second. he predicts the thunder before it rings loud in his ears and he hears the coachman slash a whip to a trepid horse, an echo of the natural phenomenon. he wonders what it would feel like to be the coachman, out in the clamorring downpour, or perhaps the horse, blindlessly running to the crack of a whip, or the trees even, awoken by the threat of a fire. he wonders if he has any desire to be the lightning itself, to jab at the delicate foliage as he'd like, to set fire to that of which he doesn't like, to wield destructive power. he wonders, but he knows he doesn't want to.

lee jeno is in his carriage when he realizes what it means to be free, but not in the hindrance of others. he realizes what it means, not to rule but rather to guide without the oppression of others. lee jeno is also in his carriage when the skies turn black and a deluge of rain is unleashed upon the castle of white. 

a man a few inches brief to the prince, but of higher rank in swordsmanship, is propped on the limestone trellis that holds the awning in place, his two feet hooked between the vertical balusters of stone and fingers clung onto the ridge of the balustrade. he finds it ludicrous that every individual of importance he has ever met, is so caught up in their own belief that they are untouchable, where in reality they are the most vulnerable of all. he thinks this, specifically, as he upturns himself over the railing and onto the landing, only to see that the king's door are left wide open, the only shield of protection being the pristine white curtains glinting a sheen of blue in the moonlight. 

renjun is humored when, upon drawing the curtains back, the king himself is simply laying there on the ground, unconscious as he was informed he'd be. the knight presses two fingers to the inner wrist of the withered man and finds that he still has a job to finish. brandishing a blade from the underside of his calf, he deems the inscription on the handle fit for the deed. he drives it into the gut but makes quick work of it, the sputters of blood that erupt from the now-awakened royal something he wishes the guards just outside not to hear. renjun makes further assurance that the blade is firmly put in place, the stout palladium shaft protruding from the king's abdomen like the ring of a windup toy. 

a black body bag is used to sheath the quickly-paling bag of bones. it is left under the light of the moon, through a skylight rounded in the dead center of the palace. around the malefaction, stairs wind in all directions from the ground up and if there were even one maid to have crossed the landing once in the night, she would have been met with what looked to be an unassuming trash bag. but fate had it so the sun would rise before your dead father was stumbled upon, an inscribed shank planted between his internal organs reading, this star-like solitude (Giuseppe Ungaretti, from Last Choruses for the Promised Land: XVI (tr. by Patrick Creagh)).

the blood that seeps from the measly opening in the bag is not silver, nor is it gold. it is blood red. the red of a brazen senex that perhaps preceded and proceeded his times, entangled in the intricacies of the new age, the new game of politics he simply had no means to play at. akin to the webs of an arachnid, the string of fate hung around his neck, thin and unnoticeable, cinching with each passing second until Mother Nature deemed his time up. the blood that seeps writhes in the rays of the sun, twines like the veins in the marble beneath it. it seeps until the figure in the sack is drained and the clumping skin of human remains is the same shade as the white tiling. red against white, white against black, the black of a crying sky.

read volume three: dearly departed.

copyright © 2020 rouiyan all rights reserved.

✧ end note — i had such a hard time trying to pull this outta my ass in a way that captures everything i wanted to say. so thank you for reading this piece. it’s one of my most favorite things i have ever written, undoubtedly.

[jasontoddiefor]

Summary: Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi gets displaced in time and, to Darth Vader’s delight, decides the Death Star sucks. There might be some treason involved. Read on AO3!

After over a decade at Obi-Wan Kenobi’s side, spending more time with him than in his absence, Vader had thought he had known the man better than anybody else. And perhaps, indeed, he had, but as the Sith had come to know in the past weeks, better didn’t equal well.

He didn’t have any significant memories of his former Master as a Padawan. The time he had spent with him before Qui-Gon’s death had been short and Kenobi hadn’t paid much attention to him. Afterward, Vader had only known him as his new Master, an authority to respect if he didn’t want to earn his ire, or worse, his disappointment.

He had appeared so aloof, as the perfect Jedi with not a single flaw.

Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, on the other hand, was not this perfect Jedi yet, this embodiment of a faulty code. He had, apparently, a slightly bigger disregard for rules than Vader had assumed possible and, on top of that, smoked Death Sticks. For fun, just to relax a little sometimes. He had admitted so while laughing just a touch nervously in a pitch Vader had never heard from his Master. It showed how painfully young this Obi-Wan still was, even at 22. If Vader hadn’t spent hours excessively researching the Sith artifact Obi-Wan had touched, he would have believed that the Padawan was not just from a different time, but also a different universe. He just behaved so differently, enough that Vader hadn’t immediately wanted to punish him for the betrayal of his future-self.

After the initial shock had worn off, Obi-Wan had acted surprisingly calmly about the Republic having turned into an Empire and the entirety of the Jedi having been wiped out. What had, however, displeased Obi-Wan, was how incredibly mindlessly Sidious had been ruling his Empire.

“So, just to recapitulate, the Emperor-“ Obi-Wan’s face scrunched up in disgust, an expression Vader thought was quite appropriate for this situation, “decided to build a weapon that can blow up entire planets, named it Death Star and decided that was a job well done?”

“Yes.”

Obi-Wan walked from one side of the room to the other. He ought to be in a prison cell or stuck somewhere deep on Mustafar where Sidious could never possibly find out about him, and yet Vader had kept Obi-Wan by his side. He had forced the young man to give up his Jedi robes, of course, he loathed to look at them and couldn’t very much keep a Jedi with him. Instead, he had left Obi-Wan the black leather uniform of the Inquisitors. The Padawan had put it on with only a few complaints about how tight it was compared to the loose Jedi robes and had scowled at the Imperial cog printed upon his sleeves, but otherwise, he had gone along just fine with Vader’s demands.

His lightsaber – another thing so very different from the Kenobi Vader remembered – hung from his belt and his Padawan braid had been neatly pulled back into the ponytail that held back the rest of his hair. Vader would have cut off the braid, if not for what that action would symbolize.

Obi-Wan didn’t look like a Jedi Padawan anymore. To every non-Force-sensitive, he would appear to be yet another Inquisitor assigned to watch Vader, spy on him for the Emperor and follow his orders at the same time. Should any other spy on his ship report Obi-Wan’s presence soon, Sidious would certainly be able to figure out Obi-Wan’s identity quickly, if he hadn’t already. The Emperor’s ability to sense even the slightest disturbance in the Force aided him well and there had not been a light as bright as Obi-Wan’s in a while. Vader doubted that he had ever been so untainted, even as a child.

It was annoying and yet, somehow, just a little endearing. Obi-Wan wasn’t as cracked as his older self, not as misused and wrongly trained.

“That’s just stupid,” Obi-Wan concluded. “That’s not how you rule an Empire, forcing every planet into submission or face extinction. The people will band together, they will rebel, and one singular weapon will not be enough to stop entire systems from going against Imperial control.”

Obi-Wan threw up his hands and shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Vader wasn’t entirely sure why he had told Obi-Wan of the Death Star. Perhaps only because he had been forced to attend yet another meeting about that foolish weapon everyone in the know sung praises about.

It felt good to have somebody who shared his opinion, even if it was his former Jedi Master, shrunken to a Padawan.

“How would you go about ruling an Empire then?” Vader asked, honestly interested.

His Master had criticized the flaws of the Republic often enough, even if in his weakness he had clung to its ideals. This younger Obi-Wan had already seen much of its rot, but when he talked about the Empire’s flaws, his ire was directed at Sidious first, the institution second.

“Well, I wouldn’t build a freaking Death Star in the first place,” Obi-Wan retorted, snark curled around his lips, not shy at all in speaking his mind.

The Padawan had been scared of Vader at first, terrified. Of course, he had been, he had still believed the Sith extinct and the Jedi to be the glorious victors instead of a decaying order built to fall. But after that fear had passed, Obi-Wan had never once hesitated to speak his mind. The one time Vader had asked him about it, Obi-Wan had only raised his brow at him, similar to the way his future self had.

“If you had wanted to kill or hurt me, you already would have,” he had said, and then went about checking the control panels to Vader’s suit, attempting to figure out how exactly they worked and how they might remove Sidious’s kill-switch on him.

Their alliance was a strange one. Obi-Wan had shown no interest in the dark side, but there was something to his roughness that Vader thought he might be able to make use of.

Obi-Wan already looked the part of a darksider, seeing him fall would be glorious.

Perhaps it wouldn’t take too much to convince him to join either. It wasn’t like he had anyone but Vader left in this time. There was nobody who could possibly understand him, nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. He belonged entirely to Vader. For so long Vader had waited for somebody who wouldn’t dare to betray him because it would leave them off for worse.

Vader hadn’t been able to do anything about his Master, already so set in the ways of the Jedi, but this Obi-Wan might still be useful. Vader had been wanting to overthrow the Emperor for years already, having grown tired of being his slave, but he had always lacked the right kind of support.

“And after?” Vader asked. “How would you rule an Empire?”

“Well, I’d make the people loyal to me at first. Not out of fear or anything, though it is a good motivator, but because they see it as beneficial to be on my side. Fear leaves people hollow or angry, it only really works short time. And by now, the Empire also doesn’t offer much to anyone anywhere except for those in charge, does it?”

Obi-Wan finally sat down at the table. “I mean, Death Star. Really? Sidious could have just as well gone round and said ‘hello, yes, I don’t care about ruling, I just want power and the fancy title.’”

Vader almost felt inclined to laugh. Obi-Wan’s imitation of the Emperor’s accent was spot on.

“Shame there is no way to just destroy that thing. That would certainly earn you enough credit with the people to rally behind you.”

It would indeed.

Vader let the air be forced in and out of his s lungs for few precious moments. He knew that the Death Star had a weakness. It had yet to be discovered by anyone else and so Vader had kept his mouth shut, but-

“What if there is a way to destroy it?”

Obi-Wan blinked a few times, then he grinned. “Well, I suppose then we should do something about that.”

Useful, indeed.