#but it also rages within me. keeping me warm. fueling me to keep going.

[simplydnp]

the energy the joy the vibes... i think i'm feeling loved

[portellini]

Hi! For your writing, can I request Injury for Elgar’nan? Perchance?

Thanks!!!

DA: The Veilguard: Elgar'nan - Fluff Alphabet - i, Injury

NOTES: I haven't finished the game yet so if any characterizations seem off mb. I wrote two scenarios that show how Elgar'nan would react to you being hurt based on your importance to him. As I feel that would heavily influence how he reacts. Also this isn't really fluff I think. It's hard to see this guy as fluffy material. But I tried <3 so enjoy!

(!!SPOILERS!! but not rlly. Everything is Vague) Ps, from what I've seen so far, Elgar'nan is overly cautious and manipulative. He's power hungry, selfish and narcissistic. Anything below him are either slaves or pathetic worshippers. He'll sacrifice these lowly beings without hesitation if it means fueling his power. The words he uses to manipulate start off warm, and he promises his victims great things, until they slip-up and he begins using his authority to remind his followers that they are nothing to him and there will be hell to pay for screwing up. As for how he sees relationships, he sees people as replaceable and ranks beings on how hard it will be to replace them. He'll treat you with a strange sense of fondness as a way to manipulate you if you're a being he deemed hard to replace. (Our first cutscene with Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain gives you good insight on what type of being he his).

Fluff Alphabet - I, Injury

Injury: As someone useful to him

You were caught off guard by blind proudness and now your body is bloodied and beaten from Rook's onslaught of attacks. You should've hit harder, you should've used more of your magic, but you underestimated Rook. Soldiers of different factions start to surround you and your rage pulses. Your pride wouldn't allow you to go out this easily by mortals. You prepare to use one last spell that would kill everyone, including yourself.

Before you could even harness your magic, everything feels slowed down. Your enemies are entranced by a red haze. A stern hand lifts you up and turns you to face them. Elgar'nan. His touch is gentle but his eyes… You feel them glare into yours, you cannot fathom what he feels, but his words sound sincere.

"You and Ghilan'nain, you're both so-" He stops himself. "The final ritual needs you, and only you. Losing you would take everything from me, from the glory our new rule!" His hand gently wipes blood from your face. His eyes scan the battlefield, you were ambushed. He understands that you could fight all of these mortals with ease if you weren't surprised, but a clever mind was behind this. His senses tell him they must leave now, he must be cautious. "Come. Forget your pride for a greater purpose. All these creatures will suffer your wrath once the ritual is complete. You are special to me, my future, I can not lose you yet." You nod but anger still lingers within you. Elgar'nan holds your face sincerely for a moment then uses his magic to take you away from the conflict.

HC's:

Finding you hurt would cause him to worry. To worry about you, and if you can still carry out his plans.

He'd speak to you with reassuring words and hold you carefully.

As for caring for your injuries, he would heal you with magic. A worshipper would then tend to you closely, making sure you recover well. Elgar'nan wouldn't want to risk tainting you, so he wouldn't use the blight to heal you unless it was necessary.

You somehow play a key role in his final plans, so keeping you safe and able is a priority.

His words to you will be stern but gentle and warm. It's how he soothes you into staying by his side.

//

As someone below him:

Elgar'nan kept you around for who knows what. Pleasure, entertainment, or whatever, you weren't sure. Although, being allowed to serve your god so closely brought you immense joy.

The Venatori had brought Elgar'nan a relic of great importance to him. You stand behind the god and cautiously watch him interact with the glowing orb. Elgar'nan had used a great deal of magic to activate it and the aura it emits makes you feel sick. Your eyes cringe and the god in front of you noticed.

"Approach, slave." His voice is cold. You cautiously walk up to the god, and bow your head. His eyes linger on your appearance, something about you irks him. Your mannerisms, your eyes, they remind him of someone long ago. The times he hurt you, controlled you and spoke to you made him feel warm.

"Touch the orb." His order was stern. Fear sinks inside you, but from experience, you know it's best to act on his order immediately. Your hand shakes as you reach for the orb, Elgar'nan notices but doesn't stop you. "AH!" Pain surges through your hand. "Gah-" The feeling is severe. Elgar'nan smiles and touches the orb. Nothing happens to him. "Magic like this can only be used by gods. By me. Great things can be achieved easily using this relic, how would you creatures use this power without me?" His eyes narrow down to you. He puts down the orb and reaches for your hand. A red haze clouds your vision, pressure within your hand persists, but the immense pain is no more. "You mortals must only serve and praise us, I shall ease your pain, ease your mortal life." He drops your hand and turns back to his affairs. You step away from the god and resume your post. The red haze from before starts to fade. The pressure from your wound start to ache, you fall to the floor. "Ah! I-" You can't spit out any pleas for help. The immense pain had returned.

Elgar'nan smiles, not bothered enough to spare you a look. "Quiet. You lowly beings do not deserve my blessings. Not yet."

HC's

The reason why you're injured is honestly because of Elgar'nan. Whether because he was bored or you irked him that day.

If the wound is fatal, it would depend on if he wanted you around still, if yes he'd heal you, but if not, he'd send you over the Ghilan'nain.

Petty injuries he would pay no mind to, he might even find joy in seeing you suffer.

Your pain would be an opportunity to exert power over you, and remind you of his capabilities. He would ease your suffering only to give it back to you tenth fold.

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

(Hope y'all enjoyed this! Request for more!!)

[shreddedleopard]

EVER OURS

Chapter 1: Second Chance

✨ Fandom - Yuukoku No Moriarty / Moriarty The Patriot

✨ Pairing - William Moriarty/ Sherlock Holmes

✨ Rating - Mature

Summary

It's been two years since the incident on Thames bridge. William is very much alive, and still learning to navigate a new sort of existence with his flatmate, partner and best friend in New York City. When a new case with The Pinkerton Detective Agency takes an unexpected turn, William's metal is put to the test. Freshly haunted by the demons of his past and still grappling with an answer to the question of his own atonement, he's forced to consider what it really means to take a life, and in doing so, he and Sherlock must finally confront the depths of their feelings for one another.

'My thoughts go out to you, my Immortal Beloved I can only live wholly with you or not at all -   Be calm my life, my all. Only by calm consideration of our existence can we achieve our purpose to live together. Oh continue to love me, never misjudge the most faithful heart of your beloved.   Ever Thine, Ever Mine, Ever Ours.' -- Beethoven

Read on AO3

Extract under the cut ~

He found it the day Sherlock returned to work on his most recent case with Pinkerton. Three days after William had first awoken in a different bed; four after he had awoken at all, with a new lopsidedness to his sight and aches and pains which hadn’t been there before.

He’d spent much of the day simply existing; drifting like a spectre from room to room in the tiny space he had somehow, in some miraculous, wonderful, blessed and yet unbelievably cruel twist of fate, come to call home with the man who’d saved his life and also stopped his heart a million times over.

It was impossible for his mind to settle, and yet exhaustion soaked into his very bones, making him sluggish. The cool air was a decent enough motivator to keep moving through it. There was a chill to his skin that he suspected came from months of inactivity; a deathly cold which, although kept at bay, hadn’t quite been completely vanquished just yet. At one time, he’d welcomed the pleasant caress of a breeze to both tame and inspire the raging heat within him. But now, it felt as though such fire had dwindled to dying embers; a presence that might be snuffed out with a mere cool breath of air. The thing was, William wasn’t entirely sure that might be such a bad thing.

He tore and twisted the crisp pages of newspapers he found on the kitchen table, counting the scrunched balls before tossing them into the fireplace. Then he stacked the kindling and logs, setting it all ablaze with the flick of a match. The dance and sway of the flames as the fuel caught was mesmerising, but something in the hollow of his gut made him tear his gaze away before he found himself sucked into the welcome, burning hues.

Still, the colours stuck to the back of his eyelids, like smeared paint on a canvas, each time he blinked.

There was a writing bureau tucked into one of the little nooks in the main room. After spending exactly twenty-three minutes — he counted each and every second — gazing wistfully from one of the windows down towards the bustling street below, William had found he needed to find more work for his idle hands. Considerately tidying Sherly’s array of paperwork seemed like a decent enough distraction.

He stood at the battered old piece of furniture in his slacks and shirt, sleeves hanging neatly buttoned around thin wrists as he worked. He was mindful not to read any of the papers, aware there may be details for Sherlock’s work that should be kept confidential, or correspondence which his flatmate might not wish to share. But there was one page, which floated to the top amongst the rest, that made William pause.

The texture was different, as though it had been dipped into water and then dried beside a warm hearth. There was a crest at the head of the page which was immediately recognisable. The sight made William’s world lurch.

Moriarty.

Fingertips traced the faded stains on the paper; a mottled pattern of black and grey, a sky of storm clouds which might just once have been words.

His own words.

He felt the movement behind him before he heard or saw anything; hairs raising along the back of his neck beneath a seeking gaze he thought he might be able to identify even while unconscious, at this point. Forever seeking him out, and always finding him. The hinges of the front door creaked, and William marvelled at the fact that he’d not heard the thing open in the first place.

Neither of them spoke as Sherlock stood somewhere just inside the doorway. William knew he could see what was resting beneath his hand, though. He could sense it in the thick silence that stretched between them — like a physical touch, or perhaps even lack thereof; the very absence of the thing worth a thousand spoken words.

His thumb twitched against the crisp creases, the memory of the pen in his hand still so vivid even through the otherwise dense fog of his mind. It was almost as though he might just be in another place entirely; for divulging the contents of his heart — so paradoxically strong and young in physicality and yet worn and weary in feeling — in what should have been his final farewell, was a memory embossed into the very fabric of his soul.

“Ahh, should’ve thrown it away by now, really.”

That familiar, rich baritone was enough to ground him in the present moment. To remind him that he, William, was no longer alone in that study back in England, penning the words that now appeared lost to the Thames.

“ … now that the words are gone, I mean.” Sherlock cleared his throat. And then, in a gentler tone: “I’ve been trying to remember them all. Probably spent far too long staring at the bloody thing.”

William took a steadying breath, brows knitted as he gazed down at the page. “It’s unlike you, to forget the specific details.”

“I know.” Sherlock sounded pained when he answered. Like it was a bone of contention for him. Like he’d lost at a game he was always so used to winning. “Was such a blur, when it all happened. As soon as I finished reading it, I had to get to you.”

William ran a finger down the page edge. “I’m so grateful for that,” he whispered.

Sherlock didn’t reply immediately. William heard the floorboards creak underfoot as he approached. “Sounds silly, but I … I wanted to keep it. Even if the words are gone now, and I can’t remember the exact —“

“To my dear Sherlock Holmes,” William began before he could think better of it. His voice was soft around the syllables of the name; spoken with the care of someone sharing a long coveted secret. He could see the words taking shape again as he stared at the page, as though an invisible pen in his mind’s eye was forming each neat letter.

Sherlock remained silent.

“Firstly, I wish to thank you for reading this letter. Although according to my profile of you, there was no chance you wouldn’t, so I wasn’t worried.”

The words came easily, rising from the depth of his chest. As easy as breathing. To William’s surprise, forcing them out aloud wasn’t the battle it once might have been. Now merely a foot or two behind him, he felt Sherlock shift; heard the sharp intake of breath.

He drew in a breath of his own, anchoring himself to the spot before the worn-out little writing bureau.

“Please …” Sherlock urged with a gentle desperation. “Keep going.”

[mirror-to-the-past]

Here's some spoilers and discussion about my initial thoughts on Kingdom Hearts 2 below.

Nearing the end of my KH2 journey... I'd say this has probably been my favorite game so far, out of KH1, CoM, and now this. Overall, I'd say I like the composition of the story of CoM a tad more, but goddamn if the intro and outro haven't gone especially hard on KH2 (also has just generally been littered with several moments that have made the characters very endearing). And the gameplay... woo, actually is super fun. I love the love put into the reaction commands, and every fight is like a movie.

I got past the Roxas fight after like... 40+ tries, and was regretting immensely I decided to play in Proud mode. Never got frustrated at my boy, though- was just filled with respect, and it's seriously the best fight in the franchise thus far for me for giving well designed attacks that I felt were effectively telegraphed. I'm not quite sure how/why Roxas led Sora into what I assume was an internal battle, since he already seemed reabsorbed within Sora's being, but I can only assume Axel's sacrifice (since that happened right before this fight) must've reawoken him, in a way ("Tell me why 'he' chose you!") Poor Roxas has been having his life stolen. The Nobody dehumanization is such shit, dude. Roxas banging on Sora's braced keyblade over and over with that level of ferocity is fueled by such obvious rage that it's undeniable. God, he's living in my head unapologetically.

Meanwhile Xigbar was also... a fight. Less filled with respect, more frustrated about that one, lol. (I thought the sniper mechanics were pretty sick, though. Felt like I was doing Orbonne Monastary in FFXIV again). Can't help but assume several of these Organization members may maintain relevance in future installments in some way, since several seemed to have implied information/backstory that remained unrevealed prior to their disappearance (looking at you, Xigbar [casually referencing that there's been other Keyblade wielders before dying with zero explanation] and Saïx). The next game, 358/2 Days, looks like it's dealing with the Organization in what I assume is a prequel, so maybe backstory will be there?

Kairi and Riku have made my heart warm, and the whole trio's love for each other is honestly so sweet. I keep thinking about their reunion scenes and it's just... aaa, I feel crazy about it. When Kairi lowered Riku's hood and saw the face of Xehanort's Heartless and Riku looked so ashamed (then it cut away?? how dare), when Riku shielded Kairi with his body from Saïx's attack, when Kairi hugged Sora and said "this is real" because 😭 girl your abandonment issues and unachievable desire for constancy are making me feel things, and she's been struggling with the phantom sensation of forgetting someone she cared about for an entire y e a r, so having that confirmation... man. *Staring out to the ocean*

Felt so bad for her that Sora was so awkward about the hug she deeply needed, and didn't even realize the absence of the music until Sora reunited with Riku. 😂 And... oh my god, haha, that part got me. Not surprised that the Sixth Sense kid can pack a gut punch, ofc, he's got a long history of films making me weep, but like... "I looked for you! I looked everywhere for you!" While Sora was crying on his k n e e s and grasping Riku's hand like a lifeline was such amazing emotional payoff. Like, I've been joking with friends about Sora's unwavering "Riku, Riku, Riku" throughout the entire game, but damn if that didn't do a good job of making me invested via Sora, goddamn. I'm so happy my kid gets to see his silver haired punk again. And wowie, they're such a power duo? Their limit break "Eternal Session" is legitimately one of my favorite limit breaks alongside Vincent Valentine's "Satan Slam," from FF7 now. The synchrony of the dance where they pass off the weapons to each other, smooth as butter? Them going "back to back" between the different phases of their LB? (Which is adding to my evaluation of the poems from CoM I've had in the back of my head the entire damn game, by the way...) The clash of their keyblades, and the duality red-blue color scheme? Be still, my artistic heart, they're too much. For this, and the honestly impressive expression and facial rigging for what is a PS2 game, I want to give the animators a smooch.

All I want now is to know where tf Riku pulled Kairi's Keyblade from, and how she's apparently a chosen wielder too. Like, okay??? But where? How?

Oh, also would like Riku to see someone about his hand, that doesn't look too comfortable. My guy can be a badass all he wants, but if he doesn't drink his milk, put an actual cast around his wrist, and bit of work leave off from world-saving shenanigans, he's gonna be a certified hero with post-traumatic arthritis 10~ years down his little road to dawn. Apparently working for Ansem the Wise doesn't provide great health coverage.

[starzatmidnightt]

the beast that craves from within

In a fit of despair she sat and with a humph grabbed her laptop to begin typing. Red lines popped up aggressively under the letters; In her fit of rage, neither her fingers nor keyboard could keep up with her mind. 

She knew she had lost the battle. This age-old thing that still, even as she stabbed the keyboard with the tips of her fingers, lingered on. But it was a battle she was willing to lose. Lose, that sense of defeat. Why must it feel that way?

She had learned to utilize her stubbornness and argumentative nature to trick this beast inside of her. 

So with every ounce, every droplet of courage she could muster up, she used it to fuel her forward. 

That's how I imagined myself now, sitting at a dining room table that is not mine, listening to music on speakers that are not my own, enjoying the warmth from the sun in a house that I definitely do not pay a mortgage on. A free-loader, one might say. And I am in fact ashamed to admit it because whoever is really proud to be broke, unemployed, and living in your sister's old roommate's house. This is my reality, unfortunately.

And before you say anything, yes I know it's fine to have setbacks and I'm still so young, have patience! 

I guess that isn't exactly an option for me. I feel like having patience and being kind is what got me into this mess in the first place. At square one, starting over with nothing, from the bottom. What a waste of time, I think, what a waste of everyone's time. I'm such an incredible piece of wasted space and time. 

What a joke. 

I sleep all day, and my body hurts all the time - I have to leave work early because I feel sick. I indulge - I stay out late. I don't eat all day. I drink. I kiss him. And also him. And then I take them home. 

I cry - I don't sleep, I sit on the floor and stare at the ceiling. I type the text and then erase it. I stand outside barefoot and let my hands feel the raindrops. I smoke a cigarette. I drink some more. I don't finish a song. I skip it. I play it again. I forget to brush my teeth. I stare at the photo. I miss them. I should call her. I press the green icon. I hear their voice. I hang up. 

It's easy. And tempting. To fall into this dwindling cycle. You put your toe in, and you get used to the temperature, so you get in a little more. Hot baths are wonderful and fun when the water is just right and there are bubbles and candles and a nice book and maybe some chocolate and rose petals. But the longer you linger, the colder the water gets, the more shriveled you become, and the stiffer your bones get. 

Why wait and get to that point? 

Life is never going to be easy for us. Life will be hard, but you’ll prevail. Because our existence and ease in this world ebbs and flows; like good posture, you must find the discipline to sit up straight - the more you do it the less you have to think about it. 

Trick the beast inside of you. Sometimes it's okay to have to find a way before a will. Give yourself the security that only you can provide for yourself. 

Sit and think. Sit and ponder. 

Wake up. Make coffee. Make tea. Open the window. Step outside. Feel the sun on your eyelids, feel the heat warming your skin, feel the cool concrete bringing you back, feel the magnetic pull to the earth. Make breakfast, and eat the veggies you don't like. Listen to the album all the way through and don't skip a song even if it's not your favorite. Moisturize your skin. Floss your teeth. Go to sleep with the sun and wake up with it. Read that book and dust the shelf you've been meaning to. Make the cookies for your friends. Go get the job. Help your grandparents in their garden. Make the phone call. Text them back. 

Give yourself the ability and room to breathe. Reward yourself with kind words and hydration and good food. Be proud of your achievements and look forward to your success. The only way you will ever grow is if you water yourself. You must tend to your garden, you are the only one who knows those roots.

[yandere--stuck]

Bad Blood - Yandere!Batman x Reader x Yandere!Joker

It wasn't just The Joker who had been watching you. And to a point, you were aware of that.

After all, that just came with the territory of being a minor celebrity within Gotham city. It wasn't often that those considered "famous" in Gotham didn't either have connections to the mafia or were locked up within Arkham or Blackgate. 

As a reporter, you were watched on the news, on the streets - occasionally approached by fans, at parties where you mingled with your peers or made connections. All rather normal, really.

But, there were times when you could just feel it in your bones. You were being watched.

Like in the dark of night, the moon following you on your walk home. Alone. When the light from street lamps bathed everything in orange. The streets empty, the occasional car zooming by. It was then that you had felt watched.

It was understandable, something innate in humans, to feel frightened of the dark and the paranoia of being alone. Our imaginations run wild, and we trick ourselves into thinking that there's something out there with us. Someone following our every move, hiding just out of sight. But, no matter how many times you swore you were being watched, nothing ever happened. No muggings, no stalkers, no threats. When you got back to your apartment, unlocking and then re-locking all six of the locks on your door, you were able to let out a sigh of relief - it was just your own paranoia getting the best of you. You weren't being followed. You could relax, knowing that it was all in your head.

But, it wasn't.

Your paranoia wasn't unfounded. The shiver of your spine at the feeling of being watched wasn't your mind tricking itself. But, of course, even when you'd turn around to try and spot someone, something, you hadn't been able to see him. He had hid in the shadows and crouched atop rooftops, keeping watch over you.

He had done so every night. The moment you left the studio, to when you started your walk, and then headed home. He even stuck around to peer through your window, making sure you were truly safe. It wasn't something any of the Robins or Oracle knew about - it wasn't something they had to know. Well… It's not like he exactly lied about what he was doing during the alotted time of your walk home. But, he also didnt want to admit it, either - not that he thought what he was doing was wrong, but… He just didn't want anyone to be worried. To get the wrong idea. And it rarely took time out of his nightly patrol, just fifteen minutes. It wasn't a big deal.

He was just protecting you. That was just his job. He was supposed to protect the people of Gotham. To protect you. He just had a… Fixation, that's all. And when Bruce gets fixated on something, it's like pulling teeth for him to keep away.

Bruce met you like he does with most reporters - at a charity event. He had seen your stories on the news a few times beforehand, and braced himself for the usual song and dance - Vicki Vale trying to score something on the record for something much juicier and personal than the cause he was donating to, or perhaps Jack Ryder trying to rile him up to get him to throw a fit for a story. He was pleasantly surprised, however, when you treated him like an actual person. Sure, it could be that you were off the clock - but really, when were reporters ever really off the clock?

Most people would bend over backwards to get themselves into Brice Wayne's good graces. But, you… You talked to him like he was no different than anyone else. Maybe a bit reserved, but you had only just met, after all. In spite of this, Bruce found himself able to relax, chatting with you about the party, about your days up to then, your different careers. Bruce felt like he could actually be himself. With you, he wasn't Batman, nor was he billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne. He was just… Himself.

Him and you.

He decides to stick by your side most of the evening, you and him talking long into the night. About your lives, your worries, your hobbies, your interests. It had been so long since he talked about such personal things with someone, even Alfred. And you understand. You understand his worries of responsibility, the weight of the world among his shoulders, you understand the suffocation of isolation, you under his inability to move on from the trauma of his past, try as he might. You understand. Of course you do���

You acted as someone to vent to. A listening ear. You offered up advice, even if you might not have the right answers to his problem. Sure, you might not know the full extent of his stress, but it's the thought that counts. It's almost like this night was made for you and him. 

Something like, fate - that is, if Bruce had actually believed in something like that.

After that night, he found himself making a point to watch you on the news. The way you talked on the television is how you talked with him that night. Personable, comfortable, familiar. You might not be talking to him directly, but it warms his heart and staves off the icy chill of loneliness.

He went out of his way to find you during other important, publicized events. Most likely, you probably thought it was a coincidence that you kept finding yourself in his company. You most likely thought him as just an acquaintance, nothing more… But, oh, you meant so much to him.

And, oh, when you talked about Batman? Knowing that it was him you were talking about (even if you had no idea)... He'd be lying if it didn't make him a bit flustered. Your praises, the way you saw him as an inspiration, hoping after every mission that he was alright… And when you look into the camera and say to him, to Batman, through the screen, that you wish him a nice night and to be safe…?

God. He was smitten. And, really, that was his biggest mistake.

Feelings just made things complicated. He had learned that a long time ago. That everything he touched and loved was inevitably destroyed. It's why he works alone more often than not. He doesn't want someone getting hurt because of him ever again. Bruce has enemies, and Batman has even more. 

Even if he had tried to reach out to you as Bruce, as himself, who's to say you would have wanted to be with him? Why would someone like you want Bruce Wayne - someone who most of Gotham portrayed as an immature playboy who never got over the death of his parents. While the second part wasn't exactly wrong, the whole playboy thing was just a diversion. But, how in the hell was he supposed to explain that?

It was easier to just let you go. You'd be happier, and more importantly, safer without his presence in your life.

So, he satiated himself on watching you, protecting you from the shadows, and kept himself sane by rewatching footage of you he's stashed within your home and around your apartment building. If he adored you from afar, that wouldn't hurt anything, right?

… But now, he's wishing he had just taken the chance. He had been good, had left you alone.

And he watched as the helicopter you were in was shot down. Watched as the recording cut off. Heard as you screamed at the top of your lungs. He replayed what he had seen over and over in his mind, losing himself. Bruce had gone so tense in disbelief and grief and rage that by the time Alfred had brought him back to reality, his nails had dug into the armrest of his loveseat.

He had insisted to himself later that night that  investigating the scene of the crime wasn't fueled by personal connection or any feelings he may have. It was Batman's job. And if he ignores all the other bodies in favor of one that is presumed to be yours, it's just because he notices something different about it from the other's, that's all.

The body was decomposed far beyond that of the others, and had been exposed to the elements longer than the others. And to add onto that, the DNA sample Bruce had collected was matched with a body that had been gone missing from Gotham General.

Bruce's heart fluttered with hope and relief. You were alive, you had to be. But, just as quickly, realization crashed into him. If you were alive, it's only because Joker wanted you to be.

... What was he doing to you?

---

You stared down at the meal the Clown Prince of Crime had prepared for you - well, if you could call heating up a frozen dinner "preparing". It's not like you were exactly in a place to complain, though, considering the predicament you were stuck in.

Counting the time you had spent unconscious and Joker getting you situated and up to speed, it was most likely a few hours since the incident. You were feeling rather hungry… But, in spite of all of The Joker's lovey-dovey talk, you weren't quite sure if you could trust him to not serve you poisoned food. Even worse, however, was that you were still tied up - meaning the clown had to feed you, and you were even more unsure that he wouldn't kill you if you refused to eat.

In spite of the circumstances, and the dingy place you were trapped in, it wasn't exactly the worst. Hell, Joker had even lit up some candles for some mood lighting. Not exactly the worst "date", you had been on, sadly enough.

"Ready for some grub?" The Joker lurched into view, straightening his tie as he shot you a grin. "You must have worked up quite an appetite by now, considering all the excitement!"

You smiled in return, hoping it didn't look too strained as you nodded. You watched as he got his utensils ready, cutting up some of the food into smaller bites. You kept especially close attention on the hand holding a knife - though, it wasn't like you had any way to flee if he had decided to turn it on you.

The Joker stabbed at the food with a fork, setting down the knife, as he moved to raise your meal to your lips, while you attempted not to turn your head away. The fork approached closer and closer, and you tried to rid your mind of awful thoughts, like an eye being ripped out of its socket, implanted on the fork's tongues. But, then, The Joker suddenly stopped.

"Oh, silly me! I almost forgot," The Clown Prince set down the utensils, digging into the inside of his suit. With a flourish, he unveiled a bright, colorful, and clearly plastic flower, holding it out to you. "A present for you, m'dear! Go on, take a whiff."

You shook in your seat. Oh, God. You knew exactly where this was going. He had played you this whole time, like predators played with their food. He had made you think he had developed this obsession with you and managed to lull you into a false sense of security. And just when you were sure you were going to make it out of this situation alive, he planned to hit you with his trademark laughing gas and watch as you died.

You held back tears, shivering with fear and despair. And The Joker looked so happy, so encouraging. You were going to die. You had hit the end of the road.

You leaned forward, taking a breath through your nose-

And jumped, letting out a scream as the ceiling caved in, a dark figure crashing through. You whipped your head to face it- and winced as a small stream of water hit your cheek. Blinking once, twice, three times, you slowly turned to the clown and the trick flower in his hand.

Oh. So, it was just a regular trick flower. Not a deadly one. Okay. Okay, yeah. Sure. Great.

Groaning softly, your whole body went limp. You hung your head, shaking it slowly. Whatever. Whatever happened next, you didn't care. You were too exhausted.

"Aw, c'mon, Bats! Don'tcha know it's rude to upstage someone's act?" Joker asked. "Besides, you weren't invited to our little date night..."

...Batman?

From your periphery, you could see it. See him. 

Oh, thank God. Thank fucking God. You were saved! Batman was going to save you!

All the tiredness seemed to instantly fade as you were overwhelmed with adrenaline and relief. You were saved. You were saved. Batman was going to save you. Batman was going to protect you and make sure you were all right. You didn't have to worry or be scared anymore. Batman would do all of the worrying for you.

"You broke out of Arkham, killed innocent people, and kidnapped the sole survivor after almost killing them, as well," Batman seethed, his voice a growl. "You're going back to Arkham, and I'll be taking them with me, where they'll be safe."

"Hey! First off, the whole helicopter thing wasn't me, it was one of my boys. Well… To be fair, I had intended on killing them when we downed the thing, but eh, two birds with one stone, I suppose. I wouldn't even have been mad about it, if my darling reporter here hadn't almost been hurt in the crash," The Joker moved behind you, making you seize up as he grasped your shoulders, massaging them slightly. "And really, Bats, if this is some kind of jealousy thing, you could always just ask to share."

"You're insane." Batman spat.

"Babes, you really need to get some better material," The Clown tutted. "And I was being honest! I'm actually trying to communicate here," You were suddenly spun around, locking eyes with your hero. You shuddered as the Joker nuzzled you from behind, unable to stop your face from heating up. "What do you think, darling? How's about a three-way date with me and the big bad Bat?"

"I… I-I-" You stuttered, unable to get a coherent thought put as you burned with embarrassment.

Could anyone blame you for having a little  crush on Batman? You'd bet a good majority of Gothamites felt the same toward their dear Dark Knight. Hell, you'd even bet that some of the Rogues that the Caped Crusader went up against had feelings for him. It was pretty obvious the Joker did, at least.

And the Joker… He was a monster. A criminal. But, the time you've spent with him… Well, you could better understand how Dr. Quinnzel fell for the man. Despite your knowledge of the horrible crimes he committed, the way he treated you so kindly, it was hard to not get flustered, to not feel special. It was hard to ignore his humor, his affection for you, his pet names, his sweet gestures- no, no. This- this was ridiculous. You had to stop. You weren't thinking straight.

"Get your hands off of them!" The Bat spat.

"But I don't wanna!" Joker let out an exaggerated whine, before descending into giggles. Painted lips brushed against your neck. "Besides, I don't think they want me to…"

You felt hypersensitive, the brush of the Clown's lips drawing a whine from your throat.

Your eyes shot open wide as a pained scream ripped from Joker. You turned as best you could, watching the man stumble back, clutching his hand - a batarang sticking piercing through it, blood bubbling up from the wound and dripping to the floor.

The Joker hissed, bristling with rage. "Bats, why you-!"

In an instant, Batman shot put his batclaw, the claw digging into The Joker's suit, before retracting. The Joker stumbled as he rocketed forward, his face immediately colliding with Batman's fist. Before he could fall back, the Dark Knight caught him by the throat and squeezed. The Clown wheeled and coughed in shock at the closing of his windpipe and his desperation to breathe. The Bat slowly lifted another fist - and hit the other man so hard that even you winced. You watched as Joker fell onto his back with a low groan. The Batman stood above him, glowering and breathing heavily as he looked down on his nemesis.

"Batsy, babe… Ya know I love it when you play rough, but Jesus, warn a guy first, will ya?" The Joker laughed wearily, seemingly in a daze. 

Sneering, Batman grabbed his nemesis by his coat, tossing him aside onto his stomach. His foot came down to stomp onto his arm, making the other man whimper, and the Bat reached down to rip the batarang free from his hand, and in turn, ripping a scream from Joker's throat. Pulling out a pair of batcuffs, the Caped Crusader roughly restrained the man's arms, before lifting him to his feet.

"Careful with the merchandise…" The Joker grumbled.

With a second pair of cuffs, the Bat attached one of the cuffs to the Joker's ankle, the Clown laughing as he attempted to kick at the Bat to heed his progress, and then the other to a metal support pillar protruding from the floor.

And then, in the next instant, Batman was at your side, diligently working to free you from the shackles that bound you. As the restraints loosened, you took in a deep breath before letting out a shuddering sigh. You tried to stand, only for your legs to give out from under you - you had spent so long in that position that your legs had fallen asleep - but it was okay. Batman caught you. He caught you and he held you and pulled you into a hug. A gloved hand petted your hair soothingly.

"It's okay. You're safe, you're okay," The Bat rumbled. "I've got you."

This. This was what you loved most about The Batman. As much as he was revered for the fear he struck into the heart of evil, how he acted as a phantom in the night, fighting back against the criminals that roamed Gotham in the night… What you loved most was what came after. Your interviews with survivors of criminal attacks are what made you grow a fondness for the Dark Knight. How comforting they said he was. How he reassured them, made them feel safe. When he was there, they knew everything was okay. They knew they were safe. That everything was going to be okay.

Everything was going to be okay.

And you melted into his hold.

He continued to murmur reassurances as he began to massage your legs until the static feeling went away and you found the strength to stand - and even then, he let you lean against him as you walked out into the night together.

"You'll pay for this, Bats," The Joker spat, expression dark… Until he locked eyes with you, and his visage softened. "How about same time next week, love?"

Before you could think of responding, Batman pulled out of the building and far, far away from the madman within.

---

Bruce had to fight to keep his driving steady. His body was flooded with adrenaline and his heart rabitted a mile a minute. His entire being felt electric.

He had touched you, held you. And you held him back, reassured and calmed by him. It was everything he had dreamed of. You had leaned against for support and let him help you climb into the batmobile.

He had managed to track The Joker down to one of his usual hideouts that he and Harley stayed at - an old, abandoned amusement park that had been sold to him. Well, would have been sold to him, if he hadn't killed the owner of the property before they could seal the deal.

He kept sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye. You, resting your head against the window, eyes shut as you tried to get some rest after everything you had been through. You could rest for as long as you liked. He was here now. Bruce would keep you safe.

Bruce took his usual shortcut into the batcave, driving into a cave opening just outside the manor, and you lifted your head, startled by the sudden turn and shift in light behind your eyes.

"Batman, where are we?"

Home.

You gasped as restraints wrapped over your ligaments, tying you down to the seat.

Bruce knew this was wrong. But, after such a long career as the Batman, he had learned that he often had to do the wrong thing in order to get the right outcome. He really wished there was any other way… But, you had a target on your head now. You'd be safe with him. He'd keep you deep within the batcave and visit you often. 

You sputtered, eyes wide with shock and disbelief and… Betrayal. Bruce hated the thought of you looking at him like that. He leaned over, softly pressing a kiss to your forehead. He felt you shiver under his touch.

He'd get you settled and comfortable. He'd reveal his true self to you at some point, but that was for later. You had been through enough for one night.

"You're safe now." Bruce lied promised. "I've got you."

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

Hello!! sorry to bother you could write a ben 10 x reader? (the reader is kidnapped by vilgax and ben has to save her, after that ben and the reader has an argument) please, i love your fics!!

Storm Before The Calm

Pairing: Pre-Established; Ben Tennyson x Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3.4k words

A/N: I changed up the request a bit (I figured it shouldn't matter which villain was used here) also I was planning to have this as sort of a damsel in distress situation but after having a chat with some boys pigs I decided a self indulgant badass reader was right up my alley

Additional A/N: I have a math exam on Thursday and I cannot focus for the life of me. So, I decided to finish up one of my drafts. Now hopefully I'll be able to work like a robot for the next week, after satisfying my creative side. Also, this fic was super self indulgant.

"I trust Ben.” You did. With your entire being.

Kevin chuckled from beside you, “Yeah, try saying that without cracking the fillings in your teeth and maybe we’ll believe you.”

His words caused you to relax, only then realizing how hard your jaw was clenched in fury. Gwen sighed in disappointment and for a second you wanted to defend her cousin and your boyfriend. Until you realized that he deserved every bit of unbridled anger coming to him.

“I trust him. Doesn’t mean I’m not mad at him.”

Your hands were balled into tight fists and even though you wanted to take your eyes off the television screen and take a warm bath, you also for some reason couldn’t stop yourself from watching it.

Like you were afraid something would happen when your eyes were off the screen for even a second. Maybe you didn’t trust him.

But honestly how could you, you were currently watching your boyfriend relax in a hot tub with Jennifer Nocturne and the sight was enough to send bile up your throat.

Ben wasn’t returning any of her advances, but he wasn’t stopping her either. And the thought made you sick to your stomach. You knew Ben was faithful and you knew he would never cheat on you but watching how the Hollywood starlet continued to hang off him sent waves of jealousy through you.

Not to mention anger at the fact that he wasn’t doing anything to stop her. When he got back, you were going to wring his neck.

Trusting him was getting harder with Gwen constantly insisting that you dump him.

Honestly, you wondered how that girl even kept a relationship.

When Ben eventually came home, all the entertainment channels were still talking about the two of them and the well-known picture of Jennifer Nocturne kissing him was circulating about. Each time you looked at that image, you wanted to shoot an arrow at the TV.

As time went by, your anger slowly fizzled out. You were unable to maintain your rage at Ben, quickly getting a headache and feeling tired of trying to maintain negative emotions. Even then, you couldn't push down the uneasy feeling in your heart that seized your stomach.

You kept expecting a text message from Ben, an apology call but as the night proceeded you understood that he was having way too much fun with another woman to even think about how you must be feeling.

The thought of that made you want to go back home and crawl underneath the covers, hiding away from the rest of the world.

But Gwen was persistent and any time you tried to wiggle away from the pair of them and go home, she insisted that you stay and make sure Ben knew how upset he made you tonight.

You were more than happy to give your boyfriend the cold shoulder until he apologized rather than have to confront him. That was just how your relationship with Ben worked. Neither of you were the type to lose your tempers and yell and scream at each other.

Although you were worried what would come out of this. Would you be able to peacefully discuss your feelings and then come to some sort of conclusion civilly? Seems too good to be true honestly.

Even then you waited until Ben came home, listening to Gwen and Kevin about how you should rip the band aid off and get everything off your chest rather than ignore him for a couple of days until the two of you got bored.

Usually, the latter would work but you had an inkling that it wouldn't be the solution for this particular argument because if you didn't communicate your emotions then he would never know how you felt about it.

So, even though your stomach filled with anxiety and sadness as the hours passed, you still didn't leave, determined to talk to him about it.

Your jaw was clenched tight when he finally did come back home, utterly relaxed and even happy like he wasn't just curled up against some Hollywood starlet while his girlfriend was watching it on E!

"I'm really upset with you." You ground out when Kevin and Gwen left, not knowing how else to start the conversation.

"What for?"

You didn't reply, picking up the remote and flicking to a gossip channel, then a news channel, then an interview show and all of them had the picture of Ben Tennyson and Jennifer Nocturne locking lips.

Ben winced, "She kissed me! I didn't even return it."

You still refused to look at you, crossing your arms aggressively, "Uh huh and what was today all about?"

"It's just publicity. Jennifer thinks that it'll help with my career."

You scoffed, "What career?"

Ben's back tensed up and he turned to give you a stiff expression, "I'm a superhero. I've saved the universe a thousand times and now that I'm finally getting recognition for it, you want to be petty?"

"Petty? You think I'm being petty? Well forgive me for getting upset after watching my boyfriend curl up to some other woman in a hot tub for the last five hours!" You bit, standing up from the couch.

"It wasn't like that! Stop blowing everything out of proportion!"

"No, you stop pretending like this isn't a big deal! Ever since your secret got out you've been acting like an ass and since meeting that blonde rat it's only gone through your head more!" You shouted, clenching your hands at your sides. How could he not see your side of this?

"Well shouldn't I get to enjoy my life once in a while?! I'm the one saving the planet constantly! I'm the one with constant death threats and near death experiences every other week! Shouldn't I get some attention for it?! God knows I don't get any from you!" He yelled back and you grit your teeth.

"Don't forget that while you were out there risking your life, we were right beside you!"

"Oh, so that's what it is, you're jealous that everyone thinks of you as the sidekick!"

"That is so NOT what this is about!"

"Oh really? Because it sounds like you're jealous because you're not getting attention by mooching off of me!"

Your eyes widened in shock. Mooching? Did he seriously think that you risked your life alongside him every day to help other people and more importantly, keep him safe, for attention?

Your body trembled, outraged and you didn't say another word, leaving his house in a rush and slamming the door behind you.

You needed something to hit.

***

Your body pumped with adrenaline and anger, muscles itching to be used as you sauntered through the old and run-down factory with reckless abandon. You briefly wondered whether you should've told Gwen or Kevin you were going there but then decided against it, pride and anger too great.

Any doubts or hesitation you had disappeared when you saw Vulkanus, standing tall and broad in his metal suit. And as per usual, he had his herd of minions doing his physical labour.

"If it isn't the Plumber's sweetheart." He drawled once he noticed you. You didn't bother with the stealth, leaving the door wide open behind you and letting the sunlight seep in. If he knew what was good for him, then this would be over quick.

"Hello Vulkanus." You greeted politely and he rolled his eyes. Of all people, he knew just how misleading your innocence was.

"Where's the cavalry?"

"Just me today." You answered and for a second you were confused by your own confidence. Maybe you were taking this just a little too easy. Oh well, that was another thing you could blame your pig-headed boyfriend for.

"Well then, this is going to be easier than I thought. Hope you said goodbye to your boyfriend, sweetheart." He rasped out and the corner of your mouth twitched into a smirk. Without another word, you raised your arms, feeling the familiar heat of fire in the palm of your hand before chucking it at him.

Just as you knew he would, he sent his minions towards you first. They were embarrassingly unskilled but the problem came in numbers. They swarmed around you like ants and you felt yourself getting irritated at the clicking sound they were making.

Unfortunately for Vulkanus his make-shift factory was right beside a dam which gave you an endless supply of the elements to work with.

Summoning all the water you could manoeuvre, you pulled it into the factory, shattering the windows along with it and flooding the room. It only took a few flicks of your wrist to create a whirlpool in the centre, knocking all the workers off their feet.

You stiffened your hands, curling in your fingers and the temperature dropped, the water solidifying with each second until all of them were encased in ice. Another flick of the wrist had the path clearing between you and Vulkanus, who was still warm.

"You-You're sparing me?" He asked, confused and a dry laugh left you.

"Not at all," You sang, eyes turning dark, "I'm giving you special treatment."

Vulkanus bounded towards you, holding his mallet high and you swiftly dodged, using water on the floor to slide quickly. He crashed into the engine of one of his machines, the fuel tank exploding and spewing fowl smelling petrol onto the floor.

It floated above the level of water and began surrounding both of you.

He once again came at you, letting out a roar and you used the water to sink through the crevices of his suit, freezing it from within and you heard the satisfying sound of his suit cracking.

Just a little more strength and forcing a gust of air through the cracks had it falling apart and his frail body fell out of its metal encasing.

"You'll pay for this! You big bully!"

"Thanks for the fun time today, Vulkanus." You smiled, strutting to the door just as confidently as you came in. Even though your body was burning from the workout and you could barely breathe, you still couldn't get over the high.

Before leaving the building, you turned around to see him still glaring at you from his place on the floor.

"Oh, I should probably free your minions, right?" You commented, eyes flickering between the ones still encased in ice and the floor that was still flooded with water and petrol.

You let out a fake sigh, "I guess I'll be nice today," You winked at Vulkanus, "Thanks for the playdate, sweetheart."

His eyes widened when you blew a kiss to him, watching in fear as you ignited a flare in your palm and blew it towards him before turning around and using the wind to slam the doors behind you. When you were just a few feet away you heard the place blow apart.

Slowly, the adrenaline began melting and the blood rushing through your ears was much more audible. You were panting, tired from the exercise and the thought of calling Kevin to come and pick you up. Or maybe even Ben. You were calm enough now to have a conversation with him.

When you pulled your phone out of your pocket you felt a hand on your shoulder and spun around to meet eyes with Captain Nemesis. For a brief second you were wondering if he was here to invite you to some inane party or even to tell you that Ben was at one.

Although you hardly looked the part, you were sweating and your face was probably red and blotchy.

"Can I help you?" You asked, taking a step back, he was a little too close to you and the look in his eye freaked you out.

"As a matter of fact, you can." He said, "You see I'm arranging a little stunt for Ben Tennyson. An opportunity if you will, to showcase some of his heroism."

You rolled your eyes, turning away from him. The last thing you wanted to do was feed Ben's ego at the moment.

"With all due respect, I don't really think I'm up for a damsel in distress routine right now, Captain, I'd rather just get home. And If you take another step towards me, I'll kick you where the sun doesn't shine." You snapped and he backed off obediently, raising his hands in a form of surrender.

"That's too bad." He mused and you turned away from him, intent on walking back home or even calling a cab. Anything to get away from this creep faster.

"Too bad you don't really have a choice."

You felt his hand on your bare shoulder again but before you could even react you felt volts of electricity rush through you. You gasped painfully, feeling fire through your veins before everything started to hurt.

White burned in your vision and colours started to blur together as your eyes filled with tears. Your body crumbled, falling forward and Captain Nemesis caught you.

Right before your consciousness slipped away you heard him say something.

"For your sake, you better hope that Ben Tennyson is as great as those gossip channels make him out to be."

***

When you felt yourself regaining consciousness, you could feel your weight pulling down and also couldn't feel the ground. This had your eyes snapping open, regardless of how dizzy you were and how many dots were in your vision.

You hazily made out the venue, Nemesis Tower, before recognize the blonde woman tied up beside you. It didn't take long before you realized she was tied to the other end of the rope, suspended through mid-air just like you.

This was no doubt going to be some sort of deathly choice.

You noticed when Ben came in, turning into Ultimate Humangasaur. He looked furious, like you've never seen him before and you knew it was because Ben was certain he'd teach him a lesson today.

"Where's (Y/N)." He all but growled and your heart soared. You didn't realize how much you missed him until now, everything from before was forgotten.

"Right up there. And so is Jennifer." He replied, still smug despite the way Ben was pining him to the ground by his throat. Ben followed his gaze to meet your eyes and you took a deep breathe, bracing yourself.

A selfish part of you wanted to stay and see what Ben would do, would he save you even though Jennifer was a civilian and world famous?

Even then you figured that you shouldn't risk anyone's life for petty jealousy, so you took a deep breath, blowing it out through your mouth and watching as a gust of wind blew past, the pressure making you swing.

You swung a few feet back, letting your body fall a little before blowing again. Once you gained enough momentum, you looked up to the rope tying the two of you together and spitting fire at it, falling at an angle. You briefly heard Jennifer scream and revelled in her karma for a hot second.

On your way down, you quickly burnt off the rest of the ropes, bringing a pool of water to crystallize into a makeshift slide as you slide on your knees across the floor, just in time to catch Jennifer in your arms.

Your knees stung as they scraped across the concrete and the wind was knocked out of you when the woman fell into your form.

She gasped and her eyes that was screwed shut gently fluttered open. Up close you could understand why everyone was in love with her. Even then you couldn't spare her any concern.

You quickly pushed her out of your arms, noticing Gwen and Kevin staring at you in awe when you stood up. You cracked your knuckles, making your way over to the older man with a scowl.

"For your sake, you better hope that I'm just as weak as you think I am. Spoiler alert, I'm not."

Ben spared a small smile at you but you couldn't feel anything aside from hot fury. You felt water surge beneath your fingers and threw it at him, pulling up a wall of earth to block his blasts.

Your boyfriend immediately began fighting alongside you and your bodies fell into a familiar rhythm. Even though there was a crazed narcissist trying to kill you, you felt safe beside Ben.

It wasn't long before the four of you managed to overpower him, rendering his armour useless until he was defeated, lying pathetically on the ground.

You walked up to him and your lips twisted into an unimpressed frown when you noticed the way he had the audacity to glare at you. Without a second word, you raised your leg and kicked him right between the legs.

"I always keep my promises, Captain."

Kevin began laughing behind you and Ben cringed.

Finally, when you turned to meet Ben, now de-transformed, all the fight left your body and you relaxed. He looked apologetic and you let him approach you.

His arms wrapped around your waist and you leaned into him, breathing the familiar scent of his deodorant and snaking your arms under his jacket to fist his T-shirt.

He sighed into your hair, arms tightening around your body, "I'm sorry. For being an ass to you and saying all those horrible things, I was being an idiot and you deserve an apology."

You didn't move, not pulling away from the way your forehead was pressed against the length of his neck, "Thank you for coming to save me."

"Didn't look like you needed much help." He chuckled and you felt happy hearing the pride in his voice.

"I missed you." You murmured, holding him a little tighter and he turned his head to kiss your forehead gently. And just like that, everything was right in the world. Just as long as you were in each other's arms.

"I love you."

You heard the click of a camera and your head snapped up to see a herd of cameramen and reporters along with a couple of police cars. Ben laughed nervously beside you, "I guess we won't have to worry about another actress coming between us."

You gave him an unimpressed frown and he just smiled, leaning to peck your lips and you heard the crowd of reporters’ gasp and heard the shutters of cameras before they began shouting questions at you.

You pulled away from him when you saw Jennifer Nocturne make her way towards you. You figured she wanted to snuggle up to Ben now that the cameras were filming.

Instead, she walked right up to you, hugging you tightly and your arms flailed pathetically beside her, unsure of what to do, "You saved my life! I don't know how to thank you!"

She pulled away for just a second before pressing a kiss to your lips. Your eyes widened in alarm and the shutters began once again and flashes practically blinded you.

"Huh, so that's what that feels like." Ben murmured when she pulled away from you. Kevin was smirking beside him, satisfied that he got a taste of his own medicine and Gwen was just in shock.

Ben felt his stomach turn at the sight of Jennifer’s lipstick on your mouth and you were unsure whether you should feel repulsed or cocky.

But as you wiped the pigment off your lips and curled back into Ben's side you couldn't feel anything other than your burning muscles and your drooping eyelids.

You squinted because of the bright lights, feeling a headache grow as the exhaustion from before crept up on you again. After 2 fights and a kidnapping today, there was nothing more you wanted than a nap.

"Wanna go home?" Your ever observant boyfriend asked just as the nausea started to kick in. You nodded and he guided you away from the reporters to his car.

He gently placed you into the front seat, shielding your head as you got in to prevent you from hitting it against the hood before buckling your seatbelt, watching carefully as you drifted into a sound sleep.

Ben heard everyone behind him swoon as he lovingly placed a kiss to your knuckles and then climbed into the seat beside you, sparing you one last warm glance before starting the car and driving away.

He'd definitely notice the shy smile on your face when you saw that Ben kissing you was on the front page of a magazine.

And you'd notice the jealous scowl he'd have when he saw that Jennifer kissing you was on the front page of another.

[philograce]

Just right

Paring: modern! Eren x reader

Warnings: angsty, resolution in the end, shouldn’t cry:,)

Summary: You and Eren were simply friends but new emotions cause him to build walls around his heart until you finally break them down.

Notes:: I don’t really like this one but I never post anything angsty so:3 anyway if any of you 23 babes wanna submit something go ahead!! I don’t think I really have to set smthn up but lemme know if I do.

Words: 1.8k

Proofread: NOOO well KINDA

It was frustrating. Stupidly annoying and dumb how much Eren could make you feel guilty without every saying it out loud. How your dumb attractive roommate could leave you flustered yet so utterly angry. The past six months it had been this way, simple glares and small actions he would do leaving you confused, yet Eren had his subtle ways to remind you of the strong bond between you two.

When you first met him around 5 years ago, both freshmen meeting each other through your mutual friend Sasha and the two of you instantly connecting, and both of you finding out that you were both looking for a place to live. So, naturally it made sense after a couple months of getting to know each other, that you would move in with one another.

Easily melding together, situating both of your schedules finding out that they were perfectly aligned, Eren was even a good cooker and you great cleaner. It was the perfect solution for the both of you. The other positive was growing closer to him and he growing closer to you.

That's why it confused you with this sudden silent treatment you were receiving from Eren. For the past couple months he seemed off, always too busy to be hanging out with you, never really talking to you unless other friends were around. If it wasn't for the strong emotions you felt with him you would've let it slide, but there were those unspoken new emotions and underlying feelings.

They seemed to start randomly and suddenly, little moments with him leaving your cheeks flustered and your heart beating, the tension seemingly thick between you two leaving the room feeling stuffed and overcrowded. You felt yourself caring for Eren more than a friend would, growing to like his presence with you at all times, and missing him when he left.

It was all simple signs of a growing crush, a innocent yet powerful crush that seemed to prevail. That's why it obviously hurt when Eren seemed to take a sudden dislike towards you. But you were scared and your insecurities got the best of you whenever you tried to confront him about it. You just left it, left the flame between you two to slowly fizzle out. Before all this you used to think Eren might like you back, everything he did showed signs he might, but now your brain kept telling you that was just how he was as a friend.

Now sitting in the kitchen, eyes strained from how long you were staring at the screen, trying to write an essay but your mind was constantly filled with him. Then the door jiggled and he walked in, keys hitting the ceramic bowl as he threw them in, his feet shuffling fully inside, arms moving to take his jacket off. You kept your eyes trained on your screen, not daring to look at him afraid of the glare he might be giving you.

"You're still up? You should head to bed." His voice deepening as it resonated throughout the small kitchen, flickering a single gaze up to his figure you noticed how disheveled he looked. His long dark hair lazily slicked back, eyes drooped and blown out, knuckles drawn with purple bruises and dried blood. It pissed you off, the state he was in and the sudden "caring" words he sent your way left your blood boiling.

Eyebrows furrowing together, you quickly shut your laptop moving out of the kitchen and away from him, at least that's what you tried to do before a hand grabbed your wrist yanking you back. "Don't walk away from me." His commanded, a sort of desperation laced behind the seemingly angry words.

You turned back, staring him right into his eyes noticing the confusion laced within, it seemed that every pint up rage and light night cries flowed out of you. "Do you hate me?" You didn't want it to go this way or ask him that question even, part of you wishes you just kept your mouth shut, but the look of complete anger covering his face only fueled your desire to know the answer.

In reality it seems like a simple question between two close friends, one that would usually be answered with an equally simple statement. But, this was different the sudden collapsing of a bond had been destroyed by the both you, leaving you both alone and bitter. It was also different because Eren was frightened and so angry and all kinds of confused. But most of all, he felt so alone even with you a couple feet away from him.

Eren knew this familiar feeling settling in his bones, the kind where he knew no one really cared that he was always going to be some wicked monster, always hurting the ones he loved the most. But he never wanted to include you in that pile, the pain stricken look on you face sent waves of emotions crashing down into his heart. He hated how you made him feel so much, so used to the numbness that would often consume him.

When he first met you, the first thing he noticed about you was how expressive your eyes were. How they seemed to tell your whole story, but he wasn't expecting you to be able to read him so well either. Used to putting on a pretend face and laid back attitude for the strangers around him, but growing closer to you that wall he built up was broken slowly and slowly down by your gentle loving words and touches. He loved it as much as he hated it, something new and exciting was building up in him but as soon as he noticed his feelings growing more and more attached to you, he brought them down and tried to bury them deep inside. He couldn't hurt the one he grew to love so dearly.

So when the tears filled your lash line, Eren felt his whole crashing down around him, he never wanted to cause you pain. He was just scared and felt alone before, you were this breath of fresh air for him letting him see above the high walls he surrounded himself with.

"I don't hate you." There is no need to hold his words back, but a part of him hesitated not because he was denying his hate for you but it was the complete opposite of that.  There was a part of him that was scared of what you did to him, he wanted to protect and the only way he knew how was by blocking you out of his life.

He catches the flicker of sparks behind you eyes, he tries to figure out exactly what they were trying to say. Did you believe him? Do you hate him? He pleaded with you in his head to forgive him, forgive him for causing you pain and ignoring you for so so so long.

"Then why are you acting like it?" You sneer, trying to get some sort of reaction out of him, you used to be able to so easily read his face and emotions but right now all his eyes seemed tried and dull. You were so confused, why had he been acting like he hated your very presence but now refused to now tell you the real truth. You were angry, and just wanted to break down right then the tears already threating to spill. Pleading inside your head for him to truly not hate you, but how could he not?

"I'm sorry." His voice was nothing lower than a whisper, barely falling faint to your ears but it still sent aches to your heart. For the first time in months you saw a shimmer behind his beautiful green eyes, the same look he would get when he felt extremely guilty and would continuously apologize to you. The small flicker of emotion was what sent you finally over the edge.

Salty warm tears fell down your face, you tried to stop them embarrassed that you were this emotional, but a single gentle thumb came to brush them off your cheek. His warm fingers caressing your face gracefully as he stared down at you, his warm touch leaving goosebumps to spread across your body. His eyes laced with concern but most importantly a lingering fear, a fear that he hurt you but an even greater fear you hated him.

"I'm sorry.....m'sorry..... m'sorry.... I'm-", his tall figure slumped forward forehead crashing against your shoulder as he rambled out a repeated apology. You stood there, arms slumped to your side as your brain raked around trying to understand the situation.

But, when Eren's hands leave your face and carefully made there way down wrapping themselves around your waist pulling you in, you suddenly feel the wet patch growing on the shoulder Eren's face was nuzzled into.

He felt your gentle fingers cautiously wrap around his neck, pulling him closer into you, the both of you realizing how much you missed each other's touch. You wanted to comfort Eren, but with your own tears continuing to swell up, words wouldn't dare to come out of your throat.

Now that Eren had you in his arms again, he felt foolish and so embarrassed with how he acted the past six months, more tears falling out of his eyes while he desperately tried to keep you close to him like you might run off. You had broken through the barriers he set up thinking it was for his own protection, it scared him that you would see his true self, the true self that he hated and was afraid you might hate. You were just happy to finally have Eren back into your arms, the love you felt for him never fading only building as you two sobbed into each others arms.

So, standing in the dimly lit kitchen with arms wrapped around each other, both desperate to feel the other skin again, it seemed that Eren could finally stop pushing you away and let you in. It would take a long time. It would take a lot of work and tears, but the payoff would be so worth seeing the genuine happy smile you'd seen so few times on him before.

A long hard conversation awaited the two of you, but for right then all that mattered was that both of your silly fears were crushed, the hate you two thought the other felt was gone and replaced with the warm flow of physical touch. Even if it was never spoken, you both knew that you loved each other and that's all that mattered.

[writer-k-pop]

Lil’ Drunk

기억나? Do you remember it?

Description: Alcohol is something you never touch, it's just not your cup of tea. But one night, you decide to throw caution to the wind because you were feeling guilty for being the only sober one whenever Woozi and his friends drink together. But after you drink a little too much, Woozi is called in to get you home safely. Warnings: Swearing Genre: Angst, Fluff, BF!Woozi x Fem!Reader Word Count: 2.4k

Seventeen Masterlist | Masterlists

"She's...." Woozi's voice trails off on the other end of the line.

"Drunk." (y/f/n) finishes, holding your phone up to her ear.

"How? She never drinks." He wonders incredulously but at the same time is scrambling to collect his things.

(y/f/n) shrugs, "Well, she did tonight. And she drank a lot."

"Is she gonna get sick on the way home?" Woozi wonders, slightly worried about how he's going to get you home.

"I don't think so. She's just very, mm, very emotional." (y/f/n) says glancing over as you have your head buried in your hands. Not tears yet, just massive amounts of guilt.

Woozi sighs more out of worry than anything. Worry because you really never drink. Partly because you're a lightweight and partly because you hate, absolutely despise, the way alcohol makes your body feel. Gets you all red and itchy and it's not a fun time for you.

"I'll be right over. Could you text me your address?" Woozi asks, slipping on his jacket.

"Yeah, no problem." (y/f/n) says and hangs up before texting Woozi her address. Then she places your phone back into your purse.

Your hands drop from your face then and you continue your previous rant, cheeks are still bright red as is the little amount of chest showing. And from the last bathroom trip, everyone knows your thighs are also cherry red.

"I just, I just feel so so so bad." You lull your head to the side. "Like I know it's not my fault for not enjoying alcohol or the taste or how it makes my body feel but I feel so bad when all his friends are drinking and I'm the only sober one."

"Who wants to play another game?" Another one of your friends asks, trying to break the odd tension you've created. But the question only springs another tangent from you.

"And games!" You throw your hands into the air, "When we play games and it involves drinking I try not play because half of the time Woozi has to drink for me! Why am I always the sober one?" You lean in close to the person next to you to emphasize your question.

"Because you have your reasons." She answers your question with a humored smile. She's clearly enjoying your drunken state as are the others along with a little worry cause they've never seen you drunk or drinking before.

"My reasons make me feel guilty." You pout like a child. "I'm starting to wonder if I should drink more and force myself to get better with it all."

"No, no, no." (y/f/n) quickly shakes her hands in front of her, "That's probably not a good idea. Remember the last time you tried that?"

"When did I ever do that?" You ask, blinking blankly at her.

"Before you finally gave up on alcohol the first time." She reminds you and the memory resurfaces like a bad nightmare.

You visibly shiver and suddenly have a craving for water. "Pass me the water bottle?" You reach out a hand and one of your friends places it in your hand. "I still feel guilty as hell though." You mention after taking a couple sips.

Before you could spiral back into the guilt ridden speech, Woozi knocks on the front door.

"Who's that?" You whip your head around as (y/f/n) goes to answer the door.

She opens the door and reveals Woozi to the room and to you. As soon as you see him, you press your lips together to keep from saying anything about your earlier rant.

"You ready to go?" Woozi asks you, walking closer with a warm smile on his face. If you were sober you would've noticed the tinge of worry in his eyes but you were drunk so that detail went way over your head.

Not wanting to break your newly found code of silence, you simply nod your head though questions are flying through you mind.

Why is he here?

Where am I ready to go?

Is he taking me?

Are we all going together?

(y/f/n) hands Woozi your purse as you stand and walk to his side. Then he wraps an arm around your waist and leads you out of (y/f/n)'s place. You stumble here and there but are pretty stable when walking which brings some relief to Woozi.

"Did you have fun?" He asks you while waving down a taxi.

Again, in your code of silence, you just nod while focusing on staying standing and not letting your butt meet the concrete sidewalk.

Within seconds, a taxi pulls up and Woozi ushers you into the back seat before joining you and telling the driver an address. You're not sure if it's your address or his. If it's his then you're going to be going to an apartment with twelve other guys who will definitely never let you live this down. But that thought hasn't hit you yet.

You let your head fall onto Woozi's shoulder during the car ride and he lazily intertwines your hands together.

"Are you feeling okay?" He asks you quietly and you just nod your head truthfully.

"How much did you drink?" He continues to question you but you only shrug, staying silent.

Woozi chuckles, "(y/f/n) said that you were being chatty and ranting about something. But now you're all quiet."

Again, you just give him a small shrug as an answer.

"Just tell me if you don't feel good, okay?" He asks, concern now seeping into his voice slightly but again, it goes right over your head.

You nod your head and feel your eyelids become heavy. Guess the adrenaline only lasts while your friends are there to keep fueling it.

By the time the taxi stops and Woozi pays, you're about ready to fall fast asleep.

"Just a bit longer, (y/n)." He says and tugs you out of the taxi before closing the door and wrapping his arm around you waist again.

"I really don't want the other guys to see me." You suddenly spit out and Woozi walk falters ever so slightly.

"I wouldn't bring you back to the dorm." He explains, "(y/f/n) lives closer to your place anyway."

You gasp, "You know (y/f/n)?" You ask, shocked in your drunken state.

"We've met a few times and she called me tonight to come and pick you up." He explains.

"Why would she call you?" You wonder, "I was fine. We were all fine."

Woozi sees the tiny opening in the conversation and dives straight for it, too curious to be stopped. "Well, she said you were getting emotional."

You place a hand over your chest, "I was? No, I wasn't. I was just explaining how I feel bad because my boyfriend and his friends like to drink but I always end up being the sober one. And then my one friend had to mention games and then it only reminded me how my boyfriend - his name's Woozi by the way - my boyfriend always has to drink for me if we play games and how terrible I feel about it because he has to drink twice as much." You inhale dramatically after rushing the last bit as your breath ran out with it.

Woozi stays silent and internalizes your words. In all honesty, your soberness never bothered him. He didn't mind drinking for you since he had a pretty good tolerance and drinking for you allowed him to get to an enjoyable buzz quicker than if he was drinking for just himself. And again because of his tolerance, he never minded that you were sober. He was always essentially sober when his friends drank so it was nice to have you around as another sober person. Plus he knew you detested the feeling you got when you drank so he respected that and never tried to get you to drink.

"Heyyyyyy." You point to your front door, "This is the same number as my place! Has your place always been the same number as mine?" You ask, turning towards him with wide curious eyes.

Quickly unlocking your front door, he chuckles, "No, this is your place." He says and opens the door before you go bounding inside.

"Woozi! Look!" You exclaim, gesturing to your couch, "It's my COUCH! I sat right here while you and all your friends drank that one time." You plop onto the couch and groan while squeezing your eyes shut, "And I was the only sober one that time too."  

Closing the front door, all Woozi can do is shake his head and chuckle at your current state.

-the next morning-

Rolling out of bed, a low throbbing in your head makes you groan. Stumbling towards the kitchen, your mind replays hazy dream like memories of you going over to (y/f/n)'s place, deciding to throw in the towel and drink, and drink some more, then Woozi showed up and brought you home where you think you screamed something about your couch before talking about being sober.

"You're awake." Woozi states the obvious as he stands next to the coffee maker, "I was just about to come and wake you up."

You give him a half smile, the most you can muster with your headache raging, "My head is killing me, do I have any painkillers or something?"

Woozi chuckles and points to the dining table where a large glass of water sits next to a napkin with two painkillers. "Way ahead of you. And drink the whole glass. It'll help."

You nod and pop the pills into your mouth before washing them down with the entire glass of water.

"Did I really drink that much last night?" You wonder and head into the kitchen to refill the glass.

"I don't really know how much you drank." Woozi admits while pouring out his coffee, "But yeah, I would guess it was a lot."

Leaning back against the counter, you let your head fall forward in dismay.

"Do you remember it?" Woozi asks, copying your position opposite of you.

You nod slowly, "It's foggy but I remember pretty much all of it, yeah."

"You want to talk about it?" He offers a small smile.

"Don't you have to get to work?" You wonder, looking over at the clock in concern.

Woozi shrugs his shoulders, "Work can wait for a little. Plus I don't technically have to be in for a few hours."

You sigh and purse your lips, "Why was I talking about being sober?" You ask, still curious as to why the word 'sober' kept appearing in your memories.

"Well, you kind of get emotional when your drunk, apparently. And last night, you kept ranting about how bad you felt that you are always the only one who's sober when we get together with my friends." Woozi fills you in and your face drops in embarrassment.

"Oh fuck me." You groan and rub your hands over your face. "Oh, god, that's, oh god."

Woozi walks up to you and pulls your hands away from your face, "You know it doesn't bother me right?"

Looking at him, you ask, "Being an emotional drunk or being the only one who doesn't drink?"

A light smile touches his lips before he answers, "Both. But I'm mostly talking about you being sober while my friends and I drink."

"Really?" You question him, "Are you sure it doesn't bother you?"

"Of course not." Woozi says, gripping your hands a little tighter.

"Even when they make you drink for me when we play games?" You ask, scrunching your lips together.

"Even when they make me drink for you." He repeats your words with a light tone, "It doesn't bother me in the slightest. In fact, sometimes I enjoy those times."

"You- why?" You stutter, curious.

"Because of my tolerance, on a normal night I can barely get a buzz enough to tolerate the others but on game nights, when I drink for you, I reach that comfortable buzz faster." He explains, "And then Dokyeom, Hoshi, and Dino become ten times funnier."

He chuckles and you try to control a smile by lowering your head down but a little giggle comes out anyway.

"But I already talked to the guys." Woozi continues which brings your head up to meet his gaze. "I asked them to quit it with the 'if you're playing a drinking game, you need to be drinking alcohol' rule. They said fine so when we play, you can sip whatever drink you want to."

"Why?" You ask, feeling gratitude to Woozi but also some confusion as to why he would do that.

"Cause I was starting to sense that it wasn't sitting right with you that I was drinking for you." He tells you, "Yes, I picked up on that. I'm your boyfriend, I could read you after like six months of dating."

"Damn, I guess I gotta get better at hiding my thoughts then." You joke and Woozi rolls his eyes.

"Good luck." He offers encouragement with a touch of sarcasm and you stick your tongue out at him.

But Woozi quickly wipes the scowl away with a soft kiss to your lips.

"Thank you for talking to the guys. You really didn't have to." You tell him with a grateful smile.

"I kind of had to. They really were being pushy with the whole thing." He says, matter-of-factly. "Hey, can I ask why you drank yesterday in the first place?" He wonders, wrapping your arms around his waist before placing his around your waist.

You shrug, "I guess I was kind of tired of being the sober one so I just grabbed a drink and drank it."

"But you hate how alcohol makes you feel." He reasons.

"I do. But I just was feeling so guilty about possibly being a downer cause I don't drink that I guess, I just didn't care last night." You explain and rest your head on his chest/shoulder. "And I don't think I'll do it again. I really hated the feeling. And my body got so red, I swear it looked like I was sunburnt."

"Ah, more like you had just belly flopped into a pool." Woozi corrects your simile and you shoot a look up at him.

"What?" He counters your look, "Someone had to get you into your pajamas and you were in no state to do it yourself."

You bury your face into his neck as a blush blooms on your cheeks.

Woozi laughs and hugs you closer, "It's okay, you were an adorable drunk. And by the way," He shuffles the two over to where you can see the living room and he points to the couch while laughing, "That is indeed your couch."

[theclockworkmonk]

Desire and Will

This is the most popular fic in my "Aang/Katara Missing Moments" series on AO3. This is the first time I'm posting it to tumblr.

Summary: With Aang still having trouble letting loose with his firebending, Zuko asks an alarming question:

"Have you ever kissed a girl?"

Words: 3,944

Read on AO3

FF.net

*******

Katara was awoken by what was, to her, the scariest sound in the world: the sound of Aang in pain.

"OW!" she heard him cry out, and she wrenched her eyelids open and rolled to face where his voice was coming from. There, she saw Aang still laying on the ground where he had been sleeping, rubbing his backside like it had been kicked. Towering over him, fists clenched and face scowling...was Zuko.

A jolt a fear cut through Katara's still half-asleep mind as she reached over for her bending skin and flicked it open with her thumb. She was ready to fight, ready to—

"You're burning daylight!" Zuko barked at Aang, "Get up! Twenty hot squats, now!"

Katara's sleep fog finally cleared and she remembered why Zuko was here in their camp. She remembered their whole reluctant arrangement to have Zuko teach Aang firebending, and the nerve-wracking few days they had disappeared together and apparently danced with dragons.

Katara groggily collapsed back onto her pillow, too tired to even growl at Zuko that the rest of them didn't have to train to defeat his evil dad, thankyouverymuch, so maybe bark his orders more quietly at absurd hours in the morning.

Aang seemed to be feeling the same way, because he just moaned in response. Zuko squatted down next to Aang and pointed out into the canyon that contained the Western Air Temple, where the sky was already turning blood red.

"You see that? That's sunrise, Avatar. That's the sign of a firebender's inner strength coming to life with a new day." He grabbed Aang by the shoulder and started shaking him, "Can you feel it, Aang? Can you feel your inner fire starting to reignite?"

"No," grunted Aang plainly.

Katara was remembering more now, and becoming more annoyed. Right, what had Zuko said to her at the north pole? "You rise with the moon, I rise with the sun?" of course it made perfect sense that on top of being cruel, bloodthirsty monsters, firebenders were also something far worse: morning people. Ugh, did this mean that Aang was also going to be a morning person from now on?

"Well we've got to fix that," said Zuko, and he practically dragged Aang to his feet and started pushing him off towards the courtyard that they used to train, that jutted out from underneath the rock overhang so they were actually in the sun. With their sleeping area quiet again, Katara tried to go back to sleep, but now the knowledge that Aang was off with Zuko, alone, at the other end of the temple was nagging at her brain. It wasn't like she thought Zuko would suddenly attack him or something; she had accepted by now that this wasn't some kind of absurdly elaborate plot against them—mainly because she didn't think Zuko was clever enough to pull off something like that. But still, whenever she thought about Aang with no one around him but Zuko, she found that she...didn't like it.

After a few minutes, she accepted that she wasn't getting any more sleep, so she got herself up and started making her way in the same direction Zuko and Aang had gone. As she was rounding the last corner before the courtyard, she started to hear their voices.

"So if my firebending wakes me up with the sun, and my waterbending keeps me up with the moon, when exactly am I supposed to sleep?"

"You slept for a hundred years, isn't that enough?"

Aang laughed, but Katara recognized it as his uncomfortable laugh. Aang never liked being reminded of all that time he wasn't there for the world, which Zuko would know if he wasn't such a heartless jerk and a terrible teacher. The fact that he barely knew Aang and had no way of knowing what he was uncomfortable with was entirely beside the point.

Katara decided to not announce her presence and instead leaned against one of the stone pillars within the shade of the overhang, while they were out in the increasingly bright morning sun. She was far enough away and in enough shade that they were unlikely to notice her, but if they did happen to look her way then she could plausibly deny she was snooping. She didn't like the idea of leaving Aang alone with Zuko, but she still realized hovering would interfere with them. Aang was always trying to impress her and Zuko was still visibly terrified of her ever since she threatened to kill him the day he joined their team (which she definitely didn't take any pride in).

Aang and Zuko finished their warm-ups and faced a target at the far end of the courtyard, a few wooden logs they had haphazardly nailed together in the vague shape of a human.

"Okay, let's see if that trip to almost get eaten by dragons was worth it," said Zuko, "set your stance..."

Aang positioned himself in a sideways battle stance in opposition to the dummy.

"Now, control your breathing…"

Aang drew in a deep breath and slowly released it.

"Now…STRIKE!"

Aang punched his right first towards the dummy, and a single fireball erupted from his knuckles, traveling about 10 yards to the dummy, briefly engulfing it in flames before dissipating. After the fire and smoke had quickly cleared, Katara saw that the dummy was slightly singed, with a few spots glowing orange for a few seconds before cooling down. Katara could feel the heat of the blast from where she was standing.

Zuko, however, didn't look impressed, "Well that was...certainly better, I guess."

"You guess!?" Aang incredulously asked out loud, and Katara incredulously asked in her head at the same time, "Come on, that was the biggest blast I've ever made!"

"Yeah, and if you were any other novice, we'd call that a really promising start. Heck, you might even be called a prodigy. People would be saying you could become a master in just a few years."

Aang's shoulders slumped in disappointment.

"But we don't have a few years, obviously, so sorry, but we need to find a way to fast-track this."

Aang threw his hands in the air, "Well what more can I possibly do!"

Zuko frowned and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "Well to be honest, I think you're still being too timid and restrained. You're certainly doing a lot better than before our trip, but I still sense a lot of energy in you that you're not letting out."

Aang looked confused and started to get defensive, "Well of course I'm holding a little back, I'm trying to stay in control! Jong Jong said that firebending requires constant discipline or fire will destroy you. He didn't even let me shoot fire, he had me try to stop a bit of fire from growing, and when I didn't listen to him—" Aang managed to cut off his own rambling and managed to take a deep breath and closed his eyes, "that was when I burned Katara."

Zuko's face cycled through several different expressions as a lot of things suddenly started making sense.

"...Oh," was the only thing he could say.

Aang continued, "I hated that version of myself, even more than when I've gone into the Avatar State. After that, I promised myself I would never firebend at all!"

Katara tried to keep track of all the different emotions she was feeling. She was touched by the fact that Aang cared about her so much that the memory of hurting her still got him to be this upset, annoyed at him for being this worked up over something that happened months ago, she had long since forgiven, and was really not important in the context of their mission, and guilty that her getting hurt and the way she reacted had caused him this much heartache, even while she knew that she hadn't really done anything wrong.

Zuko sighed, raised his hand, and after a few seconds of hesitation, lightly patted Aang's shoulder in the most awkward, panicked "there-there" gesture Katara had ever seen.

"Look Aang," said Zuko, "I can't speak to what this 'Jong Jong' guy taught you. Maybe his way is better, I don't know, but it sounds like it takes a lot longer, and we don't have the luxury of being patient and deliberate about this."

He pulled on Aang's shoulder and turned him around so he would stop looking at his feet in self-pity and look his teacher in the face again, "The people of the world don't need their Avatar to be a wizened sage right now, they need a stick of dynamite."

Zuko took a few steps away and tried his best to pretend to be a wizened sage himself, "I can only teach you how I was taught, and I was taught that even when it's not fuelled by anger and rage, all firebending is still fuelled by strong emotion. When teaching me about the elements, my uncle said—let's see if I can get this right…"

He started rubbing his hand on an invisible large belly, stroking an invisible beard, and speaking in an old man's raspy voice in his best impersonation of his uncle.

"Fire is the element of Power. The people of the Fire Nation have Desire and Will, and the energy and drive to achieve what they want."

Aang chuckled at the impression, his mood clearly improving, while Zuko looked really impressed with himself. Katara wouldn't have been surprised to learn that this was the first time in his life the dour prince had made someone laugh.

"See what I mean? Remember what we learned with the dragons. Fire is Life. And passion for life is what fuels firebending. You need to stop thinking like a monk and use your passion."

Aang didn't look frustrated or dejected anymore, but he did look puzzled.

"Um...okay," Aang said, thoughtfully scratching his head, "How am I supposed to do that?"

Now it was Zuko's turn to get frustrated. He hadn't anticipated one of his jobs as a teacher being having to explain how to feel things to this guy. That was something he was not qualified for.

"I don't know," said Zuko, not hiding the annoyance in his voice, "just think about it. Try to recreate those emotions when you're channeling your energy for your bending, and it might make your firebending more powerful. Hasn't there ever been something you...desired? Coveted, even? Something that you needed to have or to win more than anything?"

Katara almost laughed out loud, boy are you barking up the wrong tree.

Aang spent a few seconds earnestly considering Zuko's question, "I don't think so. My people believed that worldly material possessions were meaningless, and attachment to them was the source of suffering. We didn't really have anything beyond what we needed and a few toys that we shared. I played games with all my friends, but I didn't really care much if I won, I just tried to make sure everybody had fun."

Katara was grinning at what an unbelievable dork the mighty savior of the world was.

Zuko, however, groaned and dragged both hands down his face, "Yeah, of course you did." It seemed to Katara that this was the first time Zuko was having to relate to someone who was actually a good person.

Aang just shrugged at Zuko's exasperation, "Sorry, hotman."

"Stop calling me that!" Zuko thought for several more seconds before his eyes lit up and he snapped his fingers with an idea, but then immediately looked like he regretted having the idea, and started looking deeply uncomfortable.

"Hey...can I ask you a personal question? It's going to sound weird and unrelated, but just trust me, okay?"

Aang raised an eyebrow, "Uh….sure?"

"Have you ever kissed a girl?"

Aang's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, his face turning bright pink, and Katara's heart seemed to stop in its tracks.

After what seemed like an eternity, Aang finally found his voice again, but all he could manage was a weak, "Uh...what?"

"Just bear with me for a second," pressed Zuko.

"Um," Aang squeaked, "Yes. Yes I have." and his face moved past pink into deep scarlet.

"Okay," breathed Zuko, "Now, I know I'm sounding like a gossiping school girl, but I promise I'm going somewhere with this. Ugh."

He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, like this conversation was physically painful. "Tell me about your first kiss," he finished in a too-deep voice, very transparently overcompensating.

Katara was positively screaming inside her own head, No Aang, do not, under ANY circumstances, tell him about your first kiss.

She felt like her heart and stomach had completely removed from her body. She refused to believe that these were the circumstances where The Incident between she and Aang was finally getting verbalized. Aang hadn't even bothered to talk to her about it yet, there was no way he was going to spill it all to Zuko. The fact that the main reason Aang hadn't talked to her about it was the fact that she had been avoiding him non-stop was entirely beside the point.

Katara started running through a hundred scenarios to try to find some way to stop this conversation. Should she rush in and pretend to be sick? Say that they're under attack? Just stay hidden and bloodbend them both unconscious? But before she could decide on one, to her horror, Aang started talking.

"Well," Aang began, his cheeks still red, "it was back at the Southern Air Temple—"

All of Katara's panic seemed to instantly vanish and be replaced with confusion.

Wait, what? Why is he telling him that? Katara thought, We barely knew each other at the Southern Temple….Does he THINK we kissed at the Southern Temple? I guess that would explain a lot. Did he hallucinate or something while in the Avatar State—

"—and she was part of a visiting caravan."

….Oh.

Oh.

"We got along really well while she was there, she was really good at all of my favorite games, and while we were saying goodbye she just kissed me."

OH.

"By the time I realized what was going on, she just giggled and jumped up on her bison."

Katara was simultaneously feeling unbelievable relief that her big secret wasn't being talked about and unbelievable white-hot fury at Aang. She had just spent several weeks believing that her first kiss had also been Aang's, and now she finds out that she's just the latest? Latest of how many? Exactly how friendly had he gotten with those fangirls on Kyoshi Island? She was two years older than him, by all rights she should be on at least equal footing with him in this mess between them, who gave him permission to have more experience with kissing than her? The fact that he had never once told her that he had never kissed a girl before was entirely beside the point.

But Katara cycled through all these thoughts in just a split second before calming herself down and realizing that she had no reason to care about this. What did it matter if Aang had kissed some girl a hundred years ago? It's not like she thought of Aang that way. Aang had clearly just misunderstood her platonic affections. It's not like she had ever seriously thought about kissing him (especially not during some of the more recent times she had kissed him on the cheek). In fact, she doubted that even he had given any serious thought to kissing. He just had a little crush and the intensity of the moment got to his head. So this is fine.

It's fine.

Seriously, it's fine.

It's completely fine. Whatever she was feeling certainly wasn't jeal—

"Wait, she kissed you?" Zuko interrupted Aang's rambling and yanked Katara back to reality, "I asked you if you had ever kissed a girl."

"Well you also asked me to tell you about my first kiss!" Aang yelled with his hands in the air, frustrated again, "Which one is it!" He was clearly angry that in his panic he had revealed an embarrassing story for no reason.

Zuko put his palms up defensively, "Okay, okay, sorry, bad wording on my part. So, to clarify: have you ever kissed someone else? Have you ever been the one to take the initiative?"

Katara's heart started racing again. Why couldn't Zuko get distracted and drop this?

"Um…" Aang's face had been red before, but now all the color seemed to drain from it and he looked like a ghost, "...yes. But I don't think dwelling on that will help fix my problem. In fact, it's kind of a downer, actually."

"Why, was she an airbender too?" Zuko asked. He supposed dwelling on a girl he had feelings for that had been killed a hundred years ago would be counterproductive in fueling Aang's inner fire.

Despite how angry she had gotten at Aang's kissing experience, Katara now found herself hoping this girl was another airbender.

"No," Aang responded, rubbing the back of his neck, "this was after I came out of the ice. Pretty recent, in fact…"

No such luck.

"Okay, so what's the problem?" asked Zuko.

"Well...it didn't exactly work out well for me. She didn't really kiss me back."

Katara scowled, well that's not fair, she thought with more than a little bitterness. It's not like she had a chance to. You're not allowed to act upset if someone doesn't kiss you back when you spring a kiss on them with no warning and then fly away before they even know what's going on. If he hadn't been so dramatic and used his actual words then she would have—

Katara let out a gasp of fear at where her train of thought was leading her. She would have….what, exactly? If she had known the kiss was coming ahead of time, what would she have done? Let him down easy? Told him to focus on the mission? Thrown him into the ocean?...or would she have kissed him back?

No.

Well…

Certainly not.

Maybe?

Perhaps if they tried again wow where did THAT thought come from?

Meanwhile, back in reality, Zuko was waving away Aang's concerns, "That doesn't matter. Don't think about anything that happened afterward. Just bring yourself back to that one moment, where you overcame caution and went after what you wanted. Set your stance."

Aang faced the dummy and resumed his fighting stance.

Katara couldn't help but inch a little closer away from her "hiding" spot. Now that Zuko had stopped pressing Aang for details and was doing his job, she felt like she could observe with a nervous curiosity instead of outright panic.

"Now," instructed Zuko, "take a deep breath, close your eyes, and picture this girl, how she looked in that moment."

Aang's eyes closed and drew in a breath.

Katara swallowed hard. At this moment, there was no more uncertainty about Aang. He was thinking about her, in that way, right now. And that knowledge made her hold her breath and made her face get a little warm.

"Try to remember how you felt immediately beforehand. How she made you feel. Try to recreate how your heartbeat was affected. It's starting to get faster and harder. How your breathing changed—remember, it's your breath that creates energy in the body for firebending. Yours is getting shallower and more intense. Remember how your stomach muscles reacted. They're tensing in anticipation. Now, in your mind's eye, make your move and kiss her, and at the same time….STRIKE!"

Aang punched his right fist towards the dummy, and his hand exploded.

There was no whoosh like with the previous fireball, but a roar as a conical wave of fire erupted from Aang's knuckles, completely enveloping the dummy 10 yards away and continuing onward to blast past the outer railing of the stone courtyard into the vast expanse of the canyon. And to Katara's alarm, it kept going. It wasn't a single blast but a continuous, monstrous stream of fire easily 15 feet wide at its biggest and so hot that Katara had to turn away and shield her eyes.

Several seconds later, the flames finally died down and Aang blinked his eyes open, looking equal parts proud and terrified of himself. The wooden dummy….did not exist anymore. There was no way to tell if Aang had burned it to ashes or simply blasted it backwards into the canyon. The previously white stones that made up the part of the courtyard that had been in front of Aang were now blackened and cracked.

Zuko had reflexively thrown up his arms to shield his face, stumbling backward. He was still sitting on the ground, eyes widened to the size of Appa's, and his mouth hanging open in shock. He sat there for several more silent seconds until Aang gave an awkward cough, then his face split into the biggest grin Katara had ever seen on him and he started cackling with delirious relief and excitement.

"All right!" Zuko exclaimed, jumping to his feet, "Now that's what I'm talking about!" he loudly clapped his hand on Aang's back, who had returned to looking embarrassed.

"No, don't you clam up again," warned Zuko, "hold onto that feeling. Come on, I'll show you how to make a flame whip."

Katara slinked backward away from her pillar and began a very undignified scurry back to their sleeping area. The fire had long since dissipated, but her face still felt hot and flustered, and her stomach felt like it was doing somersaults. Her mind was filled up by the same three words, repeating over and over again:

I did that.

Thinking about her made Aang able to do that. She could no longer simplify things by telling herself that this was just a confusing crush he had let get to his head. For most of the time she had known Aang, the thought that he would have any….desires like that for anyone simply didn't compute for her. He was too selfless, too kind, too pure. He was a monk for crying out loud.

But what she just saw Zuko coax out of her sweet, innocent friend was….not pure. Had he had this inside of him the entire time? And what brought this out of him was thinking about her. Thinking about kissing her. As much as she tried to deny it, when she thought about this power she had over him….she liked it. She was now able to see Aang in a new light, and at least consider the possibility of being more than friends with him.

But she still fought against it, because that realization was absolutely terrifying.

Katara shook her head and splashed some of her bending water on her face. She resolved to keep doing what she had been doing: focusing on their mission. She could sort out all this confusion when the war was over.

Although….

If the goal was to help Aang defeat the Fire Lord and end the war, then naturally they all had an obligation to assist Aang with his bending in any way they could, right? So she supposed it couldn't hurt to give Aang the occasional extra-tight hug now and then. Purely for training purposes, of course.

After all, she thought with a slight smirk as she arrived back at camp, everyone else still sound asleep, what kind of teacher would I be if I didn't give my student the attention he needed?

[subscorpsupremacy]

expanded version of the Deadly Alliance fic, continuation will be uploaded soon! #SubScorp 💙💛

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32996770/chapters/81897922

Midday at the Lin Kuei temple. Kuai was meditating on a terrace that overlooked the snowy mountain side. Behind him was a hall full of students also ordered to meditate. Without warning, a flash of heat broke the calm and quiet, and Kuai found himself on his back, with weight pressing down on his neck and upper chest. Hanzo has hellported right on top of the cryomancer.

“It’s been more than a whole day, Kuai.”

“I do not know what it is you are trying to imply here. Get off me, Hanzo.”

“Are you avoiding me?”

Hanzo–,“ Kuai strained to get Hanzo off of him, but the ninja had his thighs pressed firmly above the cryomancer’s shoulders and upper arms. "I have to train and meditate.”

“Meditate for what?”

“You know I always meditate to keep my emotions under control and make me more effective in battle.”

“Does that include your emotions for me?” Hanzo asked as he rubbed his crotch in front of Kuai’s face. “How about the intoxicating feeling of warm hard flesh rubbing against your tongue and mouth, hitting the back of your throat? The inner struggle of being a respected and dominant grandmaster but wanting to be abused and dominated behind closed doors, in bed or on the floor, against the wall, or anywhere it pleases? How about the blissfull pleasure of your behind getting stretched by my fully erect, trobbing manhood, penetrating you deep within, forging a connection to your old rival, pounding you over and over until that sweet release of the nectar sweeter and rarer than jinsei, given only by a person who truly cares for and obssesses over you? You weren’t so effective in that battle.”

Kuai’s only response was to flush. Hanzo grinned smugly.

“My students are also meditating close by,” Kuai said quietly. He wasn’t sure if the heat was coming from his flushed cheeks or from Hanzo’s crotch.

“Consider it a training in stealth,” Hanzo grinned as he freed his erection from his pants.

“Shirai Ryu dog. Truly savage and barbaric, operating only by their rage and primal desire.”

“Lin Kuei scum who so willingly bends over and spreads himself to be ravaged by the Shirai Ryu dog.”

Hanzo held his cock and slapped it against Kuai’s face. “Maybe if you stuff your mouth with my meat, your students won’t hear the shameless sounds you make when you let the Shirai Ryu overpower and invade you.”

It didn’t take a minute before the two grandmasters started stripping their armor, hushed but hurried. Kuai started licking and sucking off Hanzo as the latter continued to remove the metal plating they wore. There was no commotion from inside the hall so far. Kuai’s cool demeanor was easily lost to Hanzo’s fiery and arousing words earlier, and the cryomancer was eagerly pursing his lips around the angry manhood of Hanzo. Even in such a difficult position, Kuai was already deepthroating his dominator. His eyes were closed and he seemed lost in the moment, and focused only on the cock in his mouth. Hanzo had to remove Kuai’s armor instead, but Hanzo was finding it hard to keep going as Kuai was doing an extremely good job in pleasuring. Kuai flicked and pushed his tongue around, wanting to taste every inch, and also wanting to stimulate Hanzo.

Kuai has only given head to Hanzo once before, but the cryomancer has surprised the latter this second round so much so that Hanzo wanted to reward Kuai. Hanzo held the back of Kuai’s head and kept the cryomancer’s head planted against the Shirai Ryu’s crotch. While Hanzo’s cock was buried inside Kuai’s mouth and throat, Hanzo rolled on his back, causing Kuai to also roll over, now face down. Hanzo allowed Kuai a gasp of air as the ninja wrapped his rope spear on Kuai’s ankles. With a masterful pull, Kuai’s legs swung towards Hanzo’s face. Wasting no time, Hanzo licked Kuai’s hole. Very lightly and slowly. Kuai clenched but quickly relaxed. Kuai resumed sucking off Hanzo, while Hanzo’s tongue flicked Kuai's hole once more. Despite having a full mouth, Kuai let out hushed sounds of approval. Hanzo then started pushing against Kuai’s ring of muscles, the slippery appendage squeezing its way inside the cryomancer.

There were no words spoken. The two powerful warriors let their bodies speak as they often would during battle. Their muscular limbs wrapped around each other, and their tongue and mouth relentlessly assaulted the other man. Kuai has never felt Hanzo inside both holes simultaneously, and the idea of it took over the cryomancer. He arched his back and pushed his behind closer to Hanzo while Kuai bobbed his head up and down Hanzo’s cock. Kuai was taking Hanzo so deep that Kuai was inhaling musk straight from Hanzo’s balls. Hanzo was happy to respond by slipping his tongue further inside, while simultaneously bucking his hips upward to meet Kuai’s face.

Kuai could feel his skin burning from the steady rise of his libido. Just a few nights ago, he has never been with a man, much less be penetrated by one. Today, just a few paces from his students, not only was he happily slobbering and nearly choking on a man's meat, his behind was also being violated by the same man's tongue. The speed with which he crumbled from this new obsession and passion was not lost on Kuai, and yet, the more he experimented and took in Hanzo in ways he could not even think possible, the more he seemed to long for it. The shamelessness of his acts with his old rival, an equally burly man also of an equally esteemed status and high renown, was already exhilarating and pushing the limits of what he deemed conceivable, but to do them at the risk of getting caught added fuel to this rapidly growing fire. Since when has Kuai let go and be consumed by his emotions like this? Hanzo was right. Kuai's meditation seemed pathetically useless against the wildfire of this daring desire. Kuai hungrily shoved Hanzo's cock as deep as he could, before going up the entire length of the shaft, relishing the feeling and the taste of every inch of skin.

Hanzo grabbed Kuai's ass and spread them open. He wanted nothing more than to invade and penetrate the cryomancer. It felt proper that the Lin Kuei gave way to the Shirai Ryu's advances. It was the natural order of things. The thought of the clueless Lin Kuei students meditating while their grandmaster submitted to the Shirai Ryu's tongue and cock amused Hanzo and stoked his ego.

Their alliance started on the battlefield, but neither were complaining that their mutual desire has extended to pleasuring each other. It has become a personal journey and discovery. Learning more about each other, intimately and deeply just felt right. For once they were enemies, and now they are allies. Did it not make sense that knowing their passions drew them closer and closer to each other? Was it not necessary for them the explore other ways on how to understand each other? Was it not beneficial that they knew how to move as one and forge a deeper bond?

The two men continued to shamelessly pleasure each other while the students meditated in the hall nearby. Hanzo was so lost in the moment, he had to stop and gasp for air. He was surprised Kuai has not stopped bobbing up and down the ninja's cock, and the cryomancer's eagerness more than made up for the lack of experience. Hanzo did not know how long he was distracted by admiring and enjoying the service he was receiving. Hanzo also did not realize when he started staring at Kuai's manhood. The Shirai Ryu grandmaster could not help but notice Kuai’s shaft, for it hung magnificently as a testament to the cryomancer’s virility. Kuai might have been submissive by far, but he would not have been Hanzo’s equal if he had not the same potential for masculine dominance. It was wrapped by engorged and angry veins, and the skin was a touch darker than the rest of the cryomancer. Musk was coming off rather strongly from it and its accompanying nutsack. Its head bulged and was glistening at the tip. Kuai's excitement has prompted his precum to the verge.

"The Lin Kuei scum is already close to creaming himself," Hanzo mused. "Pathetic."

Yet the Shirai Ryu was mesmerized and seemed fixated on seeing that tip continue to glisten until a drop seemed to form from it.

Hanzo hesitated for a moment, but the temptation was far too much. He wrapped his muscular thighs around Kuai’s head and again rolled both of them together. They now laid side by side. Kuai saw the glint and hunger in Hanzo’s eyes. Hanzo was quick to recover, but the weakness has been noted. Kuai was very perceptive after all.

“You may think yourself above me always, but I know you are also curious to taste my meat,” Kuai teased. His shaft stood thick and steady, and its angry veins were even more pronounced than earlier. “It’s the best popsicle you will ever taste.” Kuai chuckled.

Hanzo growled. He forced his cock deep inside Kuai, who gagged at the sudden assault in his throat. “Do not forget your place, Lin Kuei scum.”

Hanzo kept a firm hand on Kuai’s head, locking the cryomancer into a forced deep throat. Hanzo looked at Kuai’s cock. It seemed to only throb even more as the cryomancer struggled from the deep throat. Hanzo fought his pride. Or at least he thought he did. Without realizing, his tongue brushed the base of the shaft, flicked upwards to the tip. Hanzo caught the precum and found himself getting disappointed there was not enough to taste its full potency. Hanzo pursed his lips and kissed the tip. Kuai appeared to have stopped struggling and found a way to keep sucking off Hanzo. Still keeping his lips pursed, the ninja slightly opened his mouth and let it glide down deeper into his mouth. Kuai was surprisingly very warm inside Hanzo’s mouth. Hanzo felt his cheeks flush, for the very temptations he told Kuai earlier seemed to hit the Shirai Ryu grandmaster this time. Hanzo not only swallowed his words, he also swallowed his rival's cock, and therefore his own pride. Hanzo never submitted. He was always the victor, and yet there he was, sucking off another man’s cock. He was no different from his rival. As if to convince himself otherwise, Hanzo slid his fingers inside Kuai.

“You’re still my bitch, Kuai,” Hanzo said roughly, before sucking off Kuai again. Hanzo pushed his fingers deeper and tried to stretch Kuai loose.

"I bet you will come first," Hanzo challenged Kuai in a deep tone. His fingers probed even deeper into Kuai, who moaned in response. The cryomancer seemed unable to keep his rhythm in giving head, and he seemed torn between being overcome with pleasure as Hanzo's fingers reached that perfect spot, and continuing to suck on Hanzo's manhood uninterrupted. Hanzo doubled his assault, and sucked Kuai's cock harder. Hanzo was not going to climax before his rival, and the ninja was determined to show he still had the best endurance, and that his fingers were extremely good in providing pleasure. Sure enough, the Lin Kuei grandmaster was pushed to the edge, and his whole body trembled uncontrollably, every fiber of his being bent on release, and so Kuai started emptying himself into Hanzo's mouth. The warm thick load quickly filled up what little space remained inside Hanzo's mouth, and it flooded the ninja's tongue with the salty bitterness he was searching for earlier. Hanzo swallowed it all and his mouth clamped on the trembling meat, waiting for the rest of the seed being pumped out. A few more spasms from the cryomancer and the deed was done.

Hanzo removed the cock from his mouth but making sure to flick his tongue at the sensitive head, making the cryomancer buckle yet again. "You are such a weakling. Your meditations clearly don't work."

Kuai's face was red from the climax and the humiliation. But he was not one to give up just yet. "I didn't take Grandmaster Hanzo Hasashi of the Shirai Ryu so eager to slurp seed."

The look on Hanzo's face was indescribable. In Hanzo's mind he was exhibiting dominion, and yet his rival quickly turned things around. Before the ninja could erupt in anger, the Lin Kuei grandmaster started to suck Hanzo fervently again, and soon enough, Hanzo shot his thick load and filled up Kuai's mouth. The cryomancer did not swallow immediately, but instead continued to slide his mouth up and down the entire shaft from base to tip. Hanzo's seed spread and coated his penis and allowed Kuai's lips to glide along the shaft in an even smoother manner, and the slick layer added to Hanzo's pleasure. The ninja must have released more seed than he ever did because of that. Kuai then sucked it all and licked the shaft clean.

It was clear to both of them they had not reached such intensity of bliss before. Enemies and allies. Opposition and combination. Yin and Yang. They craved for each other–each other’s grasp, each other’s firm embrace, each other’s strong arms, each other’s skin, each other’s meat, each other’s taste. Two burly men, ruggedly handsome, aged but youthful, exceptionally skilled and well-respected. What else could possibly satisfy them if not each other? They are after all, each other’s equal, and the deep respect they had for each other grew deeper and deeper still, and that affection has manifested physically as Hanzo and Kuai longed to take and pierce each other as deep as they could.

[anon-e-miss]

Barbarian continues - Straxuse's Henchmen is up to no good!

The job of settling the younger sparklings down was taking Prowl some work. Before he could return, Bluestreak woke and started fussing. Smokescreen lifted him from the basket and rocked him gently. He sucked on his own fist and whimpered around it. His older brother cooed at him. Bluestreak watched his brother as he made silly faces and the bitlet quieted his whimpering and focused on his face. Prowl reappeared before the silly faces lost their magic for the newling and as soon as his originator sat on his cushion, Bluestreak was taken into his arms and offered a fuel line. Bluestreak was not long alone, “Yellow” woke and grumbled when he rooted along Jazz’s chassis and did not find the line he was after.

Though his arms were full, Prowl returned to Smokescreen’s lesson. Of course, he was used to this. With questions circling through his helm, Jazz lingered in the harem. Though Straxis private chambers had been purged, Jazz continued to use the alcove next to Prowl’s. It was a bit of a conflict for him. The urge to be close to his creations and the desire to be aloof from Staxis prize. Ori would be angry with him for thinking of Prowl like that and Jazz would not be able to fault his originator. He was not proud of this thought process and he was less proud with how consciously he was clinging to it.

As Jazz lay awake and stared at the ceiling, Jazz heard the whimper of a bitlet. There was a barely audible sigh and the weariness of it only made Prowl a little more relatable to Jazz. It was not welcome. While he argued with himself, Prowl moved. Jazz paused mid thought as Prowl crossed the floor of his alcove and out into the empty, abandoned harem. Jazz waited a bream before he rose. He did not have to look far for the Praxian. Prowl was sitting on the balcony, overlooking the garden, staring out into the darkness. How did he feel about the cavern? Could it have felt claustrophobic? Even if Prowl had spent the last twenty some vorns in some nursery, that did not mean a big cave might not be intimidating.

Jazz heard the suckling of newlings and he wondered if Prowl had come out here to avoid the newlings waking the sparklings, or if he had also been restless and unable to recharge. He made sure to stand within visual range of the mech’s doorwings before he quietly approached. The Twins were fuelling. Their energon brother was dozing between against their wetnurse’s chassis. Prowl inclined his helm to Jazz as he took a seat to his left.

“Havin��� trouble rechargin’?” Jazz asked. The mech looked tired. It was different than the weariness that otherwise hung over him.

“My processor will not cycle down,” Prowl confessed. “Same.” “You need not worry, I am not going to runaway.”

“I wouldn’t stop ya if ya wanted to,” Jazz said. Prowl doorwings dipped lower. It was not a matter of want, was it?

“Smokescreen told me ya got away for a while.” “We stayed with Tumbler,” Prowl said. He stared ahead, Jazz did not think he was seeing anything, however. “He had been my partner when I had been an enforcer.”

“That how ya ended up savin’ the mech?”

“The Senator was arrogant. There was a fuel contamination issue in the district surrounding the dockyards. It lingered on for vorns and vorns despite all the promises. There was a protest. I was on hand with dozens of other enforcers to keep the peace. Apparently there had been a traffic accident a few streets over and despite being aware of the protest, Crosscut and his bodyguard decided they would avoid the traffic jam by trying through the protest. They were mobbed and very nearly killed. I was shot by an errant blaster when I pushed the mob back. I did not realize the extend of my injuries until I had gotten them to safety and given them a piece of my processor for being so reckless and stupid. I collapsed. My spark chamber had been cracked, my spark exposed. When I came online I was shackled to the berth. I was under arrest for theft and deception.”

“Theft?”

“For robbing Praxus of the fertility of my frame. Mech guilty of my crime were either assigned to broodhouses or placed in the custody of a sponsor. Sometimes, but rarely they get bonded off. My uncle sold the right to breed me to Crosscut.”

“Ya must regret savin’em.” “Every mega-cycle since,” Prowl looked down at the newling recharging on his chassis.

“Crosscut was humiliated he had been rescued by a receptive mech. His colleagues mocked him endlessly for it. He avenged his honour on me and put me in my place.”

“He had no honour,” Jazz replied. Prowl looked at him through the corner of his optic.

“He left me be after I kindled with Smokescreen. I was locked in the nursery he had prepared and thought of nothing but escaping. It took me until Smokescreen was nine vorns old to break the encryption on the door. We ran that dark-cycle. I had no credits. My T-cog had been removed. I went to Tumbler’s habsuite. I could think of nowhere else to go.” “He sold ya out.” “He wait two vorns as the ransom rose and rose. In the meantime I paid my way on my back. He did not want me to kindle. He bought an implant and installed it in my chamber to insure there were no accidents. When the reward reached two billion shanix he gave Road Rage his address and went out for the mega-cycle.”

“Fraggin’ Pit.”

“She dragged me back to Crosscut. I was restrained. I fought when he tried to reinstate his claim. It angered him. He promised I would never see Smokescreen again. I begged him. I begged him.”

“What’d he make ya do?”

“He removed my restraints and told me to get on my servos and knees and to present myself. He kindled Camshaft in my that dark-cycle. After that dark-cycle he made careful certain to never leave my forge open for long. He stopped locking the nursery when I was heavy with Downshift. He knew I could not run. He knew it would humiliate me knowing the door was open. Just as he knew I would not leave them.”

“‘M glad he’s dead. ‘M glad she’s dead. If I find out they were given a decent burial, I’ll dig ‘em up ‘n toss ‘em to the sands.”

“Thank you.” Jazz wondered what had happened to his partner, the mech who had used him as an interfacial slave before selling him out.

Had he gotten the pay out, or had he gotten himself into deep slag for revealing he had been warming his berth with the Senator’s prize? There would have been a little justice in it if Tumbler had found himself in chains after selling Prowl back into them. Unfortunately, Jazz knew the world was anything but just. He did not need to leave justice to fate, did he? Praxus was more enemy than ally but they did still trade back and forth. If Jazz put an operative in one of the caravans, he could potential track that Tumbler down and give him the death he deserved. Jazz could do that. That would be a good show of gratitude.

“Mm!” Yellow whined when Red’s enthusiastic wriggling knocked him off his line. “Hush, Sunshine,” Prowl crooned softly and he righted the mechling and got him latched again.

“Sunshine...” Jazz hummed.

“I do not mean offence,” Prowl said, not meeting his optics. “I felt... odd addressing him as Yellow.”

“He shines like the sun,” Jazz said, stroking his creation's helm reverently as he nursed on Prowl's line.

“How did ya do it? Designate all those bitties just right?”

“I would not say I am good at picking designations,” Prowl replied. “It took me an orn to designate Bluestreak.”

“It suits ‘m. He even coos in his recharge,” Jazz said.

“He does,” Prowl said. He looked down at his newling who lay cooing in his little basket, an expression Jazz could not decipher on his faceplates. “I... gave them the designations that came to me. It is traditional to give mechlings infantile or unpleasant designations when they are small. An old superstition. But I wanted to, I hope I gave them good designations. They were the only things I could give them. Something to tie to their memories of me once they left the nursery.”

“Smokey doesn’t want to leave ya.”

“I know.”

“We don’t pass our younglings off to mentors. We don’t bond them off when their interface drive’s ‘ve just engaged ‘cause their sparks turned out receptive. Y’re their origin. If ya want a mentor for Smokey, that can be arranged, but his place is wit ya ‘til he’s ready ‘n grown.”

“I would prefer he stay with me,” Prowl said, tentative. “Unless finds someone he would want for a mentor.”

“Mechling’s devoted to ya,” Jazz said. “Can’t picture’m findin’ a mentor he wanted more than ya.”

“I need him,” Prowl replied and the shame was a bit of a surprise. “I need his help with his brothers and sister. I need his understanding. It is an unfair burden for a mechling his age.”

“Bein’ used as a broodcarrier was an unfair burden to ya,” Jazz said. “Bein’ wetnurse of my twins is another burden. ‘M askin’ a lot o’ ya, on top o’ what ya already got goin’ on.”

“I have the fuel in me to sustain them,” Prowl replied. “As long as you have need of me, I will provide.”

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. The designations came to Jazz as he lingered late into the dark-cycle with Prowl. It pleased him when Prowl approved. Jazz escorted Prowl back to his nook when the three newlings had all drunk their fill and settled into recharge. He only realized how pleased he was by Prowl’s approval until he was laying down in his own berth and he grimaced. The more time he spent with Prowl, the more he spoke with Prowl, the more Jazz liked him. When he looked at Prowl, when he spoke to Prowl, Jazz saw Straxis spectre less and less.

He felt a hideous hatred and a guilt that twisted his spark. An image of Free flashed across his processor and Jazz felt sick. Jazz tossed and turned throughout what remained of the dark-cycle. The solace he had found with Prowl felt like a betrayal. He needed the mech to go. Guilt twisted in Jazz’s spark again, the source different, and he fought to push it down. The clans were gathering. Amongst those coming to Staniz were mechs his kin had considered friends, before their clan had been outlawed, before not a one had spoke out against Straxis’ botnapping of Free Wheeler and his attacks on their clan.

It was easier to swallow the silence of those clans who had long been allies of Straxis than it was to swallow the silence of mechs he would have personally risked his own life to help in the same circumstances. Those old friends would be jockeying for places of favour around him. It made Jazz sick to think about it, but he set it aside. He would listen to them, maybe they would have glyphs that might start him on the path to forgiveness. Those who had directly aided Straxis in his crimes might have come hoping they could talk or bribe their way into Jazz's good graces but they would fail.

Straxis henchmechs had been chased to every corner of the desert. They were no longer a threat. That only left the allies. Jazz would need little encouragement to stamp them out. He knew there were good mechanisms within those clans even if his view of them all had been tainted. If Prowl struck an accord with one... Guilt made Jazz nauseous.

“Jazzy.” Only one mechanism called him that.

“Ricochet!”

[passable-talent]

the dragon anakin au was so good can we get a part 2 please

AHDKCJSHWE DEADASS???

find Part One here 

“I curse the Force from this place! May its kindness never guide you again!” 

The morning cold had settled in your bones, after spending the night so warm, in Anakin’s arms. Staring into the eyes of a dragon made it no better. His back teeth sparked, and from the mouth of the dragon came the flame, directed in a stream straight to you. 

Its fingers latched onto the wood before you, and wind moved past you as though even the air wanted to escape the flame. It consumed the wood it touched, and consumed the sky from above you, and all you could see was the flame.

But it did not consume you. 

In fact, it did not even touch you. Red and yellow heat surrounded you, stole the air from your lungs, catching and crawling on the wood around you, but not near you. Somehow, surrounding where you kneeled, chained to the platform, no fire crept closer. Astounded, you stared, your breathing laboured as the heat and smoke advanced where the fire did not. You looked forward, wishing you could shield your eyes from the flame, and something caught your eye. 

There was a silhouetted black figure, splitting open the flames as he walked, parting them as though they listened to him. It was Anakin, with his dragon’s cloak, and as he approached he revealed a glistening axe. 

You couldn’t react by the time he had struck down, slicing cleanly between your hands, freeing you from your chains. 

“Come,” he said, and you took his hand. He tugged you to your feet, and within the fire, he wrapped you in his cloak. Together you ran from the flames, escaping from the flame in the chaos of the village, and fled through the streets, to where his forest began. 

You stopped and turned, faced with the destruction of the town. Before you was a wall of flame, like nothing you’d ever seen, the platform and nearby council hall nothing but fuel to a pyre. 

“(Y/N), we have to go!” Anakin shouted, and you tore your eyes away. 

Halfway to his cavern and you stumbled, dropping to your knees in the dirt. At no point had you ever been in any real danger, but the betrayal of Palpatine and the guard hurt you nearly as much. In the exertion of running, the cut on your chin had begun bleeding anew, rolling down your neck and staining your collar. 

“Love,” Anakin said, and that was all, picking you up from the ground with your knees over one arm and your shoulders resting on the other. He carried you the rest of the way. He knew you could’ve made it there yourself, but he also knew you didn’t have to. 

He set you down on one of the couches in the loft of his cavern, and quickly gathered a wet cloth. You were coated in dirt, soot, blood, and he began with gently wiping your face. 

“They were going to sacrifice you,” he said, gaze loving and concerned. 

“I failed to kill you,” you said, closing your eyes. “They said that if you...” What had even been their intention? “I guess they thought that if you ate me, you wouldn’t bother them for a while.” Anakin rubbed his thumb over your cheekbone upon another swipe of the cloth. 

“You’re safe now,” he said, and you shook your head. 

“We aren’t,” you insisted, reaching up to hold onto his hand, catching his eye. “They’ll just send another knight, or worse, and now you have me to look after too, and it’s just-” You looked down in shame. “I’ve made it so much worse for you, Anakin.” 

“No,” he breathed, bringing you close and pressing his forehead to yours. “I’d do anything for you. I’ll keep you safe, no matter what.” You craned your neck up quickly to press a kiss against his lips. It was brief, and you rested back against the couch. Gently he ran his thumb over the cut on your chin, the very one he’d given you a few hours ago. 

“You said they’d take care of this,” he said softly, moving a chest nearby the wall, and digging around within it. When he returned, he scooped a fingerful of salve from the glass container he’d found, and spread it along the length of the cut. 

“I thought they would,” you said, “they would take such good care of me when I returned.” 

“Unless they decide to destroy you,” he added, a dark tone within his voice. “They tried to kill you.” Saddened, you didn’t answer. When he felt you were clean, and taken care of, he straightened up. 

“I’m going to kill them,” Anakin said, his expression hard. 

“Anakin,” you said, surprised by his violence. 

“I’m going to slaughter them like animals.”

“No, no,” you objected, following as he stepped down into the main floor of the cavern, his cloak billowing behind him. “No, the townspeople have nothing to do with this.” Anakin turned to you, and you had never seen him this angry, not even when you attempted his life, all that time ago. 

“Then why’d it happen?” He snarled, and you took a step back, unsure of his intention. 

“It- i-it was Palpatine. He ordered it, but-” Anakin turned, and began to run, opening his cloak like he would open his wings, and began his transformation to dragon form. 

“Anakin, wait!” You called, chasing after him, but he flew from the cave, and over the trees. You skidded to a stop at the stone ledge, glaring at his figure as it disappeared over the forest, no doubt on his way to Coruscant. 

In frustration, you lifted your hands to your forehead, then moving them back over your scalp until you framed your temples with your forearms, hiding your face between your elbows. With angry steps you moved back into the cavern, taking hold of a gold coin and throwing it with as much force as you could muster. You pulled your saber from your belt, igniting it with your incantation, and for a moment just listened to it hum. Your name would be a stain upon the Jedi Order- the knight that couldn’t kill a dragon, that couldn’t stop their own execution. And Anakin was gone, to burn down the village or worse, you wouldn’t know until he returned, and you didn’t know when that would be. 

There were a thousand reasons to rage. So you snuffed your saber and sat at the opening of the cave, looking out over the forest, trying to meditate. 

“There is no emotion, there is peace,” you breathed to yourself, looking out over the calm forest. Anger hadn’t served you in the past, and it wouldn’t know. 

“There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.” As long as Anakin was a threat to Coruscant, Palpatine would never stop sending knights after him. You needed to figure out a way to settle it all. 

“There is no passion, there is serenity.” But you felt the lie in your heart. You had broken the code of the Order- first, by failing to kill Anakin, and now, letting your passion guide you into a life with him, running from the Order and from Coruscant. Sooner or later, you’d need to come to terms with one of the scariest thoughts to ever cross your mind: you weren’t the Jedi Knight you thought you were.

“There is no chaos, there is harmony.” When this was all over, it would be the way it had been- and you could spend your time with Anakin, without worry of Coruscant. Maybe you could even be a Jedi knight, or a Grey at least, doing service to the kingdom outside of the Order. 

Anakin returned not an hour later. You stood from where you’d been reading near the mouth of the cavern and set down your book, happy to see him. But as he approached, you noticed something. You’d only seen him fly twice before, but something about the way he was flying now looked wrong, off. Like he was unbalanced. You took a step or two closer to the entrance, and when he landed, he barely even slowed his momentum before beginning his change back. 

“Anakin?” You rushed to him as he stumbled forward, and caught him before he fell. Now you could see what had caused the issue- he was torn, bloodied, and bruised. You guided him to a seat and let him lay, trying to take stock of all of the wounds. 

“Anakin, what happened?” You said, panicked, noticing more and more wounds. His legs were sliced in a few places, he had scratches on his shoulders and chest, and a deep, vertical cut over his right eye. It seemed that he had avoided any damage to the eye. 

“I meant to kill Palpatine,” he said, and your eyes widened. You rushed up to the loft to gather the supplies he’d used to clean you up, and returned with them to tend to him. 

“Did you?” You asked, first wiping up his face so that the blood wouldn’t run into his eyes. 

“No,” he said, letting out a breath. “I hesitated just long enough that he could draw his sword and give me this-” he indicated the cut over his eye, “And by then, the guards were there to do the rest.” You paused to cup his face, searching his eyes. 

“You didn’t need to do that,” you said softly, “You didn’t need to put yourself in danger.” He reached up, and as his cloak fell from his arm, it only revealed more blood. 

“I’d do anything for you.” Though he was bleeding, you took a moment to look at him, and appreciate what the force had given you, guided you toward. Master Yoda could have chosen any Jedi to send to Coruscant, but it was you. 

“Anakin? (Y/N)?” Came a voice from outside the cave, and you looked toward the entrance with suspicion before leaving Anakin’s side to investigate. 

It was the old woman who had allowed you to stay in her home, Shmi. But she wasn’t... she certainly didn’t look the same. Her hair, normally pulled into a bun at the back of her head, now fell around curled, black horns. She wore a dragon’s skin cloak.

“Shmi?” You said, in disbelief.

“Mom?” Anakin echoed, having heard her name. You looked back to him in surprise, then to Shmi. 

“You’re his-” you reached down to take her hand, pulling her up and past the ledge, one or two things clicking into place in your mind. 

No wonder she kept insisting that you return to the dragon. No wonder she never said a thing when your ‘wounds’ washed away with a single swipe of a washcloth. 

“Thank you, dear,” she said, giving your shoulder a squeeze before approaching Anakin. “You’re both in danger, you need to hide.”

“Hide?” You said, wondering what could possibly happen that would make today worse. 

“The council of Coruscant has ordered an army of golems. They’re on their way- you need to get as far away from here as you can.” Golems were- well, bad news, first of all. Every village in the kingdom had a collection of statues that could be animated into soldiers, if there were need. The ones surrounding Coruscant were called the Droids, and they were sculpted as archers. 

“We can’t abandon this place,” you said, not wanting to engage in unnecessary battle, but unwilling to leave Anakin’s home. “We can protect it. I can take on the Golems.”

“(Y/N),” Shmi began, but the rumbling began. “(Y/N), be careful,” she insisted, “Councilman Gunray has been sent to ensure that Anakin is killed. If he sees you-” 

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” you said, cutting her off. 

“Wait,” Anakin called, fishing his cloak out from beneath him. As he pulled the cloak from his body, he lost his scales, his horns- his human form became even less dragon than you’d ever seen it. “No arrow can pierce it.” He held the cloak to you, and you fashioned it around your shoulders quickly, then giving him a quick kiss. 

“Stay here,” you told him, “where you’re safe.” Shmi nodded, taking over treating his wounds, and you turned to the entrance of the cave. The rumbling had stopped, which likely meant that the droids were waiting for Anakin to reveal himself. 

You pulled the cloak’s hood over your head and stepped forward, your face hidden in the shadow of the cloak, and your saber hidden within it. 

You threw the cloak open, letting it flare out from your sides, opening your arms and igniting your citrine saber. 

The droids began firing, and you descended upon them. 

If you could avoid the arrows, you could easily get close to them, and with a swing of your saber the magic inside them died, and the pieces of statues would crumble into the dirt. You cut through them, through the masses of them, their heavy feet preventing the agility they’d need to even stand a chance against you, great Jedi Knight, trained in combat by the Masters Yoda and Windu. No droid could stand a chance against you. Only when there was not a single left standing, and broken statues littered the grasslands like fallen soldiers, did you turn toward the trees. 

You were panting, breathing hard, black dust and sand of crumbled stone collecting over your face, cut through with lines of sweat. It took a moment, but you located Councilman Gunray, cowering behind a tree. 

You lifted your saber, so you looked straight down its orange, fiery blade at him. 

“Tell Palpatine,” you roared, “that if he leaves us alone, he will receive no more hostility.” You glared, eyes sparking with the ferocity of a battle won. “But if he tries to rain down fire upon us, he will be flooded with fire and death the likes of which he has never seen!” 

The councilman fled. 

He returned to Coruscant with a harrowing tale. It seemed, in his fear, many of the details of what he has seen were warped and changed, molded to fit what he had expected from the day. He told of the fallen Jedi knight who had stood at the mouth of the dragon’s lair and opened wings, fire sprouting from their hand before descending on the droids, and destroying them all. He told of the fallen Jedi knight who stood before the councilman and threatened him while breathing fire, black scales erupted from their face. 

Your curse had burned Coruscant, the townspeople whispered, and in the fire you’d been reborn as a dragon spirit.

They began to call you Sidious. 

-🦌 Roe

| part 3 | part 4 |

[jadethest0ne]

In need of Refueling, Chapter 3 - The Fire Samadhi

Summary:    “You?! Why would I trust you? You have brought me nothing but failure. Time and time again; nothing but disappointment!”

His father’s words might have been a result of his possession by the White Bone Spirit, but whether or not they were his true thoughts, Red Son vows to prove them wrong. To do so he seeks to attain a power strong enough to destroy his father’s immortal enemy. After all, he’d much rather throw fire at his problems.

Word Count: 1211

Ratings/Warnings:  Teen and up; injury, burns, angst and hurt/comfort, toxic thoughts caused by toxic parents

Notes: Red Son seeks out The True Fire of Samadhi! Big thanks to @painted-arachnid and @simplyfornardo  for helping me bounce ideas off of them. And also thanks to @lemonsqueazie for providing me with “Journey to the West” lore. I don’t know much about the original novel or other iterations, but I still tried to keep some things compliant with the lore. You should check all of them out, since they’re really great content creators with neat ideas!

Read on AO3

———-

Red Son left the Spider Queen’s lair with a chill running up and down his spine. Perhaps it was from the dank nature of the cave, or maybe it was the nervousness that made him feel as if he was being watched in his schemes. But he was certain a large part of it was from the excitement that he was given a path to become stronger, and that his plans would come to fruition soon!

He clenches his fists and an eager smile spreads on his face. “The Samadhi Fire will be mine!”

He gets in his Inferno Truck and heads towards the mountains, not noticing the putt-putting of a noodle cart chugging along behind him.

---

He can feel the pulsing of the magma bubbling beneath the mountains before they are even in sight. The heat flows over the horizon in waves and he breathes in the smoke and cinder happily. He had to ditch his vehicle on land and propel himself towards the mountains across the water using his own flames, pushing himself along underneath his feet. He is cautious when he reaches the shore. He doesn’t want to potentially disturb the Monkey King himself, having landed in his own territory. He doesn’t even know exactly where the Monkey King lives among the volcanic ring of mountains. But that’s a problem to figure out after he gets The Fire.

He did what the Spider Queen said and searched for the highest mountain on the eastern side. Then waits. The mountain looks incredibly normal. Well, incredibly normal for an active volcano spouting smoke, ash, and lava. The heat doesn’t bother Red Son. It is this kind of environment where he is at his most powerful. He can feel the pressure in the ground beneath him. And though the mountain looks normal and has no nooks that could be mistaken for doors or shrines, he can sense something strange from it. Something pulling him in. As if he was meant to be here. As if it were waiting for a fire demon to claim the power inside.

He wanders around the eastern crevices reaching out with his powers for a source of the strange magic he feels within. Going to the top of the volcano doesn’t seem to help, but somewhere midway, where the other peaks of mountains make up the horizon, he feels the magic flow more strongly, as if the energy inside is tugging at his own energy like a magnet. It is nearly sunrise. There’s a small ledge on the path that he has been following that seems just the right angle to meet the sun with, so there he stands, looking curiously at the mountain-face before him.

He feels the warmth of the sun hit him from behind. His shadow blocks part of the cliff-face that he is staring at, but he sees a strange outline form around him on the rock. He moves aside to allow the sun’s rays to hit the wall. A glowing blue door-frame appears. Markings representing fire frame its edges, and what looks like etchings of a flaming vortex reach towards its center where a hole forms.

Red Son pokes at the hole which is only just smaller than his fist. It looks charred at the edges, which gives him an idea. He takes a stance at the hole and extends his palm outward towards it. He braces his arm and tenses, sending a wave of pressurized flame into the hole. A whooshing noise followed by a click and some dust pushing out of the edges of the door-frame occurs, and the door shudders. Red Son steps back to see the door slide open.

With a victorious smile curling on his lips, he enters.

Inside is hot, even a bit too warm for Red Son himself. The air is thick with heat, but he moves forward. The interior is lit with a red glow, likely from the lava that the mountain is spewing. The pathway spirals downwards with little rivulets of heated rock poking out of the mountainside. He follows a winding pathway along the circular chasm that is the mountain’s crater until he comes over a walkway that pokes above the bottom. There is a blue glow from the edge and as he gets closer, he sees a pedestal with a flickering blue flame on top. Framing the pedestal is a decorated archway with patterns similar to the door that took him into the mountain.

One thing the Spider Queen was right about - this place is old. Everything from the walkway to the pedestal to even the air just felt ancient, as if placed outside of time itself.

Red Son looks at the markings on the archway closely and notices some script written there. It is not a writing that he recognizes, and yet he understands it.

 One whose heart does not flicker, but blazes bright can command the True Fire and extinguish the inextinguishable.

Red Son takes a steadying breath. His heart will not “flicker”. He is sure of it. He is ready for this.

He reaches out a hand for The Fire.

And grasps it.

Suddenly everything is a blazing bright blue. Red Son is in the center of a great maelstrom of blue flame spinning around him. The raging, heat-fueled winds spin around him, threatening to blow him away. He has to bring his other hand up to hold onto the flame. It flickers around his fingers and yet feels solid in his grasp. He needs to hold on. He can barely see the mountain he is in. The vortex of flame reaches up towards the crater’s opening and flashes of lightning crash inwards. One bolt reaches the fire in his fists and the force from the flash nearly sends him flying away, but still he holds on. He can feel the power pushing against his enclosed hands, as if an entire sun is stuck inside, trying to break out. But he still holds on. He focuses his whole body, all of his power, on gaining control of the flames. He speaks to it, with determination and conviction.

“I am the son of the Demon Bull King and Princess Iron Fan! I am the most powerful fire demon ever, and there is no fire that I cannot control!” He tightens his grip and his focus, looking at the blue fire in his fists as if he were talking to a raging beast. It certainly felt like one. “I am Red Son, and I will control you, True Fire of Samadhi!!!” He completely closes his fists around The Fire.

He feels a rush of energy push into him, blue flames traveling up his arms and into his body in an instant. The pulse of invisible force nearly knocks the breath out of him. He stumbles forward, through the archway that held The Fire, and in a blink of an eye he is outside again on the ledge facing East. The door is no longer there. The sun is up. He looks around and it’s as if nothing happened. He looks to his hands. He can feel an energy there, thrumming beneath his fingertips.

He focuses on that feeling and lights a fire in his palms.

The fire is blue.

start || <-- previous // next -->

[kettlequills]

the burning fire within

Henon's shirt rips while he is cutting wood. He takes it to Tinoryn to be mended.

My entry for TES Fest 21, prompts family and apotheosis. CW: referenced character death, fantastic racism - it’s set in Windhelm, you know the drill. I also wrote this in about an hour at 2am last night so, uh, enjoy. On A03 here.

Henon Virith was angry. Nothing new, that. He hefted the axe over his shoulder and brought it down with a satisfying crack. Two neat halves of firewood fell away to collapse perfectly onto the growing stack either side of the chopping stump. He swung the axe again.      Crack.    Again.      Crack. 

He could do this with his eyes closed. Sometimes he did, imagining sneering Windhelm guards under the axe’s blade. Imagined he’d found the insincere bastard that had come swaggering into the Grey Quarter one day, to inform    Henon his mother had been ‘found dead’.

 “Hunting accident, looks like, no sign of her partner,” the guard had said. Had the temerity to look at Henon softly. Henon remembered the words like they’d been burned into his soul.

 “My-”      Crack.     “-condolences-”      Crack.     “-lad.”      Crack.  

 Three more logs joined their split fellows. He rolled his neck until it cracked and kicked the piles in just the right spot to have them topple down neatly so it looked like he stacked them. Another log went on the stump.

 Henon had anger enough to fuel him for years.

 His next chop was powerful enough that his axe stuck into the chopping stump. Helon grunted. Placing one foot on the stump, he grabbed the axe handle and yanked. The burning muscles in his shoulders bunched under his shirt. He tugged, once, twice, then heaved as hard as he could. With a crunching rip, his shirt tore across the shoulders. The axe came loose.

 Henon bit down on his knuckled fist and the molten fury that ignited the sleeping fire in his body. Deliberately, he lowered the axe onto the stump. Then he closed his eyes, exhaled slowly through his gritted teeth, tried to remember the breathing exercises the Priestess had taught him last winter to control his anger. Henon inhaled, exhaled.

 Once. Twice. Three times.

 In his mind’s eye, he pictured the searing rage inside of himself as a bonfire. It would be wild, messy, sparks ripping off the crackling wood like arrows. Heat would roll from it like a wall, and the flames inside would laugh and leap like crackling tongues.

 “That sounds like a good fire, Henon,”    the priestess’ encouraging voice was gentle in his memory. “It’ll keep lots of people warm. But an unchecked fire will set beds alight at night. How much fire do you think we need right now?” 

 “Not much,” Henon muttered aloud.

 Henon imagined, carefully, lovingly, pressing soft cold soil over the edges of the fire, tightening its circle. He kept going, shovelling handfuls round the edges, shaping the fire he saw until it was bright and strong, but no bigger than a hearth-fire, banked and safe for the night.

 One final time, Henon exhaled, then opened his eyes. Calm settled like a blanket onto his stiff shoulders. Without the punishing ache of the anger he’d used to fuel himself, Henon suddenly became aware of just how sore he was, how sweaty, how his arms trembled with fatigue.

 He glanced at the sky. The sun was halfway down the sky, hovering almost directly over the Palace of Kings. No wonder. He’d been chopping wood for hours.

 Henon cast an eye over the piles of wood. His mind ran quickly over the calculations as he vaulted the ice-slick rail onto the steps of Candlehearth Hall. The sums came easy to him; he didn’t need to look twice.

 No Susanna to watch him today, calling laughingly for him to take off his shirt; he’d have to go in and ask for his earnings directly. A shame. Henon liked Susanna. Liked kissing her even more, when she leant down over the railing rosy-cheeked. She was soft, everywhere soft, like bitter anger had never found her. She made quiet animal noises, warm breathy sighs, when he touched her, her breasts, her hips, between them. It was fun, and casual, and she was always happy to see him.

 It didn’t take Henon long to collect his wages and stack the fruits of his efforts by the fireplace. Even sour old Nils was grudgingly silent at the amount, though the door closed on a snappish comment when he saw the rip in Henon’s shirt baring his shoulders.

 Henon jogged down to the Grey Quarter, letting the surge of annoyance work itself out through the drum of his feet on stone. He’d get his sparking shirt fixed. Nils didn’t need -

 Exhaling raggedly, Henon focused on the hearth fire, the little curl of smoke that would lick out the chimney. By the time he had made it to Avalathil Tailoring, he was clearer-headed.

 The tailor’s was poky and small, and the old sign’s paint was curling. Below it, a brazier sat, thickly fed with coals and fire-runes. Henon paused by the brazier, looking down at the soft red glow of the runes, and felt a little surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the brazier.

 Tinoryn. He always left a little flick, right at the end, like a signature.

 Henon went inside.

 “Welcome to Avalathil - oh, hi, Henon.” Tinoryn was bright and cheerful as ever. He bounced up from his stool behind the counter with a wide, infectious grin. “How are you? I thought you were working today. Did you finish early? I’ve heard the ships are coming in, they might want more help unloading if you want extra work. We’ve had two sailors already come in with mendings, and one of them mentioned getting a whole new outfit commissioned, if you can believe that!

 Apparently they went to Solstheim, you know, that island off the coast, you can see it from the Point when it’s clear out? Anyway, well he liked the look of the clothes they wear, and he wanted something similar that wouldn’t ‘have him freeze to death faster than a skinned horker’.”

 Something in him settled at Tinoryn’s chatter. He was always the same, always happy, always with a story to share. Henon found himself smirking as Tinoryn imitated the sailor’s dour tones.

 “I’d want to see that,” he said.

 Tinoryn’s nose wrinkled. “Eurgh! A skinned horker? That’s gross, Henon. It would be all wet and red in there, like muscles! It would bleed everywhere! Though I suppose they do have to skin them to get the furs off. But definitely not while they’re alive! That would be horrible. We      add    clothes, not take them away here. Speaking of,” Tinoryn’s smile, somehow, became even brighter, until Henon swore he could see each and every one of his teeth, “Can I do anything for you? Ruvene’s not here, so you just have me.”

 “That’s just what I want,” Henon said, and shrugged off his shirt. He had to wrestle with the buttons for a moment, and when he looked up, the highs of Tinoryn’s cheekbones had flooded with pink and his soft lips were parted. He didn’t react when Henon thrust the ripped shirt towards him, his gaze trapped somewhere at Henon’s chest. “Tinoryn?”

 Self-consciously, Henon rubbed at his chest. He couldn’t see anything there, apart from maybe a bit of sweat in his chest hair. Tinoryn was much more fastidious than Henon, but it was just      sweat.    Tinoryn’s attention made him feel odd, prickly-warm, like he wanted to square his shoulders and straighten his back. He’d been shirtless around him plenty before.

 Tinoryn blinked, then his eyes refocused on Henon’s face and he was back to beaming. “Yes! Of course, I’ll take that. Just another fix? Hmm, yes, you’ve torn it, right across the shoulders. Nasty! But it won’t take that long and it’s been dead in here today, all of our orders are all done that I can do without Ruvene’s permission, and you      know    I’ve read everything I brought. I have been so bored I started talking to the mannequin. I’m calling it Dolly. Because it’s a doll? Or a mannequin, I suppose. A doll for clothes. I can do it for you right now! We’ll have to add in a panel here for you if you keep broadening up though.”

 “Not now,” Henon interrupted uneasily, “Just - can you fix it? Like it was?”

 Tinoryn’s eyes softened. “Yes, just like it was. I know how important this is. It suits you, by the way. It’s the last one, isn’t it? From your father, Azura keep him.”

 “Thanks. And yeah.” It sounded a bit strangled, but Henon couldn’t bring himself to care.

 It was stupid, probably, but he trusted Tinoryn not to mess it up. Ruvene would have just added the panel to the back, grumbling at Henon for sentimentality. But of the shirts that Henon had inherited from his father, the others were gone, all torn, ripped, mended to oblivion by Tinoryn, or lost over the years. When he wore it, he thought of their shapes, how they were probably the same in the arm, but that his father’s wrists had maybe been thicker, because it was stretched there. Henon didn’t remember much of his father. Henon had not been that old when he’d been found dead on the docks, sitting on one of the crates he was meant to be unloading, frozen to death with a peaceful smile.

  “Uh, how much?”

 He fumbled awkwardly for his belt pouch, but Tinoryn was already waving him away with a sunny smile.

 “Ruvene’s not here,” he said conspiratorially, “No one will know, let me just fetch my needle and thread. Besides, no need to charge for such a simple fix.” He hopped up and rummaged around under the counter, fishing out a small wooden box with a triumphant, “Ha! There you are. I swear it hides… You know I can teach you to do this, if you want.”

 Slipping a silver thimble onto his thumb, Tinoryn pulled Henon’s sweaty shirt into his lap. He eyed the rip critically, holding the needle between his lips as he threaded it. Henon watched, impressed by his dexterity.

 “I don’t need to know,” said Henon dismissively. “You’ll do it.”

 Tinoryn smiled down at Henon’s shirt. “That’s true.”

 Henon rounded the counter and dragged Ruvene’s unused stool over with a clattering scrape of groaning wood. He slumped onto it and rested his tired arms on the countertop with a groan. Their knees pushed together under the counter for space, Tinoryn’s bony leg warm against his even through layers of clothes.

 “You don’t have to stay, it’ll take me a moment,” Tinoryn added, glancing at him from under his eyelashes as he stitched. They were thick and dark, curly like his hair.

 “I’ll wait,” said Henon. He didn’t have many other shirts, and besides, whenever Tinoryn’s bright eyes strayed to Henon’s bare torso, the tips of his ears flushed cherry-red. It made Henon feel powerful in a way he couldn’t describe, like how he felt when Susanna clung to him brokenly when he touched her. Like Henon was the only ship in a storm he had created.

 “Alright then,” said Tinoryn, and then he quieted, concentrating on his work.

 Henon fiddled with a coin as he waited, a septim from this morning’s earnings. It flew, golden gleaming, around his slate-grey knuckles, spinning over the countertop like he held it on an invisible string. Idly, he played a counting game with himself, one taught over long hours of solitary boredom.      One, two, three    spins to the right,      seven, eight, nine,    to the left, one flick up,      twelve.    Then back around again, adding each number of spins, until he tired of it. Numbers were easy, but soothing, too. They were predictable.

 He was beginning to feel tired, sleepy, even. His fatigue was catching up to him. The pressure of Tinoryn’s leg against his was comfortable, the sound of his breathing familiar. The shop was warm and quiet, a little dusty in places, with thick bolts of fabric hanging down from the walls. The mullioned windows were frosted white, dim shapes passing by and setting distant shadows to chase each other across the rolling hillocks of prepared cloth. Dolly the mannequin waited patiently in one corner, crowned by a glorious confection of gull-feathers and snowberries wrapped in stained jade silk, someone’s earnest attempt, Henon thought, at making spring into a hat.

 Henon flipped the coin into the air and caught it, a shining disc like the sun held between his thumb and forefinger.

 “Wow,” said Tinoryn from beside him. “How did you do that? That’s amazing! You just caught it, so fast!”

 Henon glanced over, and Tinoryn’s expression was unreserved and inquisitive, brilliant with pleasure at the trick. “It’s not hard,” he said, uncertain how to name the feeling that Tinoryn’s eagerness aroused in him. “You just, look, like this,” he demonstrated.

 “Can I try?” Tinoryn asked, eyes round, and Henon handed the coin over.

 Tinoryn made a valiant attempt at throwing the coin, but it hit his hand as it fell, rebounding sharply off his knuckle and disappearing into the darkness below the counter. “Ouch!” exclaimed Tinoryn, “Oh, that is      much    harder than it looks. You made it seem so easy! Do you want me to find your coin - oh-”

 Henon had already slid off the stool into a crouch, scanning the darkness for a glint of gold. He grunted, it was dark, and dusty under the counter, cluttered with boxes and cloth scraps. He spotted one or two needles, but no coin.

 “Here, let me help,” Tinoryn said above him, and Henon looked up at the gentle      snap    of fire crackling into existence.

 What he saw then arrested him completely.

 It was Tinoryn, just Tinoryn, but… Tinoryn was leaning forward on the stool, his boot planted on the floor to stop him from falling. Henon reached to touch his calf, felt the muscles engaged in supporting his weight through his trousers, and had no words for the nameless surge of feeling that pooled in his gut.

 In one hand, Tinoryn held Henon’s shirt, the other, a crackling fire spell, humming with magic and energy. He was smiling, as always, bright and soft, and the flickering firelight shimmered off his dark, curly hair, the hint of wetness on his lip. The ties that held his shirt (soft green, like grass) were loose, leaving space for the shadows of the fire to race over his collarbones, a smooth triangle of soft grey skin of Tinoryn’s skinny chest. Henon felt his mouth flood with saliva, felt the strangest urge to lave his tongue along the arches of Tinoryn’s collarbones, scrape his teeth over the skin until it reddened like the tips of his ears.

 Tinoryn’s eyes had always been bright, ever since they were children. It was one marker of being a strong mage, that slight lambent glow, like the magic couldn’t quite be contained within him. But now, they looked like the heart of a fire, or maybe lava, brilliant, burning, changing everything in its path. Like a beginning, like being reforged anew, into something divine, Henon felt blood rise warm on his cheeks, knew Tinoryn could see how it flushed his chest ruddy. He wanted -

 “I think I see it,” Tinoryn said happily, breaking the spell. “Down there, see, just under that - yes, you’ve got it, there!”

 Henon cleared his throat, feeling bizarrely awkward as he slipped the coin back into his pouch. It was just Tinoryn. He straightened up, stretching his back until his spine popped.

 “Thanks,” he said, “for the light.”

 “Thank you for the practice!” Tinoryn’s face lit up again. “I finished your shirt, by the way! All done, good as new.”

 Henon traced his fingertip over the mend. He could barely see it. Tinoryn had done a great job.

 “Thanks,” he said again, and reached out to clasp the back of Tinoryn’s neck, his thumb pressing into his curls. They were soft. Tinoryn’s neck was warm and solid under his palm. “It looks good,” Henon added, not wanting to be churlish, but as he stared down at Tinoryn he was not quite sure if he could even remember what the shirt looked like.

“Oh,” said Tinoryn, and his hands clenched oddly in his lap like he was holding them down, and his face flamed red. His ears were pricked forward though, clearly pleased. “It’s my - pleasure, Henon, really.”

 “Say,” said Henon, “you want to get out of here? I reckon we could go and nail some helmets with rocks down in the training yard round this sort of time.”

 Clearly tempted, Tinoryn bit his lip. Henon watched his teeth press down on the soft flesh and catch on tiny ragged edges of skin, saw how it made his lips flush pinker, saw the wet dart of his tongue. He tightened his grasp on Tinoryn’s neck, thumb smoothing down his hairline, feeling the tiny feathery hairs there tickle his skin.

 “I can’t,” said Tinoryn, sounding truly disappointed. “I have to watch the shop for Ruvene.”

 “Alright,” shrugged Henon. He grabbed the edge of the counter and heaved himself up to sit on it, grinning at Tinoryn’s delighted surprise. Now he was here, Henon found that he didn’t particularly want to leave. After all, the tiny tailor’s shop did have      something    in it that held his interest. “Guess I’ll teach you that coin trick while we wait.”

 Tinoryn’s radiant smile in answer was more than enough.

[emachinescat]

Knock

A Merlin Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 10 - “I’m sorry, I didn’t know”

Summary: It is common knowledge in Camelot that one should never, under any circumstances, enter Sir Owen’s chambers without knocking.  Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell Prince Arthur’s new servant.

Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Sir Owen (OC)

Words: 4,618

TW: PTSD episode/flashback

Note: Early days for our boys. :)

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, pease consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this!

Everyone in Camelot knew about Sir Owen, and everyone who had met him loved him.  He was an old warrior, a man of honor and valor with a keen sense for battle and a veritable treasure trove of wisdom.  He was old and gray now, and limped from the festering aches of old battle wounds, but he always had a smile and time to chat with anyone he met, nobles and servants alike.  After he had retired from knighthood, Uther had awarded him quarters in the castle and a life of luxury.   

The kind old man received regular visitors to his spacious rooms and always gladly welcomed them.  Lady Morgana brought him a vase of flowers every week, new knights would often visit for advice and encouragement, many of the maids would stop for quick chats between chores, and Gaius brought him his medicine for his old battle wounds and nightmares every evening before bed.  Once or twice the king himself had been seen visiting his old friend, and he too always departed with a smile. 

There was something that every one of Sir Owen’s many admirers and visitors knew, however, and honored without compromise: Never, under any circumstances, should you enter Sir Owen’s chambers without knocking. 

More specifically, no one should enter his chambers without loudly and clearly announcing themselves first – a light, polite knock wouldn’t do, especially not now that he had lost all his hearing in one ear, with the other ear quickly following suit.  You had to knock loudly and aggressively, and if he still didn’t hear you, then you had to proclaim yourself as loudly as possible when you eased the door open to peek in.  Ultimately, the last thing anyone wanted to do was to sneak up on the beloved Sir Owen, because if he was taken off guard, if he thought he was being ambushed, he became a completely different person. 

Sir Owen had fought valiantly for Camelot for many decades, and in that time he saw horrors of battle and the worst of humanity.  He’d been gravely injured protecting his fellow knights on no less than three occasions, the final of which had forced him to hang up his chainmail for good.  And though he was a perfectly pleasant gentleman when he was in his right mind, in those moments of fear and panic – like when he thought he was being snuck up on or ambushed – he shifted back into the fearsome warrior who had felled scores of Camelot’s enemy’s over the years.  And though he was old, he was still strong for his age, and crafty, and his confusion only fueled the desperate strength within him.   

Sadly, his moments of lucidity had declined rapidly in recent days, and sometimes he struggled to remember who was his enemy and who was his friend during normal, mundane conversations.  He only became violent when he was scared or surprised, however, which was what made announcing one’s presence of the utmost importance when calling upon him. 

Every servant in Camelot knew this, as did all the knights and nobles who paid him regular visits.  Well – all of the servants except for Merlin, Prince Arthur’s new manservant, who had just been ordered by his prince to go to Sir Owens’ chambers to escort the man to the training grounds.  Arthur had asked him to oversee the newest recruits on this crisp autumn morning, and to his delight, the old knight, who had been staying in more often than not, had agreed to do just that.  Merlin was happy to have a job other than hefting all of Arthur’s heavy equipment to the training grounds on his own (and all in one go, because Arthur was too impatient to allow Merlin to make multiple trips and very clearly cared nothing for Merlin’s well being in the slightest). 

Merlin had never met Sir Owen before but knew that he was a bit of a legend around the castle.  He’d heard whispers of some of the brave deeds and epic battles the man had fought in Camelot’s first days.  He also knew Morgana brought him flowers to brighten up his chambers, and that he was supposed to be a very kind man with great advice and a smile that would brighten every room.  Sir Owen sounded a positive delight, and Merlin had jumped at the opportunity to fetch him for Arthur so that he could meet this amazing man for himself. He sounded like a breath of fresh air in the stuffy citadel – but then again, most anyone who wasn't the prince of Camelot could claim that title, in Merlin's book.  

Although Merlin had never been good at the niceties of court when dealing with Arthur, he did make it a priority to remember to knock if he were at anyone else’s door – as Gaius had told him on many occasions, if he just barged into the wrong person’s chambers, he could be in trouble so deep that even Gaius couldn’t bail him out.  And so, when he reached the old knight’s chamber door, Merlin made a point to reach out his fist and give a few hearty knocks on the door. 

No answer.   

Merlin waited a short time before knocking again, but again, no one answered.  Pressing his ear against intricately carved wood, he thought could hear something from inside of the room – a faint shuffling, as if someone were moving around.  The warlock shifted anxiously on his feet, warning bells clanging in his head.  If someone was in the room, why didn’t they answer the door?  At the very least, why did the person not call out?  Merlin could only think of two possibilities: Either the person in the room could not answer, or was not supposed to be there.  Either way, something was off, and Merlin had to check and make sure the old man he was meant to fetch was okay. 

Merlin tried the door – locked – and, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was alone, directed a pointed stare at the lock, felt the heat of magic swell within him, and heard the rewarding clunk as the door unlocked itself.  Quietly, Merlin eased the door open and peered inside, looking for any sign of trouble.  “Sir Owen?”  His calm, quiet voice contradicted the furious beat of his heart, that instinct that warned him of danger.   

No one seemed to be in the room that the wary servant could see, so Merlin inched his way further inside, taking in the elegant but sparse furnishings, the headless training dummy in old old but obviously well-cared for armor, and the weapon rack mounted on the wall that seemed to be missing its occupant.  “Sir Owen?” Merlin called again, this time a little louder. 

He didn’t even have time to turn when he heard the quiet rush of footsteps from behind.  The next thing he knew, Merlin was facedown on the warm woolen rug that spanned much of the stone floor, the breath completely knocked out of him.  Pain lanced through his upper back, sparking like lightning between his shoulder blades.  Something had hit him – hard – and Merlin’s instincts warned him that whoever it was that had attacked him wasn’t done.   

Only sheer force of will allowed the warlock to heave himself over on his back just in time to see Sir Owen himself, with his normally friendly, laugh-lined face twisted into a ferocious mockery of itself, gray hair come loose from its tie, and a hefty longsword, dulled with age but still deadly, brandished in his right hand.  Merlin noticed that the sword, and the hand that held it, shook slightly moments before the old man – still in incredible shape for his age, as Merlin’s screaming back proved clearly! – lunged again, this time with the point of the blade and not the flat. 

Merlin rolled to the side, lungs still heaving for air after being winded by Owen’s first hit, and the point of the sword cut a frayed line in the rug right where Merlin’s head had been.  Struggling to his feet, the disoriented servant tried to appeal to the knight’s sensibilities; he gasped, “Sir Owen!  I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to frighten you.”  Another swing of the sword, and Merlin ducked out of the way in the nick of time.  “I did knock!” he insisted. 

Sir Owen’s eyes, Merlin noticed, were clouded, and when the man spoke, it became obvious that he was seeing a completely different scene than what was actually going on around him.  Somehow, it seemed, he thought he was back on the battlefield, fighting a deadly opponent, instead of cornering a frightened servant who had done nothing to harm him.  “I won’t let you do it!” the man roared, and his voice cracked under the pressure of the rage and sorrow.  “You killed my men – you take no one else!” 

He advanced again, this time slowly, methodically, and Merlin backed away at the same pace, all too aware of the corner he was trapping himself in but afraid to bolt and frighten his confused aggressor into doing something he’d later regret.  Raising his hands, Merlin spoke like he was addressing a small animal or a frightened child, “Sir Owen, my name is Merlin.  I’m Prince Arthur’s servant.  He sent me here to fetch you for the –” 

He was cut off as Owen slashed forward with the sword unexpectedly, and this time Merlin wasn’t quite fast enough.  Even the dulled edge was enough to slice through Merlin’s shirt and into his upper arm, and fire erupted in the wound.  Blood, warm and sticky, oozed from the cut and meandered down his arm.  He ignored it, more focused on staying alive. 

“Liar!  Traitor!  Murderer!”   

Merlin didn’t want to use magic on Sir Owen – from what he’d heard, the man was a genuinely good person, though something seemed very wrong with him now.  On top of that, if he realized that his opponent had used magic after the fact, Merlin would be killed anyway.  But the idea of being run through with a dull sword was so unpleasant that Merlin decided to take the risk.  He turned to run from the next attack, allowed his eyes to flash gold, and heard his pursuer curse as his weapon somehow tumbled from his hands and skittered across the room.  Hopefully, if he remembered this at all, he would put it down to losing his grip. 

Now that the sword was out of the picture, Merlin felt a bit safer, but he couldn’t decide if he should try to help Sir Owen himself or run to get someone else instead.  His choice was taken away from him, though, because he hesitated a second too long – in the time that Merlin had been debating his next course of action, the keen knight had made up his mind and charged bravely into battle.  Sir Owen was the kind of warrior who would continue to fight with his bare hands against an entire heavily armed battalion until the very end.  He never gave up, never let a little thing like losing a sword stop him. 

And so he charged.   

To Merlin, it was like Arthur’s prized steed had barreled straight into him, such was the force with which Sir Owen slammed against him.  For the second time in ten minutes, the wind was driven out of him from the force of the blow, and he sprawled, stunned, on the chamber floor, his head rapping painfully against the stone.

Bright lights flickered in his field of vision and he tried desperately to get his body to move, but his arms and legs weren’t listening.  He watched as the old knight, fury in his dark eyes, approached him, having abandoned the sword all together now that his enemy lay helpless at his feet.  Merlin should have been glad that he wasn’t using the sword, but he had a very unpleasant feeling that Owen did not need a weapon to kill. 

Seconds later, his unprotected side exploded in agony as Sir Owen drove his boot forward in a merciless kick.  Afraid to use his magic again, forgetting everything but his basest instincts to survive, Merlin curled in on himself, nearly crying out at the pain the movement caused him.  Another kick, this one to his back, and Merlin rolled away the best he could, panting in pain.  Halfway to his feet, on hands and knees, almost there – 

Another kick, this one to his gut, and he gagged, falling forward, face-first onto the floor.  Blood welled up in his mouth – he must have bitten his tongue. 

Merlin scrabbled for purchase on the cold stone, trying to regain his bearings even as every part of his body rebelled against him.  He felt the man’s toe beneath his torso and sucked in a painful breath, but this time, all Owen did was flip him over.  Merlin lay on his back, breath wheezing from his chest, and he was sure he had a broken rib, maybe more.  Slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world at his disposal, the old man knelt next to his fallen foe and leaned in close.  Merlin could smell breakfast on his breath – the stink of aged cheese mingled with the sweetness of fruit – as he man hissed, “You’ll die for this – sorcerer!” 

Fear crescendoed, overshadowing the symphony of pain, as Merlin realized that somehow, Sir Owen had figured out what he had done, what he was.  Helplessness took hold of the warlock.  It didn’t matter if he survived this encounter – which was looking less likely by the second, unless he used his magic again – his life in Camelot was over.  Might as well use his magic to escape.  The giant lizard was wrong, then.  It couldn't be his destiny to serve Arthur and bring magic and peace to Albion.  He would be on the run for the rest of his life. 

Merlin focused on his magic through the pain and felt it rise within him.  It slipped out of his grasp as something latched onto his hair and dragged his head up.  Merlin got a single look up close at Sir Owen’s eyes, filled with the kind of suffering no sword could inflict, brimming with regrets and hatred and death, before the man slammed the back of Merlin’s head into the ground.  A flash of white light – intense pain, swirling darkness.   

Merlin may have blacked out for a few seconds, but it couldn’t have been long, because when he regained a semblance of awareness – he couldn’t move, so much pain, vision blurred, he was going to be sick – Sir Owen had retrieved his sword and had it poised over his helpless victim’s heart.  “Rot in hell, sorcerer,” he spat, and Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, partly against the pain, mostly in preparation for death. 

A voice sounded from somewhere close by, first annoyed, then panicked: “What the hell is taking so long Merlin?  I– what – NO!” 

The fear in the last word, unexpected and guttural as it was, was enough to convince Merlin to open his eyes.  Through the haze his vision had become, he saw a red and gold blur tackle Sir Owen, heard through ringing ears the sound of a brief struggle and the angry accusation “Sorcerer!” and then there was someone kneeling over him again, and Merlin struggled to sit up, to get away.  He managed to turn over just in time to vomit all over Prince Arthur’s clean boots. 

To his surprise, the prince didn’t yell or order him to scrub them again, right then and there.  Instead, with surprisingly gentle hands, the man eased his servant back onto the ground and began checking him for injuries. 

“You idiot,” Arthur said as he probed the back of Merlin’s head, eliciting a cry of pain and frowning at the blood staining his fingertips.  He moved on to check Merlin’s ribs (“Three broken, at the very least, but we’ll have Gaius look at you.”) and arm.  “It’s fairly shallow,” he said, and Merlin thought he must have been giddy with pain and exertion at this point, because it sounded like the prince was actually relieved.  Arthur stood, stepped out of his boots with a grimace, and ordered, “Stay there.  I mean it – don’t move.  I’ve subdued Sir Owen for the moment, but he needs Gaius.”  A deep crevice between his brows, the prince added, “And so do you.  You’re a mess.” 

Merlin didn’t hear if Arthur said anything else after that.  He didn’t even see the prince leave the room.  The darkness had claimed him by then, wrapping its welcoming arms of comfort around him and staving off, if only for a little while, the pain and the fear of what was to come. 

***

When he awoke, it was in his own bed, in his room, and he was alone.  Merlin’s head hurt more than he could ever remember it doing before – even more than the time he and Will had climbed on top of his roof and he’d fallen through the thatch.  He’d smacked his head on the kitchen table when he’d landed on it, but the pain he’d been in had been nothing compared to his mother’s wrath.  Now, though, it was not an ache or even bursts of sharp pains – it was like a drum, and every beat increased the agony he felt.  It was the kind of headache that turned your stomach against you, too, and made the world around you lose its crisp edges and stole your ability to concentrate on even the most simple of tasks.  His arm, now bandaged, stung fiercely, and the gnawing ache in his ribs turned into a cacophonous mass of torment any time he thought of moving. 

So he didn’t move.  He lay there, head pounding, body hurting like he had been run over by a horse, and allowed his mind to wander, though with the headache he had, he really did not have much control over the direction of his thoughts, anyway.  In the end, every wandering pathway of his consciousness, every thought and question and memory, all led back to the terrifying realization that Sir Owen had seen his magic – somehow – and had probably already told Arthur and the king.  Any moment now, guards would barge into his room and throw him into a cold, dark cell.  Or maybe they’d skip the cell all together and toss him on a pyre.  They wouldn’t even have to tie him to it.  He was too weak to move. 

The door opened, and Merlin jumped in a mixture of surprise and terror.  Even the small movement caused all of his injuries to flare up and he slumped back, face beaded with sweat, panting in exhaustion and pain, waiting for the inevitable and wondering if he should try to fight back with magic since his secret was already out anyway. 

It was good that he didn’t, because it was Arthur who entered, and he was alone, and there was a strange look on his face – if Merlin didn’t know better, he would have said it was somewhere between worried and guilty, with a healthy dose of discomfort sprinkled in for good measure.  “Merlin,” the prince said in surprise, and it occurred to Merlin that he hadn’t expected his servant to be awake yet.  Arthur  stayed in the doorway, uncertainty rolling off of him in waves.  “I – Gaius stepped out for a moment, to check up on Sir Owen.  He’s been in quite a state, really disoriented and worried that he hurt you badly.” 

Merlin frowned, and even that hurt.  “Gaius?” 

Arthur stared at Merlin like he’d grown another head.  “No, you moron.  Sir Owen.  He feels terrible about what happened.” 

Perhaps it was the head injury, but Merlin found himself thoroughly confused.  “So… you’re not here to arrest me?”  He could hear the slur in his own words and realized that he probably looked as bad as – if not worse than – he sounded.  Arthur appeared to be as baffled as Merlin.  He finally moved beyond the arch of the door and into the room, awkwardly taking a seat in Merlin’s chair, near the bed. 

“Why would I be here to arrest you?”  His blue eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “What did you do this time?” 

“Uh, Sir Owen, he said…”  Merlin’s thoughts were as fuzzy as his sight, and he felt that distinctive curdling in his stomach that told him he was going to be decorating Arthur’s shoes again very shortly.  Arthur must have seen that tell-tale paling of the face and whitening of the knuckles, because moments later, a bucket had been shoved under his nose and he threw up into it, vaguely surprised that there was anything left to expel.  Arthur had produced a cup of water from somewhere, and when Merlin finished, the prince helped him take a sip.  The water was bliss, cooling his raw throat and chasing away the sour taste in his mouth.   

Nausea under control for the moment, Merlin cleared his throat uncomfortably, not meeting Arthur’s eye after the strangely intimate moment (if he had been looking, he would have seen Arthur studiously avoiding his gaze as well).  Merlin picked up where he’d left off, his voice cracked and timid.  “Sir Owen called me a sorcerer.”  Arthur did look at him now, Merlin felt his eyes, but the warlock didn’t reciprocate.  Instead, in a rush, he said, “If he told you that, you have to understand–” 

“Merlin.”  Arthur’s voice held no malice, only concern and a heaviness that the servant did not understand.  “You don’t have to explain to me that you’re not a sorcerer.  Yes, Sir Owen said something about it when I was pulling him off of you, but I know he was confused.” 

Cautiously, Merlin pressed, “How do you know?” 

Arthur laughed, a harsh, clipped sound.  “Are you saying that you are a sorcerer?” 

Merlin’s stomach flipped over on itself.  “No,” he lied, not sure why he had even mentioned Sir Owen’s accusation in the first place.  He was making himself look more suspicious; it was just hard to control what came out of his mouth – harder than usual, anyway.  “I just want to know why you believe me over a respected former knight.”  There.  That was reasonable, right?  Merlin’s head ached, and he just wanted to go back to sleep, but he had to know, had to have some kind of concrete assurance before he could rest. 

Arthur sighed.  That same weight tugged at the next words he said: “Sir Owen… he was a great knight, and incredibly brave and strong – still is, for that matter–”

“You can say that again,” Merlin muttered, wincing.

Arthur glared at him, daring him to interrupt again, and continued, “But he has seen some horrible things on the field of battle.  And if he thinks he’s being attacked, he lashes out.  Gaius says that he somehow finds himself back in the middle of a war, fighting off his worst enemies and watching his men die around him.  It’s like he’s reliving the worst days of his life.  And that’s why he attacked you – he thought you were trying to ambush and kill him.” 

“But that doesn’t explain–”

“I’m getting there, Merlin.  For someone who looks half-dead, you sure can run your mouth like usual.”  Merlin grinned, despite himself.  “Oh, don’t look so proud,” Arthur ordered irritably.  “It’s incredibly irritating.”  But his own mouth had stretched into a half–smile as well.

“Anyway – the last battle, the one that ended his career… A sorcerer who was fighting against Camelot nearly crippled him.  He lay there, helpless, and had to watch as the sorcerer killed at least a dozen of his men.  One of them was his only son.”

A grim silence settled over master and servant, and a sick pit had formed in Merlin’s stomach.  It was the kind of hollowness that could only exist in misery and pain, and he found himself wishing for the nausea to return.

“He thought I was that sorcerer,” Merlin clarified, heart aching for the man that had nearly killed him.  “I didn’t know”

“How could you?” Arthur asked.  Then he added, his voice taking on more of the guilt that Merlin had thought he’d heard earlier, “And I – well, it’s my fault,” he hedged lamely.  “That you got hurt.  Because I didn’t even think to warn you to knock before you entered the room.  I was so focused on getting to the training field that it didn’t cross my mind that you didn’t know about Sir Owen’s flashbacks, as Gaius calls them.”

Merlin’s eyelids were heavy, and everything hurt, and he could feel sleep calling to him, but he insisted stubbornly, “I did knock.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise.  “Wonders never cease.  But,” he clarified, “if he doesn’t hear you knocking and doesn’t know you’re coming, then it doesn’t even matter if you did knock.  I should have told you to announce yourself, or had someone go with you that knew what to do.”  

Somewhere in the other room, a door opened and closed.  

“That’ll be Gaius,” said Arthur, standing up.  He looked down at his battered servant, hesitated for the briefest of moments, and then said, “Sir Owen sends his apologies, and he hopes to meet you under better circumstances once you’re both feeling up to it.”  In a rush, he added, “And, for what it’s worth, I – I’m sorry too.”  

Merlin blinked in surprise, knowing how hard it had to have been for Arthur to admit he had made a mistake, let alone apologize for it.  And even though the servant truly didn’t think the prince had anything to apologize for (after all, Merlin forgot important things all the time), it was touching, and he could tell that despite his discomfort that Arthur really meant it and needed to know that all was well.

Arthur leaned over, gave Merlin’s shoulder a gentle squeeze – even that sent bolts of agony through Merlin’s body, but the gesture was appreciated, even cherished.  “You did… surprisingly well in holding him off until I found you,” he admitted as Gaius’s footsteps were heard ascending the short set of stairs behind him. 

“He beat me to a pulp and nearly sliced me in half,” Merlin deadpanned.  

“Yes, but you’re still alive, and that in itself is almost impressive,” Arthur said, and Merlin couldn't tell if the prince was serious or not.  “Anyway,” he said, backing away and making room for Gaius, who was puttering into the small room balancing a tray of medicines and broth.  “I need to get to training.  Gaius, make sure he’s back to work the moment he’s well enough, but… also, not a moment before he’s ready.”

Gaius nodded, patted Arthur on the shoulder in thanks, and began to treat his patient.  Merlin watched Arthur leave, a warm feeling blossoming in his chest that had nothing to do with the broken ribs.  He barely even heard Gaius’s lecture about propriety and taking care of himself and knowing all the facts before he walked in on a situation.  His wandering, aching mind was too busy thinking about the prince. 

When he’d first come to Camelot, Arthur never would have apologized for anything.  Already, amazingly, Merlin was beginning to see a change in the other man, a spark of something that made Merlin the tiniest bit proud to know him.  And it may have been the head injury talking, but right now, despite the irritation he so commonly felt toward his new master, the idea of this destiny the dragon had prophesied suddenly didn’t seem too terrible after all.

Maybe Arthur wasn’t so bad, either.