#doing the unreasonable task feels necessary to get what they need

[syndrossi]

went to check your tumblr to see if there was new content or to reread my favorite au content and saw the post of one follower being sick… and it made me laugh because i too am sick

this made me realize that it is Syn’s utmost duty to provide us (pretty please with cherries on top) with bullet points and or a paragraph as to how Daemon would take care of the boys when/if they get sick with like the common cold. and interestingly enough, how the boys will respond to it (pretty please and thank you)

Bullet points? A measly paragraph! Pah! So many people suffering through being sick merits 4.1K words of sick!fic. Also, for those of us in the US it sure was, uh, a day.

So warm up some soup or a hot beverage of your choice and settle in! This ficlet is set in a hand-wavy time period 2 months or so from present-day Resonant. We'll call this sickness a particularly nasty cold...

Sick Days

It was not often that Daemon was summoned by his sons, though he vastly preferred such summons to any other, and yet that was how he found himself following Ser Arryk to the training yard.

“Nothing is amiss?” he asked, because all the Kingsguard had uttered was that Rhaegar had requested his presence at the yard. Though if either had been injured, he was certain that Arryk would have stated such immediately.

“The princes were in disagreement,” the knight said after a moment, “and Prince Rhaegar decided that your intervention was necessary.”

Daemon frowned, further mystified. His sons rarely found themselves at odds, though it warmed him that Rhaegar trusted him to settle the matter. It did occur to him that his younger son might simply believe that Daemon was easier to convince than Jon, but he decided that the reason did not matter.

Both were at the edge of the yard, Jon with his arms crossed and mouth drawn into a scowl that was all the more ferocious beside his brother’s calm poise. Daemon gave Ser Perkins a curt nod of acknowledgement and ignored Cole entirely. His nephews were locked in some contest, but clearly distracted by both his arrival and whatever was troubling his sons.

Jon’s shoulders slumped when he caught sight of Daemon, as though his very presence signalled defeat, and he turned back to his brother with clear outrage. “You sent for our father?”

“You were being unreasonable,” Rhaegar said.

Daemon leaned to drop a kiss on the crown of each head, regretting as always the waning years he would have to do so before his sons grew too tall. “Am I so unwelcome?”

“It is unnecessary,” Jon insisted.

The words were not intended to sting, yet they did so nonetheless. So much of their days were spent apart: his sons at their lessons, and Daemon attending to the upcoming Stepstones campaign. He should be teaching them the sword, rather than relying on others to do so.

Rhaegar fixed him with a plaintive look. “Jon is ill. He needs rest, but he insists on training.”

“Ill?” Daemon turned to his other son, alarmed. He had not seemed out of sorts at breakfast, but as he studied him now, the flush to his face was not one of anger or exertion, and there was a glassiness to his eyes. He reached for both of his sons’ foreheads, and Jon’s was notably warmer.

“I feel fine,” Jon protested, ducking out of his hand.

“I bested you in all five of our bouts,” Rhaegar said. “And you had to lean against the fence after each!”

“Bed,” Daemon said firmly, moving behind his son to undo the straps of his practice armor. “What else ails you?”

“It is only a fever.” Jon sounded sullen at even admitting that much, which likely meant there was more to it.

Daemon slung Jon’s armor over the fence, then turned to his other son. Whenever Viserys had fallen ill as a child, Daemon had usually followed soon after. “You as well.” Rhaegar glanced at his brother, his concern plain, and let Daemon remove his armor without complaint.

Back at their apartments, Daemon had them bathe and change, though he did not force Rhaegar to rest. Instead, his son set Rolen to the task of securing cloths and ice water for a cold compress while Daemon settled anxiously beside Jon’s bed, noting his shivers beneath the blankets.

He tested his forehead again, not certain if it was worse, and wondered whether to fetch the maester. It hardly seemed worth it, given that Mellos would likely prescribe a leeching. My brother has not once improved under his care.

Daemon stared at Jon for a time, until Rhaegar appeared to drape a cool cloth over his forehead, which heightened his son’s shivering. He could not recall if that was better or worse, so he absently sent Rhaegar for another blanket just in case.

A book was placed into his lap instead, the Valyrian children’s tales that he had read to his sons before. Jon’s gaze was fixed upon the ceiling, stoic in his misery, and Daemon read until his son’s eyelids drooped, stopping only once to change his compress, and the shivering slowly abated as sleep took him.

Then Daemon watched him, book open on his lap. The sight of his son resting should have set him at ease, but each stab of fear grew sharper still. Everything that had threatened his children thus far had come from without, enemies that could be cut and bled and held at bay with enough swords.

They could die. Somehow that had never occurred to him before. His sons could be stolen, yes, and hurt by people like Allard Royce and Marten Crayne. But he had stolen them back before, and could do it again.

He could not steal them back from the clutches of death.

The evening hours crept by without him noticing until Rhaegar gently prodded him to eat supper, and he realized he had been ignoring his other son, who would be equally in need of reassurance. They ate together, and Daemon asked him about his lessons, letting his son’s voice wash over him without comprehending, then resumed his vigil.

The next day, he barely moved from Jon’s bedside, overseeing his meals with growing anxiety at his decreased appetite. His son’s fierceness from the day before had been stolen by exhaustion and fever, dulled to listlessness. Even so, rest seemed to elude him, as coughing joined the parade of misery.

Rhaegar must have made excuses for his absence to king and court, for no one came knocking at the door in summons. He did not realize that his son had taken up the task of parenting him until late in the day, which was the same time that he noticed a telltale flush in Rhaegar’s cheeks as well.

“You did not tell me you were feverish,” Daemon said, unable to keep the sharpness from his voice and regretting it when his son’s expression blanked. He kissed his cheek in apology, finding it warm to the touch, and then his forehead, which was hotter still. “To bed.”

I should have noticed sooner. His son had barely eaten at breakfast, and been much quieter today.

Rhaegar’s fever worsened with the onset of night, accompanied by the same violent shivering that had plagued Jon the day before, and Jon could barely go more than a minute without coughing or telling Daemon that he should tend to Rhaegar instead, both of which were equally upsetting. He could feel their misery like it was his own, worsened by his helplessness.

Once they had both finally drifted into sleep, Daemon left their room, ignoring the tray of supper that Rolen had set out at the table, or the steaming bath meant to tempt him into washing, and instead stumbled into the hallway, feet taking him nearly all the way to Rhaenyra’s apartments before he remembered himself and continued slightly past, to Laenor’s.

His cousin had started his evening with some drinking, judging by his befuddled expression upon seeing him. “Daemon?”

“I must speak with Rhaenyra,” he said.

Laenor’s mouth opened, then closed, as though he had meant to say something then thought better of it. “And you require a chaperone.” His cousin sighed. “Very well. A moment.”

The moment took forever by Daemon’s reckoning, the time spent away from his sick children weighing heavier by the minute, but at last he emerged. “What is it? You look terrible.”

Daemon did not answer, turning back toward Rhaenyra’s apartments and lengthening his stride, hearing Laenor mutter under his breath before trotting to keep pace. The Kingsguard guarding her door, Ser Steffon, stepped aside after announcing them, and the door opened barely a second later.

Rhaenyra had not yet retired for the night, though she had exchanged court dress for something more suitable for lounging within the privacy of her apartments. Her stare at him was not unlike Laenor’s and he wondered just how terrible he looked. He could not recall if he had even changed out of his clothing for bed the previous night.

“Daemon,” she said, her polite nod one of perfect propriety, followed by a smile at her husband. “Laenor. Come in.” Once the door had shut, she ushered them to the hearth, then stepped over to the boys’ room, opening its door to reveal Jace. She kissed his cheek, then shooed him. “Back to bed, dragonling.”

She then settled on the couch beside Laenor, regarding Daemon with a concern so sweet that his heart clenched. “You look frightful, what’s wrong?”

“What if they die?”

It was not what he had meant to say, and even saying it aloud felt like speaking the possibility into being. His hands ached for a weapon to wield against the unbearable uncertainty, but he could only clasp them in his lap and feel his blood thrum.

Laenor’s brow remained furrowed in confusion, while Rhaenyra’s softened in understanding. “Your boys?”

“They are sick with fever, and I—” Had never considered the possibility. Had not prepared for it. “I do not know what to do, or how to know what help they need, or if—”

He was gently shushed and then peppered with questions. Could they speak sensibly. Could they move. Were they eating. Did they need help to the chamberpot. How were their hatchlings.

“I did not think to check,” Daemon said to the last, lurching to his feet. It seemed so obvious in hindsight. At the very least, their hatchlings’ presence should be a comfort.

“If they are eating and sleeping and speaking, then it is not necessary to fetch their hatchlings at this very moment, Daemon,” Rhaenyra said, with an authority that kept him from moving to the door. “Children sicken. They will be sick again, and you will be brought low by their illness more often than not. That is the nature of being a parent.”

“My aunt Daenerys died of sickness,” Daemon said, remembering how even decades later, his grandmother could not speak of her first daughter without pain. He had not understood why at the time when it had been so long ago, but after knowing his sons for a mere three moons, it seemed impossible that he might survive losing either. “How can you be certain that any illness might not take your child?”

“The Shivers were deadly to nearly all who were afflicted, but they have not been seen within the realm since. Such illnesses tend to reach the smallfolk first, so we will have warning should it ever return.” He must not have looked reassured, because she added, “She did not have a dragon, I recall my father saying. The king sent for a hatchling, but it was too late. Your sons and mine are dragonriders.”

“My father was a dragonrider,” Daemon said, gripping the back of the chair he had vacated. “And yet sickness took him in his prime.”

Rhaenyra rose with a soft sigh and met him on the other side of the chair to set her hands atop his. “There are grave illnesses and mild. Some claim the young and frail, and others the hale and hearty. The maesters are trained to know the signs of those that can be deadly. Has Mellos tended to them?”

“No,” Daemon said. His jaw clenched. “I will not trust their health to a bloodsucker.”

The corner of her mouth twitched downward briefly, her stare growing distant. They had both spoken before about the man’s treatments for Viserys, and he knew that she shared some of his opinion. “Would you like me to see them? My own sons have weathered over a dozen illnesses apiece.”

Daemon’s grip loosened, relief filling him. “Yes.”

“And if I find cause for worry, either Laenor or myself can fetch Maester Gerardys from Dragonstone. He is most capable and does not rely upon leeching.”

Daemon remembered the maester from his own youth, from various scrapes earned when visiting his uncle’s family. The maester had been much younger then, but with gentle hands and a patience for questions, even from a child.

“Why don’t I fetch him right now?” Laenor offered. “I have been itching for a good ride while the weather is still warm.”

“I would be most grateful,” Daemon said, feeling his nerves begin to settle with the outline of a plan.

Rhaenyra lifted his hands from the chair and squeezed. “Then let us go.”

Ser Steffon remained behind to guard Rhaenyra’s sons within, and Daemon counted himself lucky that he had negotiated with his brother to only require the company of Sers Arryk or Erryk when outside of the holdfast. Even so, he invited the knight outside of the door to his apartments within. Hightower was more eager than ever to find suggestions of impropriety between him and his niece.

His sons were both asleep, and Rolen informed him that he had changed their compresses ten minutes before. Neither were shivering, though their cheeks were still warm to the touch. Rhaenyra repeated his test with a kiss to their cheeks, and Rhaegar stirred to sleepily mumble, “Muña?”

Daemon tried not to look as though he had been punched in the gut, but Rhaenyra’s glance toward him was one of knowing. It hurt to think that he alone might not be enough for his children, or that he could not give them a mother who would love them as Rhaenyra would.

And even then, would she ever love them as much as sons of her own blood?

It was an unkind thought, but that did not make it untrue. Were Daemon ever forced to choose between the lives of her sons or his, he knew his heart. He was not ashamed of it; he could no more be ashamed of the need to breathe.

They are mine and I hold no life above theirs.

Rhaegar seemed to recognize Rhaenyra at last, and his face fell as he uttered a stricken apology that she shushed, stroking the hair from his forehead. The noise woke Jon, who sat up with an urgency that Daemon did not understand until the front of his tunic was splattered with sick that dripped down to the floor.

The smell was awful. Daemon reminded himself that he had endured far worse on the battlefield, and Jon looked so horrified, blurting apologies of his own, that he could not be annoyed for more than half a second.

“It is not the worst fluid I have been sprayed with,” Daemon assured him, and despite Rhaenyra’s dubious reaction on the other side of the bed, a ghost of a smile appeared on Jon’s face.

Rolen appeared to help him out of his soiled clothing, and then to tend to the mess on the floor. Once finished, his servant brought a clean chamberpot and set it upon the small bedside table for future spells of nausea.

Jon accepted a cup of water, and when Daemon mentioned that he would bring their hatchlings for company, Rhaegar offered to summon them himself from the Red Keep’s enclosure, an ability that he still found perplexing. Caraxes often seemed to know to find him, especially in dire moments, but Daemon had never tried calling his dragon with the expectation of him heeding.

Within minutes, however, the hatchlings were shrieking at the door to be let in, and Daemon caught Shadow mid-inhale of a gout of dragonflame. “Kelītīs!” he hastily commanded, and the hatchling coughed, only a tiny flicker escaping his mouth.

Daemon offered his shoulder, which Qelebrys took gladly while Shadow zipped past him. It was only a matter of time, he mused, until the hatchlings were forbidden from the holdfast if they could not learn to restrain their enthusiasm with their newfound dragonflame. A matter to discuss with his sons when they were feeling better. Scholarly and martial lessons had their place, but dragonriders needed lessons of their own. For all his duties, he could not neglect that aspect.

His sons seemed cheered by their dragons’ company, which granted them what seemed an extra vitality, and Daemon felt a fresh impatience with himself for not thinking of it before.

He watched them play with their hatchlings, showing off their impressive command to Rhaenyra at her prompting. As ever, Jon seemed to hold himself at a distance from her, demonstrating a deference that still puzzled Daemon, because his son had a natural command that he did not hesitate to apply even to the king.

Rhaegar, who possessed a similar command, albeit one that tended to rankle fewer men with excessive pride, was the opposite. Though he afforded Rhaenyra the respect she was due as the king’s heir, he treated her almost as an equal.

They are most certainly your sons, Rhaenys had remarked to Daemon more than once.

The play tired his sons quickly, however, and they did not even need the aid of a story to drift back to sleep.

“I do not think it is anything to worry about,” Rhaenyra said once they had re-entered the main chamber. “It seems very like the minor ills that plague my sons on occasion. Once the fever goes, it will be sniffles and prodigious quantities of snot.”

Daemon rubbed at his eyes, fatigue setting in. “Thank you.” His earlier terror had eased to a more manageable fretfulness over the course of Rhaenyra’s visit. He did not think he could shed it entirely, but he might actually sleep that night.

“And they will likely become crankier once they begin feeling better,” she added.

He nodded politely, not voicing his skepticism. Raging fits and whining seemed to afflict his nephews quite often, and even Rhaenyra’s sons were not immune, but his own were far more composed. He doubted he would face more than a few half-hearted attempts from them to win free of bed.

“Get some sleep, Daemon,” Rhaenyra said, holding herself to a nod in the presence of the household knight.

Daemon nodded back, feeling the distance between them particularly keenly tonight. “I shall.”

Her lips quirked. “You will find yourself in need of it soon enough.”

x~x~x

His sons were in fact capable of impressive crankiness, Daemon quickly learned, expressed in myriad creative ways. Jon seemed to view being sick as a personal insult, and that extended to being treated as sick. He complained incessantly about being forced to rest, insisting that he required fresh air and generally implying that he knew better than Daemon and Maester Gerardys.

On the third night, after Jon’s fever was mostly gone, Daemon’s refusal to allow his son to take a walk within the walls of the holdfast seemed to stretch him past his limits. A screaming fit ensued wherein his son accused Daemon of treating him like an infant to make amends for the years they had spent as orphans.

Daemon held himself together long enough to reiterate his decision, and then he locked himself in his chamber, vacillating between tears of heartache and tears of rage. It proved not enough, and he sought Caraxes’s company instead, finding an isolated copse of trees a short distance from King’s Landing to burn to charcoal and ash.

His son was contrite when he returned, assuring Daemon that he knew that he would have come for them sooner if he could have, and took the peace offer of a story.

Rhaegar meanwhile was an exercise in patience and understanding. Where the nigh-mortal blow of Jon’s words had not been meant to wound him so badly, his other son exhibited a flair for cutting his heart to ribbons with calculated precision. Every accusation and taunt seemed designed to provoke fury or sorrow, depending on how tired his son was, and being denied the former only further upset his son.

Daemon learned at last that where it was kinder to spare Jon the signs of his upset, Rhaegar somehow needed his tears and frustration in order to release his own, at which point he accepted Daemon’s hugs with hiccuping apologies.

In all, Daemon was vomited on three times, reduced to tears a dozen times, driven to burn four separate groves of trees, and restrained himself from regicide by way of fratricide while on the receiving end of smug superiority from Viserys twice, as though his brother even knew when one of his own sniveling brats was sick, much less tended to them.

This would be easier if they had a mother, Viserys had even dared suggest at one point, and Daemon had smashed a vase in front of him in lieu of punching him.

His sons’ misery eventually eased, especially once Daemon started letting them chase one another through the halls of the holdfast, or recruiting an unlucky Kingsguard to be in the role of chaser. As Rhaenyra had predicted, the snot ran freely along with his sons, but with their energy spent, their mood improved dramatically.

When Daemon himself fell ill at last, he let them order him around to their hearts’ content. He was deemed confined to bed, where each of them traded turns changing his own compress as they debated what soup he should have from the kitchens, with Rhaegar pointing out that they needn’t rely upon what the kitchen had already made and could order whatever they saw fit.

The days of fever were unpleasant and somewhat hazy, the accompanying aches and shivering occupying most of his attention. Through it, he remembered the worry on their faces as they tended to him, and it was a far more powerful balm than any soup.

He had weathered sickness on the Stepstones before, but Corlys’s worry had been first and foremost for his dragonrider, not for Daemon himself. At Runestone, his wife had viewed his illnesses as brief respites of her own—perhaps even hoping that one might free her of him entirely. The last time someone had tended to him as his sons did now would have been when he had caught a bad fever at fifteen. Despite his grandfather’s protests, his father had remained by his side throughout.

Jon read to him in Valyrian, struggling only a little with some of the bigger words, and Rhaegar sang lullabies to him that evoked a hazy memory of his mother’s face, and voice rather less sweet. Qelebrys watched him from the foot of his bed, while Shadow performed tricks at Jon’s command. Visitors were turned away, except for Rhaenyra and Viserys, and somehow his sons had secured the two differing plans for the proposed holdfast at Bloodstone that the heads of the masons and builders had been squabbling about for the past fortnight and negotiated an agreement between them.

“You should let us assist you more often,” Jon said matter-of-factly. “It is more interesting than our daytime lessons.”

His fever gave way to a truly irritating stuffiness that made it difficult to rest, and equally difficult not to hate everything. His complaints seemed to amuse his sons, and although that should itself have been irritating, their good humor took the worst of the edges off.

“I have read that dragonriding can clear one’s breathing,” Rhaegar informed him once he felt well enough to take supper with them at the table. His hopeful expression was only partly out of a love of flying, Daemon knew, as his sons were also still afflicted by sniffles.

They tested it together, finding the adage to be true during the flight itself, and for a short time after, but the stuffiness did creep back with each passing hour. At supper, they composed lists of their preferred soups, and found that none of them liked the sweet carrot soup. He and Rhaegar shared a favorite in chicken and mushroom in broth, while soups with broccoli edged that out for Jon.

His sons belatedly “permitted” him hallway privileges, bestowing upon him the honor of chasing them through the halls, and though his chases ended with some light coughing, their delighted grins made the effort worth it.

It wasn’t until he felt almost completely better that he allowed them to sleep in his bed, a habit that had gone from every night for a long stretch to something they requested only on occasion. As he neared sleep, he felt Jon shift beside him, and he opened his eyes to find his son staring at him with upset.

“What is it?” he whispered, shifting his arm to lay a hand on his hair.

“You cannot die,” his son whispered back. “You must promise.”

Daemon shifted to press a kiss to his forehead. “I promise.”

[graylinesspam]

Come to find out, artillery rounds do considerable damage to your body when you're hit by them directly.

Ahsoka yelps as the swirling spinning surgical pod whirls around her again, the high pitched sound searing through her montrals. But even that pain is secondary to the way her back it opened up, the muscles being carefully tended to. charred flesh sliced away and raw muscles stitched backtogether.

There are no less than three medics hovering outside of the pod. each scurrying around completing an endless series of tasks to support her recovery.

When she walked back onto the Resolute after Steela's funeral she'd just been grateful that she'd started wearing backless dresses, which had prevented fabric from melting into her burns.

But for artillery rounds, it turned out that the healing process was worse than the wounds themselves.

Being sliced apart and stitched back together was a lengthy process. She'd been stuck in the medbay, face down, for well over two weeks. The skin of her back was kept alive by bacta treatments and steroids but ultimately kept detached from her flesh as the medics needed continued access to the muscle beneath.

She was also on a constant flow of painkillers to make her condition tolerable. It did nothing for the pain of the operations but it made her idle hours easier to bear.

she also wasn't allowed to dress in any reasonable clothing. only her leggings and disposable paper gowns that tied around the neck and waist. they were dry and itchy and they crinkled whenever see moved. she'd grown to hate that sound.

Maybe she was being bitter and unreasonable. but she'd also lost all the strength in her arms when they started taking apart her back muscles. turns out the shoulders are very necessary for arm strength. and Ahsoka was staring down a very long recovery period.

when the whirring came to an end and the cot retracted from the surgical pod Cadaver was already there looking over the open flesh of her back, noting what flesh was growing back. When he had taken his notes Kix stepped in to reapply her creams and bandage over the wound.

Thankfully they still allowed her to walk herself around even if she needed some support on the very bottom of her back in order to get to a standing position.

Rex was waiting with her lunch and she was allowed to have it on the bench just outside the medbay. The hanger loud around them. He frequently came to chat with her. other men from torrent came and went as well but Cadaver never let them into the bay. convinced they'd get her into some kind of trouble.

Maybe it wasn't just her back that was numbed out all the time. Because this was the first long stint in the medbay where Ahsoka wasn't itching to leave. She wasn't happy to be there either. It wasn't accurate to say that she was content either.

Steela's death had done something to her. Obi-wan assured her that some time would ease the strain of that expirience. Maybe it would. it seemed that for the moment at least time and pain where all she could feel.

---

Meanwhile, news of Ahsoka's injury had made it far outside of Torrent company. Taking an artillery round to the back was no easy feat even for a jedi. To not just survive it but to be up and walking immediately after. That was the kind of unbelievable war story that spread like fire.

The pilots of the 501st had already painted a mural of her across the side of a fighter. with her Sabers held in a defensive hold and the bright blast of an explosion behind her.

Ahsoka was already known for her preference of the sword and saber maneuver. She preferred to fight in tandem with her troops and as their guard rather than Skywalker's Style of sprinting right into the heat and taking the enemy's attention entirely.

But this level of durability? Her ability to take a hit and keep going was quickly becoming gossip amongst the GAR. The mythical glee that had surrounded their idea of the jedi as cadets rarely surfaces now that they work with them but this story was bringing it back.

Some Jedi were just jedi and some of them were built from stronger stock. Skywalker surely was, and by all acounts, Tano was as well.

And she was becoming a legend for it.

[seancosy]

I saw ur post in the solarpunk tag and! I think we can do better! I think nobody should have to work ever, because how do we pick who's exempt? who's making that decision? the only way I can think for it to be fair is if the person themself gets to make that decision.

bc like the system you're describing isn't hypothetical and as someone who's gone through a nightmare of uncaring bureaucracy just to be allowed not to work due to disability I can say it doesn't work and definitely doesn't feel like a utopia!

I don't follow you and not gonna come back to this so do with it what you want but yeah something to consider I guess

Points I agree with:

People should have the ability to self-determine their capacity to work, and should not be expected to work if they are unable to.

External parties should not be deciding who is able or unable to work.

Points I disagree with:

"Nobody should have to work ever"

I may be misunderstanding you, but... life is work. Someone needs to drive trains, design functional sewerage systems, deliver babies, rescue people from burning buildings, grow rice, implement grain shipping logistics, change diapers, develop vaccines, wash clothes, teach children to read, sterilise surgical equipment, provide counselling to antisocial or dangerous people, cook food for the elderly, insert urinary catheters, repair potholes in roads, pick up rubbish, code the software that checks pressure in dam walls, etc.

None of the above jobs are particularly sexy. Very few people would dream of performing any of these roles when they are growing up. But the work is necessary to maintain a functional society. What links these jobs is that they are meaningful. They help. They improve society. People can find purpose and fulfillment in these tasks because they know they are helping society, even if indirectly.

There are so many jobs in our current society that do not provide a benefit to anyone other than a select few capitalists. If we restructured to become more 'solarpunk' (which I interpret as more communist and likely more anarchist than current societies), these capitalist jobs wouldn't exist, and we wouldn't miss them. Merchant bankers, advertising executives, influencers, soldiers, funko-pop factory workers (I have a personal dislike for these products; such an overt waste of materials and for literally no benefit! people often don't even take them out of their packets?!?!), mortgage brokers, the list goes on.

If we redirected the people working in these capitalist jobs towards roles that directly help society.... everyone would work a lot less, but society would function just as effectively, if not more so. There would be fewer jobs, and more people to do them. There would be more chance to rest and enjoy leisure time. And yes, some people would probably be able to never work at all, if they chose to. But if the work is meaningful, I genuinely believe most people would want to work, and I don't think it's unreasonable to expect people to do something meaningful for others even for just a few hours a week (clean the dishes at the cafeteria or babysit your friend's kids). But no, I don't think people's work contributions should be monitored or quantified at all, unless it's to tell people to rest when they are overworked. People should work of their own volition. And of course those with disabilities or any other factors that prevent them from working safely shouldn't need to work if they are unable or unwilling.

An interesting book that portrays a world that is anarcho-communist is The Dispossessed, by Ursula K LeGuin. It details the struggle between the need for work VS personal freedom exceptionally well.

(Original post linked below)

[nights-flying-fox]

a short tidepod duo sickfic gift for @little-banjo-frog & @spacemimz :] hope you guys feel better soon!!

Word count: 1283 ☆ fandom: rottmnt ☆ ao3 link: n/a (yet)

 Leo really hated being sick. It was always boring. Especially if he was the only one who got sick. Raph would get anxious and act like a mother hen, and Donnie would never let him leave his room if it was not necessary (and mind you, it is not because Leo has to rest, it is because he’d end up spreading his sickness in the lair), and would be a snitch whenever Leo tried to sneak out. At least Splinter had the experience and always knew what Leo needed. 

 The thing was that his dad seemed to miss the fact Leo had slept the whole morning, and then the whole noon, and now he couldn’t sleep. To be honest he didn’t want to either. Being sick was bad, but staying in your room and not being able to do much was also bad. The first was okay. He read comics, scrolled on his phone and read some fanfiction, played some video games... Yeah, he had company too but... He wanted to do something other than lying down all the time! He was well enough to walk around, and he was pretty sure his sickness wasn't contagious so he should be able to leave the room, right?

 So he got up. It was slow and careful steps, mostly to not wake up others. Thank Pizza Supreme in the Sky, he didn’t cough anymore. He could just have a tour of the lair, maybe even find something interesting to do—

 “Leo?”

 He turned to see Mikey standing at the entrance of his room. He had his blanket wrapped around him, and his eyes were tired. Uh oh.

 “Don’t tell me...” Leo started.

 “It is your fault.” Mikey glared.

 “...Is this why you came here?” Leo asked. “To accuse me of spreading sickness.”

 Mikey whined, “Noooo, I can’t sleep.” 

 Leo tilted his head, “Why?”

 “Because—” He began coughing. Leo watched, feeling terrible. Maybe this was his fault, alright. After his coughing fit was over, Mikey continued. “Well, this...”

 “Eugh boi... Yeah, let’s make you some warm tea.” Leo grabbed his blanket as well. It was cold out of his bed.

 “That sounds good, but I was wondering,” Mikey was looking at him pleadingly. “Could I stay with you tonight?” 

 Leo understood his pain very well. Sickness alone was boring as heck. “Sure, but we will visit the kitchen first.” He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he pulled his blanket and walked out of the room.

 He’d consider himself fast for someone sick, considering how Mikey had yet to join him. Except he wasn’t aware that Mikey was watching him walk, pulling his plushies on the blanket at the same time. The youngest smiled to himself as he followed his brother, deciding not to say anything. 

 Eventually, the two reached to the kitchen, Leo making two mugs of linden tea. Meanwhile, Mikey leaned on the counter, watching him. As Leo poured the warm tea into the mugs, he noticed something: “Hey, isn’t that Dad’s soup?” 

 Leo looked at where Mikey pointed at. A big casserole, which Leo knew that Splinter used it for when he made one of his famous soups. “Yeah, it is...”

 “Shouldn’t he have put it into the fridge?” Mikey muttered.

 “I dunno, you are the chef here.” Leo shrugged.

 They looked at each other for a second before Mikey said “I’m reheating it.” 

 “I’m getting the bowls.”

 And so the two warmed the soup, poured it into bowls, and headed out of the kitchen with two trays of soup and tea. The slideer had yet to notice his plushies on his blanket too, so they came along with the turtles as well. 

 Leo pointed out that Mikey’s room was the closest one, so they quietly headed there. However, Leo had forgotten that Mikey lacked a bed. Good thing Mikey had unreasonably a lot of pillows. Since Mikey had even less energy and was coughing a bit more now, Leo decided to handle putting the pillows down to make a comfortable place they could sit. As he did the task, he noticed the familiar purple tablet on the ground. “Is that Donnie’s tablet?” 

 “Mmmhmm.” Mikey murmured. 

 Well, they could use this! “Wanna watch a lame movie until we fall asleep or Raph finds us?” 

 “Yeah,” Mikey replied, enthusiastic but tired. “One of the lame horror movies?”

 “No, you won’t be able to sleep.” Leo said as he placed more pillows on the ground.

 “Nuh-uh.”

 “You literally couldn’t sleep after watching those fake ghost stories youtube videos for a week.” 

 “Lies.” 

 Leo rolled his eyes. He didn’t say anything though, because he got distracted once he pulled his blanket over the pillows. “Wha- are those my plushies?” 

 “Yea, you’ve been dragging them along with your blanket the whole time.” Mikey snickered.

 Oh. Okay, Leo maybe hadn’t recovered enough, how had he not noticed that? Eh, who cared. He took them and placed them on the pillows. “Bring yours too then.” He told Mikey as he sat down and pulled the trays closer, opening space to put the tablet on. Mikey did as he was told, and then sat next to Leo. They chose a movie and drank their soup and tea as they watched it in the dimly lit comfy room. The fairy lights and the way they were lying on the many pillows sleepily really made it feel like they were in a pillow fort. It was nice. 

 Mikey eventually got into his shell, only leaving his head out to see the screen. Leo held him close, circling gently his shell whenever his brother had a coughing fit. They both weren’t feeling their very best, but it seemed that the warm stuff and the comfort helped.

 The youngest was the first to fall asleep. Leo didn’t remember when, but he fell asleep too. In the morning they found themselves in Leo’s bed, surrounded with some pillows and stuffed animals. And there was grumpy Raph watching them- no, glaring at them, sitting next to them.

 “Hey big guy,” Leo smiled. Mikey was still sleeping beside him. “For your information, Mike’s joined the sick club.” 

 “I know.” He huffed. “What were you two thinking laying on the ground the whole night?”

 “On pillows, Raph.” Leo corrected.

 Raph glared at him even more, if it was possible.

 “Relaaax, I was restless and he wanted company. I thought tea would help with his coughing, and his room is closer than mine...” Leo explained.

 Raph sighed. “What am I gonna do with you two...” 

 “Bring us a very good breakfast?” He suggested.

 “How are you feeling?” Raph asked, ignoring Leo’s suggestion. But he had smiled, so he might’ve brought them a good breakfast. Or maybe it was already on the way. 

 “Still not feeling too hot, buuut kinda better.” Leo answered. “No coughing, a bit tired tho.”

 “Yeah, good.” Raph smiled, then put his hand on his forehead. “Your fever seems to be better. But don’t you dare to leave the bed yet. Not alone.”

 “Why, where are you going?” Leo asked.

 “Didn’t you ask for breakfast?” Raph smiled as he walked towards the door.

 “You’re the best Raph.” 

 “Yeah, yeah.” Raph waved his hand. As he left, he added, “Get prepared against Donnie’s rant of careful usage of his stuff and whatever Pops has to say about soup.” 

 When Leo groaned, Raph had already left. 

 But now Leo wasn’t sick and alone. Yeah, maybe being sick was boring, and so was being stuck in your room, but hey, at least he had his family that made his days better. He smiled to himself, closing his eyes to fall asleep before his twin or Splinter paid a visit.

[3liza]

there is one person who has reblogged with tags describing how they personally experienced the misleading upbringing i describe in the first post, where parents teach you its normal and fine to constantly pester people, and they had to unlearn it after it caused them a bunch of problems. it's often not malicious or intentional, it is often genuinely just that someone raises you to think being annoying or making people uncomfortable is how people bond. this is always really hard to break out of because something most people are REALLY reluctant to confront others on is boundary violations. they will often just avoid you instead of taking on the responsibility and the chore of educating someone who should know better.

my own family has a pestering-based way of showing affection and bonding behavior. we navigate this by reading the signals and physiological status of the other person to tell when they are willing to be pestered, and when they are not. also my parents would switch to a serious voice and gently ask us to settle down if they weren't in the mood to goof around or banter. this taught us to be able to switch modes when necessary.

autistics do have trouble with this sometimes because of the lack of feedback and the fact that when kids are socially withdrawn, we get less pure mileage in the tasks and behaviors of socialization, meaning we get stuck in behavior suited to elementary and middle school as our age cohort grows up. this can be overcome through practice and study. a good rule of thumb is if someone tells you they dont like something or not to do something, immediately stop, immediately apologize sincerely (even if you dont understand why they dont like it, or if it doesnt make sense to you that they would object to it), and never do it again.

complication: sometimes the concept of a "boundary" can itself be manipulative or abusive, like falsely framing a reasonable request or need that you have as a "boundary violation" for them. this does happen sometimes. it can be an aspect of gaslighting and controlling behavior. and its hard to tell when it's happening. "it violates my trust when you leave the house or talk to your friends, you're violating my boundaries" is a very common abuse tactic. thats sort of a different post. the short version is the only way to be able to know when this is happening is checking with a variety of other people to get a sense of what is reasonable or not (ths is why people post on AITA, mostly), and getting experience in your life navigating social situations.

complication two: sometimes someone requires and maintains boundaries that they genuinely need to feel comfortable, but arent normal. a harmless example: i have very bad hypersensitivity to unpredictable sounds. i have asked people i have lived with to sometimes not flush the toilet in the middle of the night because the noise startles me awake and really fucks me up. i would not get mad at someone for forgetting this or even arguing with me about it, because im the one being "unreasonable", and maybe the other person thinks its super gross to leave pee in the toilet until the morning. in this case we would negotiate: maybe we have a way of making the toilet flush quieter or something. or maybe their revulsion towards leaving pee unflushed (unflushed poop is a no, that trumps noise concerns imo) is greater than my startle response. idk. we just hash it out and try stuff. everyone should try not to get defensive or take it personally with conflicting access requirements like this, even if it's triggering or very serious, like needing to get enough sleep.

ive met a lot of non-malicious men who seem to have learned to equate pushing someone's boundaries, or just spontaneously deciding that the boundaries are no longer applicable, as a form of intimacy. the reasoning, whether it's conscious or not (i've seen cases of both), seems to be test whether the target lets it slide (thus affirming intimacy by forcing permissiveness), or re-asserts the boundary, which usually makes them have a rejection freakout because it means they arent special enough to get away with bad behavior. sometimes its just regular creep behavior, testing the fence for weaknesses, sometimes it's intimate partner dysfunction based on insecurity, and sometimes its just arrested development (kkids test boundaries normally and in a healthy way, they're supposed to) because some parent figure didnt complete the other side of the developmental exchange correctly or at all.

it's not a gendered behavior, humans are prone to it in general, i just personally dont get challenged by women much idk why, whatever vibe i have going on is repulsive to women who arent really weird in a compatible way

[rcksmith]

Desire — Kaz Brekker

(Photo not mine)

Requests: “Hello there! I've been around this blog for a bit now and you are an amazing writer! I was wondering if you would be ok with doing something with 21 28 & 29 from the smut prompts and kaz brekker? If you are uncomfortable please just ignore this!”

“Kaz brekker Smut prompts 28 66?? Love you💖!!”

“I can request Kaz smut prompts 29?❤️”

Smut prompts:

21. “Look at you, I’ve only started using my fingers and you’re already shaking.”

28. “Such a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

29. “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

66. “You know I don’t like to be teased.”

Couple: Kaz Brekker/ Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing, mention of shot, mention of desire, desire, mention of smut, explicit smut, NSFW.

Word count: 3k

A/N: All smut requests for Kaz must follow these rules.

I hope you like💕 English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are open. Love you ❤️

— — — —

There was something about you. Something impossible to decipher, with a glow hovering around you like a electrical energy. Wrapping your whole body in a cloak of magnetism. There was something about the way you spoke, walked, laugh. Something about what it was like to be you, in your beauty and mysteries like a sphinx.

Something that made Kaz Brekker completely furious.

You couldn't be more distorted from the image, in Kaz's mind, than what was to be a peaceful woman. Calm, controled, with steel emotions and wit in eyes. Someone who, like him, knew how to dance the waltz of negotiation, manipulation, who could blend in with the shadows and know the best time to listen more than speak.

You were not like Inej, you were not like Jesper. Hell, you were like nobody Kaz has known in all of his 28 years.

Nothing reminiscent of calm and control would be used to describe what it meant to be you.

Your soul are stormy, loud, obstinate, too stubborn and too talkative. You needed to speak loudly, laugh, move, expose your opinions to the seven winds and to whoever listened the most. You needed to question, inquire, doubt and test the limits of any situation. A direct order for you would be an affront to your free and independent spirit. A command that would curtail your freedom or tame your strong genius was almost like an invitation for you to do exactly the opposite of what they had ordered you to do.

So, for a man of trained reasoning, subtly balanced world, and who was used to his every command being followed vehemently and promptly in blind obedience, such a personality like you was like introducing a disturbing factor capable of shaking all his judgments. Sand in a watch, or stone in a shoe, would be no more a nuisance than a strong nature like your.

The extraordinary stubbornness and mania to counter his orders - when, in your words, they were unreasonable - had made you different from all the women Brekker had ever met. Kaz liked challenges and responsibilities, a good puzzle, but you were on a level far beyond that.

You were a danger to his peace of mind. And you knew that. All his aversion to your indomitable spirit only served as fuel for your own mission in to piss him off. Few men were like Kaz Brekker, you knew that, with a strength of character too powerful to be ignored. He was not just comfortable in his position of authority as he was obviously unable to act in any other way than as a leader. His stoic figure and always so contained in a wall of indifference made you want to ruffle his hair to see if you could remove any emotion. And being a girl who hasn't always liked leaders, Kaz Brekker was a huge temptation. Few moments had been better than those that you managed to piss him off beyond what he could handle.

However, all the reasons why the two of you were so exasperating for each other, did not explain why the air crackled in ambiguity when your eyes met. The hemisphere was adorned in a thought-provoking, poignant veil, like a warm honey flowing down its throat, and there was something else in the way blood flowed like flames of fire through veins of you two.

Jesper said that the sexual tension between you was so tangible that it could be cut by one of Inej's knives, but you refused to think of Kaz that way. At least until that moment.

Not pure images of what the infamous Brekker could do to you between four walls swept you like the strong Arabian wind. Making you be surprisingly breathless. Kaz was not a man whose private life was exposed, nor was he involved with many women, but you have heard two or three of them when they were drunk saying that Kaz Brekker in the room could be incendiary.

Everyone knew that his touch reserve didn't limit him to anything, but that his job was at the top of the priority list and that sexual encounters were almost never on that list.

"It was not my fault!” Jesper defended himself one night, slightly drunk, sitting at the club's round table next to the other crows “I didn't know he was married to another man! That damn pretty face seduced me!”

"Did he seduce you?" You asked, skeptical and playful.

"I swear to God! And it had been a long time since I had sex with anyone, and I went… ”

“But you did sex last week." Inej laughed, chocked.

"Exactly!" Jesper said, as if he were obvious.

You laughed with your beer glass in your hand, taking another sip.

“Is a week a long time to not sleep with anyone?" Matthias retorted, trying not to laugh.

“Are you going to tell me that is not?” Jesper and Nina spoke at the same time.

“If a man has time for sex more than once a week, he clearly doesn't have much to do. And I'm sure I gave Jesper a lot of tasks that would keep him busy.” Kaz narrowed his eyes at his friend, and Jesper hid his guilt behind the rim of his beer glass, looking to the side.

"So you are saying that you are a very busy man?" You teased, trying not to laugh at the scathing look Kaz sent you.

"I disagree. The values ​​of hard work and discipline cannot match the hot body of a woman in bed.” Matthias said, exchanging a brief conspiratorial look with Nina, who winked at him.

"There are more important things." Said Kaz.

"Like what?" You rested your chin on the back of the hand whose elbow was on the table, the playful look of a rebellious student.

"Progress." Kaz held your gaze.

He wasn't going to take your bait. But you didn't give up easy.

"Tell me, if God gave you a deal: all the hunger in the world would be extinguished in exchange for you never being able to have sex again, what would you choose?" your eyes had a teasing feline glow.

At that moment, Kaz felt a shiver up the back of his neck, like a warm breath of autumn. Something crawled, like a snake, across his rib cage and down to his groin, pumping blood like fire through his veins.

He held your gaze, but the feline glow in your eyes promised to contain the most ardent sins. Suddenly, Kaz's mind was flooded by the wave of obscene images of you, on his bed; moaning, squirming, shouting his name and being very obedient with every order he gave you.

He would make you such a good girl...

"I don't believe in God." He replied succinctly, the predator's eyes still in your eyes audacious feline's.

A big, satisfied smile spread across your face, and you said: "As I thought. Bad luck for hungry people.”

Realizing that he had fallen right into your cunning trap, Kaz got rid of your diabolical magnetism and cursed.

“I didn't say…” he stopped, impatient “It doesn't matter. I have more important things to do than waste time here.”

But the smile you hid behind the glass was noticeable to Kaz.

After that night, the crackling, gasping flame that circled the two of you intensified to alarming levels. Kaz could feel you holding your breath when he was too close, and you could see him squeezing his cane harder when you sweetened your voice for him.

However, regardless of Kaz's wanted to fold you at a table and put an end to your brat girl pose, enjoying the groans he was sure you would let out, the two of you still fought like dog and cat.

Just as it was now.

“What do you mean, I'm not going?!” You looked at Kaz, amazed, when he told you that you would not participate in the robbery that week “I know that security system like the back of my hand!”

It was true, what you had of stubbornness, you had of technological intelligence. There was no computer that you would not hack, a program that you would not hack, and a system that you would not unlock. Your genius with technology made up for all your lack of obedience.

But Kaz ignored. “I've already told you. It's a more dangerous mission than you're used to and we don't have time for the plans you come up with right away.” He needled you.

“Are you referring to Switzerland?” You were never anything short of direct and inquiring. It was logical that you would question every orden. “But I already told you that when the alarm went off your plan didn't work anymore! I was more useful inside to deactivate the alarm than waiting outside.”

And stubborn. Holy God, how stubborn you were!

"And it cost you to get shot."

"But it was just a shot!"

Kaz looked at you, puzzled. “Just?! And wasn't it enough ?! You put the whole team at risk!”

“But if I hadn't deactivated the alarm, we would all be arrested! And only I knew how to do that!”

"My fucking God, isn't there a speck of common sense in you?!"

But you answered boldly: "Not when you impose clueless plans on me."

Mortified would be an understatement to describe how he was now. What an unbearable creature! Kaz felt the anger spread from his neck to his face, igniting his breath and squinting his eyes in annoyance.

Why was it so difficult for you to follow a simple goddamn rule?!

“Besides, your initial plan was flawed and there was no reason for me to be out when it was necessary inside and...” And you kept talking!

If you had noticed Kaz's completely enraged state in front of you, you would have been scared, shut up and ran. But, truth be told, Kaz suspected that even if you knew how to read the murderous humor in his eyes, you wouldn't have left that office. Much less be afraid. You could argue with the demon. And you would probably beat him out of tiredness.

However, regardless of the desire to shake you up, to see if that put any good sense in you, in that second, watching you gesture with your hands, defending your point of view as if it were the england queen's crown, something swept Kaz's body from the top of his head with dark hair to the tips of his illustrated boots.

The sound of the world was drowned out by the flow of blood itself in his veins. His heart hammered hard in his chest and, in that instant, a sharp sting in his groin and the pit of his stomach set him on fire.

His gaze went down to your mouth, which kept moving. And when it came up to your eyes, your stubborn and defiant gaze sent Kaz's rationality into space. He dropped the cane abruptly, which toppled to the floor with a hollow crack, and advanced towards you in firm and determined steps.

Gluing his gloved hands to your face, Kaz silenced all your protests with a strong kiss. Hot, fiery, domineering. The kind of kiss that held years of camouflaged desire, years of irritability, years of an unnerving desire to make you shut up with all the perverse forms that existed.

You weren't afraid of him. But you should. You should if you knew everything he wanted to do with you.

However, as if you have been burning in the same desire for years, you responded to that kiss with the same urgency. The same hunger. Kaz slipped his hands into your hair, closing his fingers there and deepening the kiss with ferocity. He felt beside himself, like a hungry wild animal that had been denied food for years and that only now had its teeth set on its prey. You moaned against his lips, bringing your hands to his lean, strong biceps, squeezing your fingers there.

You both needed air, but neither seemed to give a damn about that. Misted of desire that burned like a fire in their bodies, Kaz pushed the two of you backwards, slamming your back against the wall and swinging a frame beside. You gasped, and the gesture made it possible for Kaz to invade your mouth with his tongue, hunting every piece of hot meat. You two fought the same battle in that kiss: invade, dominate, conquer.

They both wanted to take the waltz, but Kaz would never let you conduct the show.

He pulled your wrists up, pinning them with one hand against the wall, leaving you immobile while sinking his mouth further into yours. Kaz felt you try to get rid of his tight grip, but he was stronger than you. And much more when he have a objective.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." He murmured against your mouth, the tip of his tongue playing with your bottom lip. “You know I don’t like to be teased.”

Was impossible for you to control the loud moan that escaped. Your body trembling with desire, your legs wobbly, your wet core vibrating with his words. Kaz Brekker was a fallen angel. With a beauty and charm you've never been immune to.

How can you think you'd win the dominance game with him?

And, like the fallen angel he was, his smug and arrogant smile painted the corner of his lips when he saw what his lines did to you.

“I didn’t know you were so sensitive.” Kaz mocked “If I knew it was only necessary to do this for you to shut up...” he brought his lips closer, his voice hitting yours “I would have fucked you like the naughty brat you have been a long time.”

If his caustic and maddening kisses hadn't been enough to break you in half, that statement would have done all the work.

In that second, you hoisted your white flag, biting your lip in a needy moan and closing your eyes for a second by the overwhelming vibration of your core. God, you needed more. Whatever he gave you. Anything he wanted to give you. You just needed more.

"Are you going to be good?" He played with the dough you were in his hands, his devilish mouth going down your neck, leaving a trail of fire and debris wherever he went.

You agreed, desperately. “Yes, Sir."

That title seemed to do things with Kaz. Because in the next second, his mouth was back on your. More urgent, more needy, more dominating. You shifted your hips for more friction with his, and Kaz rewarded your obedience by pulling one of your thighs forward, making your skirt go up, aligning your thigh on his hips and giving access for his member to fit perfectly against your pulsating core.

You moaned louder this time. Fingers clenching, heart pumping frantically. Kaz pulled his lips away from you for a second, taking his hand off your thigh and bringing it to your mouth.

“Pull.” He ordered, referring to the glove.

You murmured a low, excited moan, bringing your mouth to the glove and clenching your teeth on the cloth at the top of his middle finger. Satisfied, Kaz pulled his hand back, watching the alabaster skin peel away from the leather fabric. As soon as he was free, he removed the glove from your mouth, replacing it with his own and stealing all your breath in that fiery kiss.

His free hand wandered over your thigh, touching you for the first time with a touch that promised to show you all the most delicious and secret sins in the world. His tongue wrapped around your again, and the moan you let out was even greater when his long fingers brushed against your wet, throbbing core.

"S-sir!" You sobbed, your hips rocking against his hand, desperate for more.

"Look at you." His fire voice beat against your lips, the tightness against your wrists getting stronger, more possessive "I’ ve only started using my fingers and you ’re already shaking"

Your body cried out in unbridled desire, sobs mingling with loud moans and heavy sighs as Kaz tormented you with his fingers. He touched you, slid, opened and sank, increasing the volume of your pleas.

“P-please" You begged, the body in need, the urge too urgent.

Kaz looked you in the eye, a dark, malicious gleam burning in his Egyptian blue irises. "Such a needy little thing, aren't you?" He teased you.

But you no longer cared about his teasing. With your lips swollen and red, your heart racing and the core pulsing in despair on his experienced fingers, you were already surrendered.

"Please. I n-need." You mumbled submissively, rummaging your hips in his hand.

"I bet if I wanted to fuck you against my desk, here and now, you would be very happy to do it, wouldn't you?"

He was foisting all of his dominance on you, bending you to your knees for him. And you knew that. You knew he was taking years of anger out on you. But you couldn't care less. You wanted him. Ardently. Desperately. And if it was a good girl Kaz wanted, damn it, you would be a good girl for him.

You readily agreed, your eyes shining in supplication.

“Good.” Kaz pulled you brutally off the wall, turning you over to the table and pushing your chest against the icy wood, pulling your hips at him. “Because that's exactly what is going to happen.”

Suddenly, desire and hunger roared like a wild beast. Kaz watched you, bent over his desk, obedient, surrendered, offering every inch of your body to him.

His breath was burning in his throat and it was no longer possible to order his thoughts, contain his euphoria. He would fuck you so hard that it would make that memory the only thought when you remembered him. When you dare to rebut his orders.

Kaz pulled you skirt up and your panties down, letting out a groan that sounded more like a growl as he saw your wet core. Pulsing and desperate for him. For anything he wanted to give you. It sparked a fervent desire that Brekker had never felt in his life, devastating any possibility of thinking about anything other than fucking you.

Playing with your fingers in your slick, wet folds, you whimpered again, the core pulsing whenever he teased you inside, pressing his fingertips there but never entering.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" His voice came over the top of your shoulder, hoarse, animalistic, full of profane desires.

"Please." You were quick to beg “I do what you want! But just...please, please… ”

You already felt your eyes watering from over-stimulation, your heart burning so hard it was beating, your core aching from emptiness.

You sealed the end of the game between you. Kaz had won. In a triumphant checkmate.

And you didn't have to beg again. Barely seeing when he unbuttoned his pants, you just reasoned his hard, hot, pulsating member by opening your from the inside. Claiming everything that was yours as his in a strong, desperate, hungry lunge.

"S-sir!" You screamed, your nails scraping the wood from the table, the core pulsing overwhelmingly around his rigid member.

In a more badly lunge, Kaz sank completely into you, moaning loudly as he hit rock bottom. The gloved hand slid over your shoulder, propelled you to him while the bare hand tightened on your waist, hitting you at a steady, raw, animalistic rhythm.

The sounds were pornographic, dirty and loud, echoing off the walls. The air was hot like molten lava, pungent and muffled, driving you two lost breath. Their bodies clashed as if the world was going to end tomorrow, in aggressive, rough thrusts. These were thrusts that made half of his things on the table fall to the floor, mixing in a mess that would serve as a reminder later about the sinful activities you two did.

You screamed when Kaz took on more force, his fingers squeezing you so hard that they would leave you with marks on your shoulder and waist the next day.

"Fucking hell!" Kaz snarled between his teeth, feeling your flesh throb around him, squeezing he with such desperation that he knew you were close.

You sobbed, tears streaming down the corners of your eyes as you pushed your ass towards him, trying to bring him as deep as possible, as deep inside you as possible. But every time his pelvis smashed into your ass, a loud moan and the feeling of being completely full drowned you.

You begged, pleaded, for something you didn't know. But Kaz seemed to know. Taking both hands to your hips, your pace became even more unperturbed, pushing you to the limit until you cum in a scream in his name, your lungs on fire. Kaz came close behind, sinking as deep as possible and pouring all the hot liquid into you. Almost like a brand.

The air was filled with sex, lust and desire, filled only by the sound of their ragged breaths that struggled to stabilize.

You were still panting when Kaz's voice came after you: "Whatever I want, don't I?"

A deal with the devil.

[dramamelon]

Constructicon Week is here! @constructiconweek

I'll be posting them here as well as reblogging with an AO3 link because they're all short pieces. :)

What Once Was

Day 3: Devastator | Influence Rating: T Tags: Minimal Editing, Canon Blender of IDW1 & IDW2, Snippets of Larger Story, Abandoned & Destroyed City, Haunted Houses, updated as necessary Fic Summary: In a moment of peace that was either the End of the War or a Temporary Truce (no one was quite sure where they stood yet), the Constructicons claimed the shattered remains of Crystal City as their own. So far, no one else had raised a fuss, leaving them free to rebuild as they wished. Chapter Summary: Something about the city felt wrong, even to a combiner.

It had been a while since his parts joined to form his large frame. Seeing why they needed him left Devastator tilting his helm slightly in curiosity. He nudged at his parts, urging them to share even the smallest bits of data pertaining to their request of him. Not for the sake of a better explanation, no, but for a deeper understanding of how to approach his task without destroying everything his parts were attempting to recover.

"I understand," he said aloud, enjoying the chance to use his vocalizer even when there was no need to use it as his parts were the only others around.

Enough tall spires of the once proud buildings of Crystal City remained to allow his voice a small echo. Small flutter traveled through the panels of his armor—a shiver? Devastator marveled at the chill that traveled along his spinal stack, reaching some deep, mechanimal area of his brain module. Or, at least, his shared encephalon array. (That was the Hook part's term for it. The Long Haul part thought it sounded awful hoity-toity, but wasn't willing to suffer the dirty looks he got for calling it something else. Or so the Long Haul part liked to tell Devastator.)

Not quite certain what to label the sensation just yet, Devastator straightened to stand tall and turned a slow look around the rubble of the fallen city. A touch of the Scavenger part had him aware of just how desolate the city had become since his last walk through these particular streets. He remembered very well the act of building it all, a moment of pride for not only him, but for all his parts.

"What is this sensation I feel, my parts?" he asked, another shiver passing through him the hollow return of his voice to his audials. "I do not like it."

In his combined form, Devastator didn't hear the separate voices of his parts. Not as words, anyway. His answer came in the form of a swirling vortex of knowing and emotion he was only vaguely able to comprehend. He filtered it all through his processors, aware that his answer lay somewhere in the middle of all they were throwing at him. Once he untangled all that information, what Devastator was left with was not reassuring.

"I do not like it," he repeated, louder and causing more definite echoes to bounce around the shattered shells of the once beautiful buildings that stood around him.

Fear.

That's what he was feeling his parts were telling him in full consensus. They all of them knew the sensation, though the cause was different for each. "I do not like it and I will not heed it," he said, shoulders firm as he stared down the reflective sound of his voice. Reaching for the slab of metal and broken glass that lay over the main entrance of the medical facility he'd been brought to, Devastator went to work. "We will rebuild," he said. "Rebuild and bring others in to fill our city once more."

He was buffeted by a flurry of agreement and the first vestiges of the plan being deliberated between his parts. Hefting the slab out of the way, Devastator took heart that they no longer resided in the time of destruction. Despite the portents of his name, he much preferred the act of building. No unreasoning fear regarding their sheer aloneness in the ruins of Crystal City was going to get in the way of that.

[wildlyglittering]

The Perils of Being Mr. Nesta Archeron

It’s important you understand this is my incredibly poor attempt at comedy and I just wanted to write some nonsense.

This popped into my brain after seeing all the posts about how awesome Nesta is and how she had a ridiculous amount of marriage proposals and interest from human men, fae males and demons alike. 

I just kind of took it from there...

***

“I still like what Nesta’s done to the place.”

Feyre looked around the grand drawing room of the House of Wind, her dozing son on her lap and her bored mate at her side who murmured something which could be taken as an agreement while pulling off imaginary pieces of lint from his sleeve.

The House was now Nesta’s, in as much as anything sentient could truly belong to anyone, and as such was rarely used for official Night Court business. Its predominant function was as home to Nesta, Cassian and a reluctant Azriel, who’d been gifted the responsibility of ‘supervisor’ – a gift which Feyre suspected he’d like to return.

The Inner Circle still held Starfall at the House and, like now, the High Lord and High Lady of Night, would visit. When she visited alone, Feyre visited in the capacity of sister and friend but when with Rhys, it was all work.

Nesta and Cassian had embraced their titles as the Lord of Bloodshed and Lady Death and their combined reputations proceeded them sending them into every corner of Prythian and the many dark outer reaches was a tactic Rhys now employed.

The aim was to achieve negotiations and encourage peaceful surrenders where necessary but if there was resulting collateral damage, it was of little consequence to Rhys.

The other reason that the House was seldom used for official Night Court business was the unnerving issue of the House itself. Whilst the majority of the architecture remained unchanged there was the occasional surprise addition. Or subtraction.

Amren discovered the House’s penchant for the latter when, on one uninvited call, she opened a door which should have led to private chambers only to find herself plummeting through the air onto the ground. She swore blind the House foundations quivered like it was laughing.

Feyre wondered how independently the House acted from Nesta and how much it carried out her wishes. She suspected that this room, the grand drawing room, had been one of Nesta’s heart fulfilments or, at least, something for Cassian.

The room was sizable, entered from the hallway via a series of doorway arches wide enough for splayed Illyrian wings. Oversized plush furniture filled the room and the floors were strewn with thick sable rugs.

The most spectacular draw to the room was the window which stretched from ceiling to floor and from wall to wall on the side opposite the doorways. The view, one across Velaris’ golden rooftops and shining turquoise waters of the Sidra, filled the space like a painting.

Feyre sighed, at least this current visit was expected and so they weren’t risking the windows opening of their own accord to fling them out. The occupants of the House had been gone for longer than anticipated on this task and so Rhys sent ahead a message that he wanted a full debrief when they returned.

Feyre opened her mouth to speak again but stopped when she heard the thud of boots and flutter of wings.

“Finally,” Rhys said with a glance towards Nyx whose eyes flickered open.

“He’ll be happy see Aunt Nesta,” Feyre said in a sing-song voice to her now awake baby, turning him so he could view the entrance. “He loves Aunt Nesta.” She wasn’t above using her infant son as a tactic to avoid her eldest sister’s potential irritation at the intrusion into her home.

Rhys eyed up the shaking walls, “Yes, as does the House.”

Nesta entered first and Feyre breathed a sigh of relief that the floor remained solid underneath where she sat.

“Hello,” Nesta said, her voice soft and cooing. Her welcome wasn’t to her sister or brother-in-law but to the now beaming baby in Feyre’s lap whose legs and arms flailed in the air as he wriggled.

Nesta stepped further into the room, treading over the rugs, arms outstretched, “Come to Aunty Nesta.”

The vast windows let in the bright sunlight, sunlight which illuminated the state of the Illyrian leathers Nesta had clad herself in.

Feyre shrieked, twisting in the chair and blocked Nyx from Nesta’s grasp, pointing at her sister’s waist. “What is that?””

Nesta paused and frowned, looking down.

Aside from the interesting splotches of red across the leathers, the utility belt tightened around Nesta’s waist contained the usual items Feyre expected; knife, pouch, knife, another knife and then... another item she hadn’t.

A leather strap was wound in multiple knots around the thick band and tied to an uneven, lumpy dome the other end. The lumpy dome ended in a stump clotted with congealed blood.

“Oh,” Nesta said with a shrug, “I forgot.” She untied the leather strap and pulled the lump away. “Just another one for the collection.” With a graceful arm movement, Nesta threw what Feyre realised was a decapitated head onto the floor where it landed with a thud, a dribble of blood oozing fresh from the neck wound.

“Well, you can’t hold the baby until you’ve washed your hands. Thoroughly.”

Nesta frowned at her, an ice-cold glare fixed on her face. “Fine,” she snapped, as though Feyre’s request was unreasonable.

Cassian, unlike her sister, had taken some time to remove his blood encrusted leathers before greeting his guests, and he wandered in through the arch with a nod of his head towards Feyre and Rhys.

His hazel eyes noted the bloodied head by the door and he released a sigh.

“You need to stop doing that.”

“The House doesn’t mind.”

The shutters covering the windows in the other rooms started to clatter up and down.

“See?”

“Yes, but I mind and besides,” he gestured across to Feyre, “an infant is present.”

Nyx, now bouncing on Feyre’s lap, slapped his hands together as hard as he could in time with the House. He gazed at Nesta as though she’d sliced her way through necks especially for him.

“He doesn’t care,” Nesta said in a sing-song voice eerily similar to the tone Feyre herself used earlier. She beamed at her nephew, “He’s clapping with the House.”

Rhys’ face turned white, “The House is applauding you?”

“Oh yes,” Az said, arriving at last and pushing his way through where Cassian and Nesta stood to flop down onto the armchair next to Feyre. “Nesta always gets rapturous applause when she brings home a kill.”

Feyre glanced from Azriel, legs sloping over one armrest while his head flopped across the other, to Nesta and then onto Cassian who was pinching the bridge of his nose.

“As much as I am ecstatic to see you all,” he said, “I’ll leave Az to deal with the debrief. I need to go lie down for a while.”

Cassian exited as swift as he entered, Az not bothering to open his now closed eyes. The concerned glances of the other room occupants followed Cassian’s retreating back.

Nesta turned back to Feyre, the ice-cold glare melted away. “Excuse me while I disappear.” Then, in a heartbeat, her expression was one of joy, “Bye-bye baby, I’ll see you in a little bit for snuggles.”

Nyx let out a small sob as Nesta left and Feyre quickly turned him towards her, readying him for a feed, knowing that the small sob would turn into a loud shriek.

“Well,” she said, “she obviously prefers Nyx to me.”

“Feyre, darling – you got spoken to,” Rhys said. “I think it’s safe to say Nesta didn’t acknowledge my existence. Which I’m fine with,” he added, nervously eyeing up the House’s stone walls, “whatever makes her happy.”

Nyx, thankfully, latched onto Feyre’s bared breast and for a moment no noise sounded in the room other than his greedy milk-hungry gulps.

A thought played over and over in her mind though; Nesta’s look of concern, Cassian’s uncharacteristic broodiness. “Are they ok?” she asked Az, at the same time Rhys enquired as to how the recent mission went.

Az’s eyes fluttered open and he gestured to the head on the floor. “As you can tell – we won.” Then, his voice gentler, he turned to Feyre, “They’re fine.”

“Is Cassian upset at the violence? At Nesta doing the um...,” and using her free hand Feyre motioned across her throat with a finger.

Az laughed, such a rare sound it reminded Feyre of the bells on Solstice evening. “Not at all. He likes that she does those things it’s just-”

He paused.

Rhys, satisfied that the mission went well and not caring about anyone’s romantic woes, settled back into the loveseat while Feyre leaned forward, careful to not disrupt her feeding son.

Azriel nodded towards the head, “Before the Anguis went the way of Hybern and the Kelpie, he managed to propose.”

“Not another one!”

“Don’t worry,” Azriel said, “I’m sure Nesta is reassuring Cassian of her love as we speak.”

As though cued up with expert timing, or, as Feyre suspected, the House lifting a self-imposed sound barrier to prove a point, the thumping drifted down to the grand room from several floors up.

“That was...fast.”

Suddenly Azriel appeared just as exhausted as Cassian had. “Nesta reassures Cassian of her love at least twice a night anyway, and when she’s done reassuring him, he feels the need to thank her back.”

Feyre winced, her face contorting into one of displeasure while Rhys didn’t try to hide his smirk. “This is what – the fourth proposal? Fifth?”

Az closed his eyes and dropped his head backwards once more. “Ninth. This isn’t the worst we’ve had.”

Nyx snuffled and Feyre moved him to her other breast. “Wasn’t the first in the Winter Court?”

They’d been in Winter for the naming ritual of Kallias and Viviane’s baby and once the ceremony was done, all guests mingled in the palace hall. The High Lord and Lady of Winter stood on the dais, draped in silver and grey, Viv beaming as she held her pink cheeked daughter.

The music, food and wine flowed freely but Feyre could barely hear the former over the laughter of the high fae and the chime of glasses as toast after toast was declared. The Inner Circle members had dispersed throughout the crowds earlier, all intent on seeking their delight in various forms.

Feyre had seen Nesta on the dance floor for the opening songs but she’d long since gone and Feyre wondered if Nesta and Cassian had snuck away to take advantage of the Winter palace’s numerous private bedrooms.

She had done her duty as High Lady of Night, walking around the hall, ice blue gown sashaying around her legs as revellers congratulated her on the arrival of her own child.

Feyre had smiled and thanked them but she tired easily after Nyx’s traumatic birth and it wasn’t long before she sought out the fur-decked chaise longue tucked in one of enclaves on the far wall.

As Feyre made her way towards it, movement from the corner on her right drew her attention.

Nesta was standing by another enclave, glass in hand, virulently shaking her head. Nesta’s golden-brown hair had been braided into a complex knot adorned with diamonds which caught the fae lights and casted shapes on the ceiling. It had been this that captured Feyre’s eye.

“No,” Nesta said, “I don’t think so.” She smoothed down a non-existent crease on her dress, a pale grey-blue that shimmered like mist over ice, ever changing.

The male she was speaking to was some high-ranking courtier from Winter who Feyre had been introduced to earlier that evening but whose name escaped her. He was tall and handsome enough, gazing at her sister with sapphire blue eyes, but Nesta’s demeanour suggested nothing other than sheer boredom.

Cassian emerged from the crowds, seemingly drawn to what was happening in the corner of the room like a moth towards a flame, his body screaming nothing but fury. Still, he interjected himself between Nesta and the Winter male with a decorum Feyre felt he should be proud of. His fists were clenched and his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth but there was no violence. Yet.

Feyre moved quickly to them.

Side by side there was no contest that Cassian was the larger, broader and less refined male. He wore scuffed Illyrian leathers and the most he’d done for the event was clean his hair and tie it back.

The courtier wore ivory silk brocade strewn with pearls and viewed Cassian up and down with a sneer.

“And who, exactly, are you?”

Cassian spat out his answer, “Her mate and husband and your executioner – you are?”

“Ah yes,” Rhys said. “The naming ball. Was it just the one dance Nesta performed before she had the males panting over her?”

“Still,” Feyre said, “that one was the easiest to smooth over. No one was killed. Or maimed.”

“I think the proposal with Chrysos was when Cassian was aware this was going to be a repeat issue,” Az said.

Chrysos stood before them, undulating between the visage of a male and of something else, something other – possibly human but not quite. His skin was translucent and his gold blood ran through his veins, clear to their eyes, like streaks in white marble.

He was horrifying and beautiful and Feyre struggled to tear her eyes away.

“I must marry you,” he said, directing his words to Nesta. Chrysos’ voice echoed around the cave chamber, strangely melodic, a harmony of angels singing in chorus, one voice on top of another. “I shall make you my Queen and take you into the darkness where we shall make the sweetest music and-”

Nesta’s shoulders sagged, energy sapped from her as she gave a frustrated sigh.

“What the fuck?!”

Feyre jumped at Cassian’s yell, the noise bouncing from the tops of the cave to the bottom, deep into the darkest part and back again.

“Seriously! For fucks sake, I am standing right here!”

Rhys chuckled. “That ended quick enough if I remember?”

“We were on a recruitment mission though, we wanted him on our side,” Az said, “not dead.”

“Cassian maintains he slipped.”

“From six feet away?”

“Yes.”

“With his sword aloft?”

“I didn’t think the proposal in Summer was too bad,” interrupted Feyre, now with Nyx resting against her shoulder so she could pat his back with soothing circles.

The party on Tarquin’s barge was held at the height of the season the Court was most famous for.

The weather was idyllic; sunshine beating down on Feyre’s skin, endless blue skies stretching ahead while a cool ocean breeze drifted from the teal waters teaming with coral. Dolphins pranced in the frothy waves around them, shimmering and shining, their scales a rosy pink.

“Look, Nyx, look!” Feyre held her cooing baby high, pointing the dolphins out to his curious violet eyes.

The barge moved at a comfortable pace and again, like all parties the High Lords arranged, the music, food and wine flowed. Guests streamed from the top desk to the lower one and lower still when they felt like taking to the private cabins, the heat in the air turning into heat in the blood.

The decks were vast enough to not see the same individuals constantly but small enough to see them often and Feyre had smiled every time she walked past a relaxed Cassian and Nesta.

On their first stroll about the deck, Nyx had been awake and grinning, Nesta peppering his small face with a flood of kisses that had him squealing and his limbs flailing with joy. Cassian had joked about knowing his place in the pecking order and Nesta smiled at him in turn.

Cassian’s hair was tied back into a loose bun, strands of black hair falling past his jaw. It was too hot for leathers and, with his white linen shirt with sleeves rolled up to expose the black tattoos on his arms, he was the most casual Feyre had ever seen him.

Nesta stunned in a dress of blue which started ice blue at her shoulders before blending into a shade so dark at the hem it was almost black. The front was a demure and delicately scalloped neckline but Nesta’s back was entirely bare, held up by invisible straps.

Multiple pairs of eyes glanced their way but Nesta’s hand never left Cassian’s and his free one travelled the length of her spine dipping beyond the fabric at her lower back.

You’re borderline indecent, Feyre told them with pretend outrage and continued to walk the deck.

The second time Feyre passed them, they had been talking to Tarquin and Feyre only caught a brief snippet of their conversation, trying to settle a now restless Nyx against her shoulder.

“One apology,” Tarquin had said, “that was my mother’s favourite building.”

On Feyre’s third pass, Nyx now in Rhys’ arms, Tarquin had gone. In his place stood a fae Feyre didn’t recognise.

“I had turned away for a couple of seconds,” Cassian said, his hands in fists, “and you thought this was your opportunity to sneak in here like a panting-”

“Cassian,” Nesta warned, “we don’t want another incident in this Court.”

“Well, there will be one if this prick doesn’t move out of here. We’ll see how he fares with my foot up his as-”

“Cassian!”

“She’s married and mated. Can’t you see the matching rings? Can’t you smell the mate bond?”

The high fae nodded his head, “Yes, but...”

“But? But what?! That’s it,” Cassian said, “we’re leaving this fucking party.”

Rhys and Az stared at Feyre as she burped Nyx, their mouths open.

“What?” she asked.

“You didn’t think it was too bad?” Rhys said, his voice incredulous.

Feyre shrugged, “No one died and no wars were started.”

“They’d only just removed the ban on Cassian to have to enforce it again.”

“I don’t think the second ban was fair though.”

“Feyre, darling. He destroyed the barge.”

“We spent hours fishing everyone out of the sea,” Az said. “Then we had to work out where Nesta’s unfortunate suitor had landed after Cassian threw him towards the cliff.”

“Wasn’t he clinging onto the side of the rockface?”

“Yes.”

“And didn’t Cassian destroy another building in his haste to get away?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” Feyre said, frowning. “So maybe it was bad.”

“I quite liked the proposal from Locuples,” Az said, “that was the best for all involved. No one died and we ended up with a pretty good trade agreement.”

“Oh, I remember that,” said Feyre, “I was here when Nesta and Cassian came back.”

Feyre and Az had been in the grand room, as they were now, sitting opposite each other in companiable silence. Steam from their tea cups swirled in the air and Feyre gazed out the windows at the white clouds over the city.

“What the-?”

Feyre’s head snapped round, surprised at the uncharacteristic shock in Az’s voice. He stared towards the door archways and Feyre followed his eyeline.

Cassian and Nesta had returned, surprisingly quietly, as she hadn’t heard them land on the roof. Or perhaps, looking at the display in front of her, they’d travelled by some other means.

Nesta sat on a throne on an open topped litter, carried by two lithe creatures who were more shadow and smoke than real and whose feet never touched the ground. Nesta herself, bedecked with jewels, a tiara and clutching a sceptre, wore an expression of confusion.

Cassian followed on foot, wings tersely tucked in, heaving a trunk filled with gold, jewellery, silks, furs and bottles which wafted exotic scents.

Cassian glanced at them from the corner of his eye, “Don’t ask.”

“I thought we expected this to be a hostile negotiation?”

“I said don’t ask.”

“We still receive gifts on a monthly basis,” Feyre said and slid to the floor to lay a barely awake Nyx on the soft furs - one of those aforementioned gifts. She traced a thumb on the arch of his foot and watched it curl, his lips smacking in contentment.

Feyre swore the floorboards underneath him adjusted to accommodate his shape.

“Don’t you receive monthly gifts from Helion as well?” Rhys asked. “Or did Cassian put a stop to that?”

“Cassian put a stop to that one,” Az said.

“Doesn’t Nesta still have the first gift though?”

Az groaned and placed his scarred hands over his eyes. “Yes, and I cannot express how much upkeep it takes.”

Feyre smiled, “Oh, I remember that one too.”

The shriek took Feyre by surprise and she leapt from her chair, readying herself for action. It was only seconds before she realised it wasn’t a shriek of pain but one of sheer, childlike joy.

Once again, her and Az were in the House and, once again, she hadn’t heard the arrival of the House’s other permanent occupants.

“In the name of the Mother,” Az breathed and, in what was a familiar pattern, Feyre turned to where he was looking. This time, instead of Az looking towards the doorway, he was staring outwards at the windows.

Nesta, clad in her leathers and with windswept hair was sat astride a glorious white winged horse, her black leather a stark contrast to the white of the creature she sat upon.

“Someone find Gwen and Emerie! They need to know about this; they need to come here!”

With another shriek of joy and a gentle nudge to the horse’s sides Nesta rose higher, the wings of the horse flapping with enthusiasm, happy to appease its new owner.

There was a sigh from behind them and Feyre and Az turned. Cassian leant against the doorframe, fingers rubbing his temples.

“Cass... isn’t that Helion’s last and most prized flying horse?”

“Please – do not ask.”

“That thing is a nightmare,” Az said, “it eats everything, likes very few fae and can somehow find its way into the House in the dead of night. Do you know how terrifying it is to wake to find a winged horse hovering over you demanding sugar cubes while stealing your blanket? I can’t live like this.”

Feyre shot him a sympathetic smile while Rhys laughed. In the brief silence which followed, Feyre could hear the rhythmic banging echoing its way through the house.

“Aren’t they done yet?”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“At least it will be over soon.”

“Nope.”

“Oh.”

“You think this is bad?” Az said, “You weren’t here after the proposal with the Peregryn.”

To Feyre, the Dawn Court was one of the most beautiful. Its shades of gold and red weren’t bright or ostentatious but were the softer golds found in the rising sun, the reds not vermillion or scarlet but something akin to a dusky rose.

Every town held a thousand clock-towers, every hand matching perfectly, the chimes on the hour synching in a glorious song, calling to the skies in praise of a new day, of promises to be made, of joy to come.

The peace of that particular morning had been broken by the shouts of males, all raised in the ecstatic spirit of competition. Nothing violent or aggressive but it spoke to Feyre of knuckles and bone crunching all the same.

She’d pushed her way to the front of a crowd, the fae recognising her and making room for her to pass. A fighting circle had broken out in a section of the town square, cheers raising into the air as one of the fighters scored a blow.

In the circle stood two males, both tall and broad, barefooted and bare-chested. One had wings similar to the Pegasus which Nesta now owned, white and gold-feathered, and the other had wings as black as night, the rising sun highlighting veins and patches of amber.

A female was eagerly watching them, a female Feyre shoved past fae to move next to.

“Nesta! Why is Cassian sparring with a Peregryn?”

Nesta didn’t tear her eyes from the males. “Some old nonsense about fighting for the right to take my hand.”

Cassian landed a punch to his opponent’s jaw, the crack reverberating through the air as the crowd cheered on.

Sweat trickled down Cassian’s own jaw and onto his neck. His muscles were strained, his abdomen contracting. As the fighters turned positions, his back faced Feyre, black tattoos against dark skin, his shoulder blades gleaming with oil.

Feyre glanced at Nesta who was dressed in a pale peach dress adorned with pearls, her hair up but with soft stands framing her face. She would have looked a wholesome picture of innocence if not for her darkening eyes.

“Shouldn’t you stop this?”

“Probably.”

“Are you going to?”

Nesta’s eyes flickered from the top of Cassian’s head down his back and then, as the fighter’s moved again, to his stomach where they lingered on the trail of hair leading down to the waistband of his trousers. She sighed.

“A few more minutes.”

Feyre blinked as if she could rid herself of the memory. “I can only imagine.”

“If I didn’t visit the river house for dinner I would have starved. The House had to perform a deep clean.”

The walls shook in what was akin to a shudder.

“The bard was wholesome enough,” Rhys said.

Az groaned, “And yet ridiculous.”

 In a concerted effort to apologise to the Courts on behalf of the behaviour of some Inner Circle members during previous gatherings, Feyre and Rhys had invited the High Lords and their significant others to Starfall.

The House remained still, either curious as to who all the guests were or silently sulking that there were guests at all.

The tang of a rich red wine was on Feyre’s tongue, not from anything she had drunk, but from a stolen kiss from Rhys, under the night sky, in a moment solely theirs before it became everyone else’s.

The night was filled with laughter and talking and Feyre slid into the embrace of her mate, content in the knowledge that Nyx slumbered underneath the watchful eye of the House’s nursery, a room which hadn’t existed before this very evening.

Her heart hurt, but in a good way, as though each chamber was bursting with a joy they couldn’t contain and her happiness spilled out into every corner of the rooftop.

Azriel was intently speaking with Nesta’s red-haired friend while Elain watched on from a distance, either not aware of, or ignoring, her own red-haired watcher.

Amren and Mor stood amongst another group, Mor’s golden hair cascading down her back like a waterfall and near the balcony was Cassian and Nesta, pressed side by side, hand in hand as they gazed upwards, Cassian pointing to a constellation.

Nesta glanced at him as he spoke, her face softening in a way Feyre never thought possible, a smile on her lips. When Cassian looked back at her, to check her understanding of what he was saying, he brought their intertwined hands up to his mouth, to kiss her fingertips.

Feyre smiled, all was well and all would continue to be well. That was until a voice, clear and resolute, spoke out into the crowd.

“My High Lords and Ladies and Paramor’s, I am a bard from the Spring Court – famed as the best in all the Courts!”

Chatter drifted into murmurs as heads turned expectedly to the fae now standing in the centre. Feyre noted his lute fixed upon his waistband but the bard made no attempt to reach for it.

“I have travelled across the land, coming to the Court of the High Lord and High Lady of Night with one purpose and one purpose only – to serenade with tales of fortune and love!”

A ripple of anticipation broke out amongst the crowd to hear such songs and Feyre turned to Rhys. “Did you arrange this?” but his face was twisted in confusion.

“I dedicate my melodies to one female, one who understands music as though her very bones were formed by the notes. My song to you, Lady Nesta and also my hand in marri-”

“FUCKS SAKE!”

Feyre let out a sigh. “I felt so sorry for the bard. He must have seen Nesta on one of her visits. To think, he spent all those weeks travelling on foot to arrive to the House and then Cassian threatens to dangle him from the roof.”

“Cassian did dangle him from the roof.”

“No one’s going to invite us to any more parties,” said Rhys with a sorrowful sigh.

“I think we can handle an overly amorous high fae or two,” Az said, “it’s the demons which worry me.”

“They’re no cause for concern,” Rhys said with a wave of his hand. “In fact, we have a valuable asset on our side. Drag Nesta in front of them and it tends to shut them up.”

Feyre frowned. “That is my sister you’re deciding to use as romantic bait. Besides, the issue we had with the Caligo demon was that it didn’t stop talking. There was such a mess.”

Screams filled Feyre’s ears as terrified Night Court citizens ran past her, almost a blur.

Tears streaked down terror-stricken faces as they grabbed the arms of their loved ones and scooped up children too small or young to so anything other than shiver and cry.

Cracks appeared in the ground beneath their feet, the cobbles of the street twisting and turning before jutting upwards like the jagged, sharpened edges of broken bone. The air was thick with acrid smoke which stung Feyre’s eyes causing them to stream with the tears she saw running down her people’s faces.

Rhys was to her right. Or that’s what she hoped. He had been standing but he’d gasped in pain and then she no longer saw him through the gaps in the cloud. When she managed to glimpse him, he was on his knees, thick red blood pouring down his face from a cut on his scalp.

Feyre choked back a sob and clambered over the rips in the earth to reach him.

Steel clashed with steel in the darkness, the shouts of Cassian and Azriel tearing through the blackness as they pressed forward. A shimmer of magic absorbed as much of the darkness away as it could and created a halo around the members of the Inner Circle.

Hands, strong and steady, circled Feyre’s waist and Nesta held her up, helped her over the torn earth.

“I am destroyer,” the thing hissed. “I am consumer, I am flesh ripper and soul tearer and I-”

It turned, watching them all, gloating in their misery and gorging itself fat on their pain. One of its bulbous eyes slid to where they stood, Feyre leaning into Nesta’s side. Her sister’s hair was dishevelled, her arms smeared with blood but Nesta’s eyes remained cold and hard upon the demon.

“And I – oh, oh, you are spectacular.”

A roar ripped through the darkness; a bellowing from powerful lungs as the words of the creature reached the ears of all present.

“Absolutely fucking not!”

Cassian advanced from the void, red siphons blazing as though he were shrouded in flame. “I am her mate; I am her husband and I suggest you put those sloping tongues back into your mouth or Mother help me...”

Feyre swallowed the rising bile. She tried not to think about the events of that night, though she didn’t know what was worse – that night or now, with the thumping above their heads gaining momentum.

“He got the job done,” Rhys said and then smirked, “and he’s doing the same now from the sounds of it.”

“Rhys!” Feyre admonished and placed her hand on Nyx’s stomach to calm herself. “Why do you think he puts up with it?” she asked Az.

“What choice does he have? Besides, he loves and trusts her. There’s no one for him but her and no one for her but him.”

“Disgusting,” Rhys said with slight mockery to his tone.

“No,” Feyre said, “what’s disgusting is the head in the corner.” She eyed up the lump that had once been somethings head; the glassy eyes, the bloodied stump. She wouldn’t relish touching the thing but she would happily remove herself out of earshot of Nesta and Cassian’s post proposal love affirmation. “Where do I take it?”

“The House created a trophy room three doors down,” Az said.

Anguis’ mouth hung open, razor sharp rotted teeth all lined up on display. Feyre felt a slither of pity. “I’ll take it there.”

“No, Feyre darling, I’ll do it.”

Feyre breathed a sigh of relief and nodded before turning to Az. “Shall we wait for them to be done? We need to discuss the next mission which is rather sensitive.”

Az shook his head, “No, you may as well go home. It was a proposal so they’re not stopping until – what day is it now, Thursday? – they’re not going to be fit for purpose until Monday.”

Rhys, still lounging, stretched out into the space Feyre previously occupied. “We can’t wait that long.”

“Do you want to volunteer to interrupt them?

“No.”

Feyre glanced between them both. “Cassian did look rather sad.”

Azriel laughed again, the sound echoing throughout the room, his head thrown back. “Don’t pity Cassian, he knows what he’s doing.”

“And Nesta falls for it?”

“No, she definitely doesn’t fall for it.”

“But isn’t she in their chambers um...reassuring him?”

“Yes.”

Feyre bit her lip, “So surely...”

“Oh Mother,” Az rubbed his hand across his face. “It’s their form of twisted foreplay. When Nesta received a proposal from – well, I can’t remember which one, I came home early and almost went blind. Have none of you questioned the indoor swing?”

Feyre’s voice was quiet when she spoke, scooping up her son into her arms with haste. “I thought they were creating an inside playground.”

“Ah,” Az said, his voice soft, “not quite.”

The thumping reached its crescendo and blessedly, stilled.

“Oh, thank the Mother,” Rhys said, “they’re done after all. Az, go retrieve them. We need to discuss the next mission.”

“Why me?”

“You live here.”

“You’re the High Lord.”

Feyre looked around her, Nyx clutched in her arms. “I think the floor is sloping us out towards the door.”

“I don’t think so Feyre, darling.”

“No really, the head - which you said you’d deal with by the way - is rolling away.”

Feyre wasn’t imagining what was happening, she’d passed under the entrance to the room, Rhys and Az’s chairs beginning to follow.

“This happens,” Az said with a calmness Feyre didn’t feel. “Usually when they don’t want anyone to overhear the next part of their ‘Nesta got proposed to again’ sex marathon.”

“Why? What could they now be planning that’s so much worse?”

“I don’t know,” Az replied, “the House always shuffles me out at this point. One time I was trying to prep my knives and almost stabbed myself in the eye.”

“Right,” said Rhys, “I think we can walk out of here without a sentient lump of stone forcing us to. Which,” he said with an eye to the steepness of the floor angle, “is completely within its’ right.”

Feyre nestled a snoring Nyx into one arm as Rhys helped her up. Az was already on his feet, out the door and into the hallway before he got flattened by an oversized, burgundy armchair.

He turned to them both.

“So, where’s the next mission to anyway? Where are you sending our glorious Lady Death and Lord of Bloodshed and can I sit it out?”

Feyre and Rhys exchanged glances. “I think we might need you in attendance,” Feyre said.

Az raised an eyebrow. “Well, I know King Lascivus is causing some problems with his tithe but as long as you weren’t planning on sending us to his palace, it will be fine. He’s famous for his side hobby of trying to find a muse to depict as the Mother in his artworks. Borderline obsessed.”

Feyre cleared her throat, “Sounds like he’s fervently religiously devout.”

“Hardly. The issue isn’t him trying to depict the Mother but that he’s spent centuries convincing everyone that she needs to be represented in her naked glory and I quote ‘with the petals of her flower fully opened.’”  

Rhys coughed and moved fast down the hallway towards the roof entrance his wings already forming.

“Rhys!” Feyre called out. “You know I can’t run when I’m holding the baby!”

Az’s voice was quiet. “Feyre?”

“You know we love you,” she said, not meeting his hazel eyes, “and you’re always welcome at the river house. For as long as you want, whether that’s weeks or months.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “I swear on the Cauldron, if you need to you can stay for centuries.”

“Feyre?”

She turned and didn’t look back, picking up her own speed to follow Rhys, ignoring the quiver in Az’s tone.

“We love you Az,” she shouted over her shoulder, propping Nyx into a position ready for flight as the House opened its doors to hasten her exit. “Always remember that.”

TAGGING

@live-the-fangirl-life

@champanheandluxxury

@dontgetsalmonella

@purpleglitterypinecone

[shihalyfie]

With Digimon Ghost Game starting, I thought about how different it is from previous Digimon series, though it's still undoubtedly Digimon... and then I realized all Digimon series are like that. So I wonder, what do you think sets each Digimon series apart from the rest?

I think both Ghost Game but also the reboot have been a wake-up call for people in terms of realizing that likes, dislikes, and tastes are subjective, and I think it's especially important in terms of this fanbase that is so obsessed with this idea you can objectively rank things by quality -- especially when each series is often deliberately trying to have its own identity, so it's arguably apples and oranges -- and forcing this idea of what's Good and Not Good on everyone else (especially when there's a nasty double standard phenomenon where Adventure and often Tamers get to be so impervious to criticism that people conveniently forget they're perfectly capable of being scrutinized for a lot of things they're weaker in). Very frustrating to see everyone who likes less popular series treated as if they have to accept that they like a "badly written series" for some things and everything else is a guilty pleasure, which I find to be incredibly dumb.

The most important take-home here is that the fact each series has its own identity is always going to be the main factor in what makes it "good" or not to you, not some arbitrary bar of comparison that's based on some narrow-minded view of "good writing" (which is usually unreasonably based on Adventure). For instance, the reason why 02 is so important to me is because (see below), to me, it has the highest amount of meaningful, important life lessons and themes that it wanted its audience to remember, to the point that I frankly do not care about where the plot goes in comparison. That may not be the case for everyone else, and that's fine, but should my tastes be called unreasonable for that? I think we're also coming to realize that because of Adventure (and kind of 02)'s precedent, so many people have been judging series purely by how intimate their individual character development style is, but this is unfair because Adventure and 02's ridiculous level of character depth to psychological detail is extremely unusual and unrealistic to expect of others; Adventure and 02 only achieved this by practically considering the plot utterly subservient to its character arcs, and it's arguably why they have some of the weakest "plots" in this franchise. It's so bizarre that I can see character development in other Digimon series that outstrips even most kids' anime on the market, but it's not as much as Adventure's so apparently it's bad. And, moreover, as it turns out, some people have priorities other than characterization; just because Adventure had that as its strength doesn't mean that's the only thing anyone should care about. Is the plot fun? Is there a meaningful message besides characters (also important to me)? Do you vibe with the tone being dark, or being silly? How much do you care about resourceful usage of Digimon lore? That kind of thing. Everyone is different, so that's why everyone has their own priorities. If you’re someone who prefers darker content, you may not realize that writing good and well-timed comedy is actually a very, very difficult task, especially when said comedy simultaneously has meaning (in comparison, it’s surprisingly easy to write “dark” but shallow content).

I think it's fair to like every Digimon series for its own thing, depending on your personal tastes. I can't speak for everyone, but my impressions are that it has to do with the following:

Adventure: Significantly easier to understand than 02 due to its more straightforward plot, and focus on individual character development ("individualism" being a strong point here). In terms of characters, it goes a lot into some very real social problems (the divorce around the Ishida and Takaishi families and the pressures surrounding Jou, for instance) in a very realistic manner. Also, it has that sense of mystique and absurdism to the Digital World that's both whimsical but also mysterious, and while 02 has it too, Adventure's the isekai story that has it the most.

02: The first is its focus on the importance of human relationships and the compelling group dynamic unparalleled in this franchise, and the second is its important themes and life lessons that I think are some of the strongest in said franchise. I have a whole tag for the ridiculous amount of nuance packed into every detail and dialogue line for this series, and I think every time I've rewatched an episode I've learned something new about it because there are so many things that clearly wanted to be said in each line. The entire series is basically an unpacking of the feelings of insidious self-hatred and the crushing feeling of being subject to society's expectations, and ones that are so deep-seated that you often don’t even have a single answer to how to unpack it (for instance, Miyako hardly has a tragic single event in her backstory, but she says and does a lot of things that'll be painfully familiar to those who have experienced chronic anxiety). Almost every plot point can be said to connect to each character arc in some way, and the mantras for appreciating and treasuring your own life and living life the way you will make this, in my opinion, the strongest series in terms of speaking to those who struggle with this kind of existential crisis for reasons of depression or otherwise. (Oops, I think I went too passionate about this; my biases are obvious...)

Tamers: I think it forms an interesting study and unpacking of the kinds of things you take for granted in Digimon or the monster-collecting genre in general, and an examination of how they'd work in a real-world context (although 02 had a focus on daily life, it didn't quite merge the Digimon and the real world factors until very late in the series). Also, probably the second highest on "hard sci-fi" (the only one that outstrips it is probably Appmon, but Appmon has a very different, more simplified take on it).

Frontier: A series that lies somewhere between Adventure's scale of individualism and 02's scale of group dynamic, and one more discussing the feeling of having your heart hardened from being an outcast, and what it takes to accept the idea of opening yourself up to others again. Recommended for those who like transforming hero and magical girl stories, too. From the Digimon perspective, also the one with the most detailed and consistent Digital World mythos.

Savers: I think this is the series that most drives home "life is complicated" (i.e. there isn't a single mastermind behind everything) in the most tasteful manner, because while it drives home the point that you can't just simplify everything into a good side and a bad side, some bad things really are evil (hi, Kurata), and it doesn't change the fact that everyone's responsible for cleaning up the fallout. The portrayal of the evils of government bureaucracy is probably the most realistic out of any of these series.

Xros Wars: For those who like fun, most of all! For those who like seeing Digimon finally get more of the spotlight and individuality since so much of it had been geared and biased towards the humans prior to this. For those who really like worldbuilding, and, after all, this is called Xros Wars, so it's interesting to see shakeups on the usual formulas in the form of the different factions and their priorities. Hunters is very different in tone, but I do think they have some of these aspects in common; that said, it being closer to having single partnerships brings it a bit closer in line to conventional Digimon partnerships, and it also has more of a picture of daily life. Also, as much as Tagiru is probably your-mileage-may-vary since he's not exactly a very nice kid (I get it if you don't vibe with that), which may also rub those hoping for not nice kids to become nice the wrong way, I do have to say I find him to be one of the funniest characters in this entire franchise, and you'd be surprised how hard good comedy is to write.

Appmon: Probably one of the strongest theme narratives besides 02, since it has a very clear and obvious theme about the importance of kindness in a world where technology is dominating and we're almost encouraged to strip the feelings out of everything. (Bonus for more straightforward plot than Adventure or 02 while still retaining a lot of its elements in terms of how to characterize them.) Also the first series to be speculative about the near future instead of taking place around the time it airs, and it's very obvious it wants to provide important and necessary commentary about what we need to do in the incoming era, especially as a lot of what it has to say becomes increasingly relevant.

Reboot: For those who like Digimon mythos and null canon -- this is probably the only series to show it off in this level of detail -- and the kind of cool action fights that would usually be saved for the climax in prior series (and animated in much more intimate detail with battle choreography than prior series would have). There are a lot of people into this franchise who felt like it genuinely was not making enough use of its Digimon roster and its potential because it kept going back to the old standbys (especially Adventure-based ones), so it was a huge relief for that crowd to see attention finally being paid.

[danny-chase]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman (Comics) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Damian Wayne & Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne & Bruce Wayne Characters: Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne Additional Tags: Damian Wayne Centric, Panic Attack, Sickfic, Sick Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, he gets half a hug, Damian Wayne is a sweetheart, Dick Grayson is a Good Brother, Damian Wayne is a good brother Series: Part 10 of Bad Things Happen Bingo Summary:

Sequel to Pneumonia, Damian decides to spend his day home with Richard.

Full story under cut

Footsteps echo through the hall, light, but heavy enough to be intentional. Too carefully timed to be confident in their placement. And with too little bounce to be Richard’s.

 Nor would he waken if they were Richard’s and that’s really his first clue. Briskly throwing off the sheets and flattening his hair, he throws open the door before his father can make it the rest of the way down the hall. The footsteps stop in their tracks.

 He leaves the door open as invitation, yet it’s unnecessary – father doesn’t approach. From what little time they’ve spent together, Damian finds it strange – his father is single minded in his work but yet so indecisive in his home – well – really this wasn’t his home. “How is he?” The words come out too harshly and he grits his teeth, hoping for leniency – father is to be respected, not talked to in such a manner.

 Nor was father was pleased the last time he erred in his judgment. Ever since he’d failed the first time he meant, he’d been treated like a plague, locked in his room then, and avoided now.

 …But he’d heard stories from Richard about a softer man than the one he’d met a year ago. A man whose love was stronger than his hate – who took in children and saved their souls.

 It was odd that such a man had shied away from his own son. Damian couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong – he understood the skirmish with Drake was wrong – but Richard spoke of a man who could forgive. And yet. He’d only seen forgiveness from Richard.

 He’d thought perhaps, that had been his father’s influence.

 Another footstep resounds around him, and the realization strikes – he hasn’t moved. Huffing – at no one in particular – he silently strides forward, yanking his dresser drawers open to retrieve a set of perfectly folded clothes.

 “Damian.” Father stays just out of sight beyond the door. Its nerve wracking – almost painful – waiting for information. Richard promised he would be fine, last night, he promised Bruce could take care of the things – would be back – would fix it.

 He’d almost believed him, but for a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

 It was odd, seeing him waver – especially because he’d seen for himself how much Bruce cared for him. He’d read the worry in his expressions and the thinly veiled pain as he stitched his successor’s side. Father was back – he’d believed that much – though he didn’t believe it when Richard said it – and that was… a complicated thing.

 Suffice to say, he’d kept watch from afar until he heard the doorknob turn, leaving once father began to speak.

 An awkward clearing of the throat makes him turn. Father stands in the doorway, looking stern but unsure, finally having decided to make an appearance. It’s irritating, how tall he seems; his head mere inches away from the top of the doorframe. “What?” He can’t keep panic from slipping into his voice. Swallowing, he makes another attempt. “How is Richard?”

 Frowning, father shakes his head slightly looking displeased. Damian’s heart sinks to the floor – Richard couldn’t – he promised – he –

 “He’s not doing as well as I’d hoped. His blood oxygen level fell last night, I had to put him on an external canister to raise it.” Damian lets out a long breath, his pulse returning to normal as father continued. “He’s stable, Leslie came over an hour ago. She predicts a full recovery, just don’t expect him to bounce back too quickly.” His father paused, giving him a curious look. “You look flush, are you alright?”

 Suddenly full of the desire to be alone, he shuts the door. “Yes. One moment.” For a moment he thought – never mind that now. Turning back to his clothes, he kicks off his pajamas, hastily changing. He runs a hand through his hair, breathing steadily – everything is fine.

 He can hear his father hesitating, the floorboards groaning as he shifts his weight. “School starts in an hour. I’ll drive you.” It takes all the willpower he can muster not to let a groan escape his lips. School’s awful on the best of days, a miserable prison with miserable teachers not paid enough to put up with his obnoxious rich classmates’ egregious behavior.

 “I’m not going.” Richard needs monitoring after all and his father had fulfilled the task last night. For proper care, he needs properly awake caretakers.

 “You will go.” The response is firm, but not without minor hesitation – something Richard had taught him to look for – something he could exploit in interrogations – something he could exploit here (for a good cause of course).

 His argument must be flawless – rational and logical, nothing else will suffice. Pulling on his socks, crossing the room, he flings the door open, storming into the hall, in a display of righteous fury. “The benefits of my attending school today do not outweigh the benefits Richard would receive if I monitor his progress and allow you sleep in order to be prepared to monitor him tonight. Firstly, I know the material already.” His father makes a noise to interrupt, but he continues unperturbed.

 “Secondly, I understand the social benefits are a concern to you. Ask Richard, I have made a friend. His name is Colin and he’s much better than any of the awful children at that school. And I’ve met with Lian and Irey and Jay.” The Titan’s children were annoying, but he wasn’t lying. It was awful, but he’d made it through the ‘playdate’. “Thirdly, as for extracurricular activities, Grayson has provided me with all necessary materials to pursue my interests. And…” He trails off, finding his father’s eyes tired, the bags under them unreasonably puffy. Gesturing vaguely, he pointed back at a mirror in his room. “Just look at yourself, you expect to watch him well like that?” They can debate all they’d like, but if father refuses to sleep much longer, the argument will be decided in his favor.

 The eyes shift to the mirror and back, then to him, to the floor, then covered by a hand. His father turns, muttering something he can’t quite hear, but he makes out the words from reading his lips. ‘What the hell has Dick been teaching you?’ A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth – he’s won. Perhaps, with further needling, he’ll be out of school for good, but today, he doesn’t press his luck.

 Father drops his hand with a sigh. “Fine. Keep up with your studies.” He takes a few steps back. “You can sit in the room but don’t bother him.” Damian holds back an eye roll, as if he would bother Richard while he’s recuperating. “Call if anything changes, I’ll make breakfast.” Father turns, Damian’s eyes follow, watching him stride down the hall, ducking into the kitchen.

 As the kitchen door smoothly thuds shut, he turns back to his room, swallowing down the odd sensation that stirs in the base of his throat. His steps are silent – mindlessly so, as he pads over into the adjacent bathroom to finish his morning routine.

 He emerges – the strange feelings sticking with him – he supposes he ought to feel relieved, but dread builds in the pit of his stomach instead at the prospect of seeing Richard.

 Father said Richard would be fine. Leslie said Richard would be fine. Richard promised he would be fine.

 None of them are liars – but what if they missed something? The thought wracks his mind on an endless loop. The hallway seems to stretch out as he takes a step towards his brother’s room. What if something changes before he gets there? What if the medication doesn’t work – what if it’s a super virus or an antibiotic resistant bacteria? Their enemies could come up with ridiculously effective toxins, pathogens aren’t that much different.

Richard promised. He tries desperately to hold on to that thought, stumbling forward, forcing himself closer to his room. His heart pounds harder the closer he inches, his head joining the party and thudding along in time. He feels like the deer slipping on ice on that dumb movie Richard made him watch; it’s as if his legs have forgotten to function.

 He’s nearly there – the hallway spins slightly but it’s just a few more steps – he needs to get control of himself but he can’t breathe. Two more steps. Two more steps and then he can. See Richard.

 Halfway through his next step, he trips, falling face first onto the floor, unable to do anything but choke out unsteady breaths, his mind screaming the counts to a breathing exercise learned as a child long ago.

 Pathetic. He would have been killed in the League for less. He mastered control of his emotion as a child – this – this is unacceptable! He reaches a hand forward, sheer willpower the only thing keeping him from curling in on himself – he has to keep moving.

 His hand connects with a foot, he looks up, finding a flush face with bleary eyes staring back. “Damian?” Richard’s voice is rough and quiet, guilt floods his stomach – Richard shouldn’t be out of bed – he shouldn’t have panicked like this – this is – “Woah, buddy, breathe.” There’s a hand resting on his shoulder, the next time he looks up, Richard sits next to him on the floor, tapping his hand in time to a new count, one he learned here a few months ago.

 There’s a million pieces of his mind scattered about the hallway and the longer he sits there breathing, the more pieces settle back into their places. Richard’s verbal count shifts into coughs, but he keeps his hand steady. When he finishes, the tapping’s all that’s left.

 Damian shakily pulls himself up on his knees, not quite sure what exactly happened. Richard gives him a small sad smile, his eyes full of sympathy – sympathy that Damian doesn’t want – feels guilty for receiving – sympathy he’s never earned. It’s overwhelming – and something’s wrong with him – because he doesn’t cry – hasn’t cried since he was nine – and he’s nearly eleven and he’s over this.

 He can’t cry because everything’s okay – Richard’s arms are open in an invitation, his hand receding from his shoulder, but close enough to hover. He’s fine. Richard is fine. Tired, yes, but his side’s not gushing blood, and his coughs subsided. Damian wipes his eyes on his sleeve, glancing around – ensuring they’re alone – before sliding up against the wall next to Richard, scooting under one of his shoulders. A muscular arm drapes over his shoulders, hand settling back on his shoulder.

 He’s warm, a bit uncomfortably so, and his breathing sounds raspy, but as he leans against his brother’s chest, he hears a steady heartbeat and it’s unbelievingly reassuring. The hand on his shoulder is firm, but not tight; he can slip out; he’s not trapped.

 Really, he ought to be ashamed, of needing comfort like some sniveling third-grader, but it’s different – coming from Richard – someone he’s seen far too many times on the wrong end of some twisted concoction of fear gas, crying and screaming – needing comforting himself. Fear gas. Maybe this was an after effect – he files away the notion to mull over later – perhaps run a blood test on himself later.

 Richard’s grip tightens as he coughs, turning to face away. Damian’s gut drops – Richard was supposed to be on supplemental oxygen. Guilt claws at his insides as he quickly stands, pulling his brother along the best he can. It gives him appreciation for Nightwing’s smaller frame – his brother is way heavier and bulkier than he was a year ago – supporting him takes nearly all his might. “Come on.” He urges, dragging Richard into his room, this times his steps steady and stable.

 They’re both out of breath by the time they’ve made it to the bed. Richard plops down, bouncing slightly on mattress, gasping for air. Biting back his guilt, Damian quickly traces the path of the nasal cannula, shoving the nose piece into Richard’s hands. “Here.” He watches the man fumble for a second before settling it place.

 He slides down, tucking himself into a tight ball beside the bed, listening as gasps turns to wheezes, wheezes to coughs, coughs to rasps and back again, as Richard learns how to breathe like a normal human being. “Thanks.” He grunts, nudging Damian with his shin.

 Damian huffs, he shouldn’t be thanked – he caused this mess! “For what?!” He half-shouts, quickly lowering his voice before he can say more. He needs to stay calm – he’s not supposed to be a disturbance. “It’s my fault you-”

 “Damian.” Richard groans in an annoyed way, not an ‘I’m about to hack up another lung’ way. “Thanks for staying in to keep me company. It’s sweet.” Some company he is, forcing his brother out of bed to come pick him up off the floor. “Quit pouting, I’m fine.” The leg nudges him again. A third time when he doesn’t respond. He pushes back. Richard nudges him again. Damian scowls, what’s he supposed to even do in this situation?! “Let’s play Mario Kart or something.” Richard says, as if he’s overheard Damian’s thoughts.

 Just as he pauses to mull over the suggestion, the door screeches on its hinges, shaking him out of his musings. “We should get that oiled.” Father mutters, carrying a tray of breakfast foods. He freezes in his tracks at the sight of Damian on the floor. “Everything okay?” Unfreezing, his motions are rigid and forced, his lips pursing into a straight line, brow furrowing, contorting into deep worry lines.

 Richard swings his legs back onto the bed. “Just left to use the bathroom, Damian helped me back.” The lie sounds natural, comes far too readily out of his mouth. Damian swallows, staring at the floor as his father ponders whether the statement rings true.

 It seems he’s decided to let it slip if he knows. He grunts an acknowledgement, setting the tray aside the bed, passing each a plate. It’s funny – how their dishes are so plain – just pure white, no décor. It struck him as odd when he’d first used them, now no longer odd, but fitting. The bland dish fits right in with Richard’s bland room.

 Father leaves as quick as he came, and Damian’s left to reflect on the empty room as he munches on a bagel. He hasn’t spent much time in here, out of respect for privacy, he’s seen it before, but never thought what it would be like to live in it. “Don’t you get bored of looking at the walls?” He mutters, after swallowing a bite. His own walls are cluttered with his possessions; trophies from fallen enemies, keepsakes from his mother, and gifts from his brother (even a friendship bracelet from Brown is tacked to his corkboard). Richard’s are bare, save one faded poster. His eyes linger on the grinning young acrobat, gracefully swinging with his parents in the background.

 Richard hums, curiously following his gaze. “Walls are walls, I don’t normally look at them. I just come in here to sleep.” He nods towards the television. “If I’m bored I can watch a show.”

 Damian rolls his eyes. “When’s the last time you even turned it on?” He stands, spinning, taking in a full view of the room. “Room color effects your mood.” It’s something Richard used an excuse, to get him to pick a new color for his bedroom when they first moved in. “And potted plants are good for overall wellbeing.” He has a few on his dresser, he even set up an automatic watering system. He could hang some ivy over the balcony. Though… maybe not ivy.

 Richard smiles to himself, letting out a little raspy noise that he supposes could be a laugh. “You’re really into it, huh?” Damian feels heat rise to his cheeks, he’s not ‘into’ anything as trivial as room décor. “Go wild, you can order whatever online and have it delivered.”

 Damian turns his attention back towards Richard, hastily scoffing as he finishes speaking. “I’m not interested, I just wondered how <em>you</em> of all people could have such a bland room.” A flash of annoyance runs over Richard’s face, lingering long enough for Damian to properly identify it. It’s surprising to say the least; Richard almost never looks that way at him anymore.

 Annoyance fades as Richard gazes out past the balcony. “I… lost a lot of stuff in the move.” Damian kicks himself mentally – Richard last lived in New York, but a month ago he overheard him and Drake talk about an old apartment back in Blüdhaven. He’d done some snooping in old casefiles, Richard’s stint there had been quite extended. Extended enough to have his property demolished by a villain even before the entire city was leveled by a nuclear explosion. “Damian.” Richard looks at him, face carefully neutral. “Don’t worry about it, let’s play cards or something.”

 Don’t worry about it – how can he not worry about it?! He’d be devastated if he lost the gifts from his mother – some things aren’t replaceable. He gives the room another glance – it’s still empty – but he could fix it slightly. Maybe consult with Drake about the former apartment, if necessary contact – he shudders – the Titans during – he gags – one of their playdates for advice. “Damian are you okay?” Richard looks perplexed.

 He shoves his plans back down, first things first, walls and flooring. He turns on the spot, marching out the door. “We’re fixing your room.” He mutters, storming down the hall to grab his laptop.

 When he walks back in the room, Richard is staring at him. “What?” He demands, as Richard’s eyes follow him all the way to a chair aside the bed. He’s a bit annoyed at the chair even, it’s from the kitchen, probably dragged in here by his father last night. He adds ‘seating’ to his mental list – if Richard’s ill or injured, it would be nice for Pennyworth or him to be able to sit somewhere.

 Richard shuffles back, edging closer and sitting upright against a mountain of pillows. “Nothing. I just thought you weren’t interested.” He cocks an eyebrow as Damian pulls up a paint comparison site.

 “I’m not.” He spits. “I don’t want to look at your boring walls anymore.”

 Richard laughs again, in his modified way. “Mm. Yup. Sure.”

 Damian ignores the comment, already delving into the program, comparing colors against the wall - connecting to the TV to display them, and weighing the pros and cons of each one. Richard watches, providing occasional commentary, rating each color on a scale from one to one hundred. They argue over shades of green, and the correct way to make purple pop – nothing serious, nor work related. Later the room will be full of things, but for now he’s content to let their conversation fill the void.

[pterodactylterrace]

Guys Like You Chapter 15

Title: Guys Like You

Chapter: 15

Chapter Summary: "Two lines means pregnant, right?"

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, miscarriage, illusions to smut and a shitty ex, swearing.

{Prologue} {Chapter 1} {Chapter 2} {Chapter 3} {Chapter 4} {Chapter 5} {Chapter 6} {Chapter 7} {Chapter 8} {Chapter 9} {Chapter 10} {Chapter 11} {Chapter 12} {Chapter 13} {Chapter 14}

Everything seemed so similar to how it was the first time, years ago. The pit in her stomach, her pulse pounding in her ears. The feel of the wrapper when she opened it, the awkward positioning, wondering if she managed to soak it for the required amount of time, the unpleasant task of putting the cap back on the stick to keep urine from getting on anything else. All the same as the last time.

This time however, she also bore the scars from the previous experience. How her hopes had been crushed, how she'd been cast aside. She'd thought he would have been happy for some reason. He didn't use protection, so that meant he must have wanted to build a family with her, right? She had learned that wasn't the case. He was just a selfish prick. She'd waited for an ultrasound, just to fully confirm the life she had inside of her. She'd been thrilled to learn there were two of them. Twins, just like the rest of her family! He'd thrown the picture in the trash the second he realized what it was. He wanted nothing to do with her anymore. She was used goods. Worthless. Trash, just like the picture of her babies.

Now though, her boyfriend was waiting just outside the bathroom door. It had taken some urging to get him to leave the room, actually. It would seem the manner in which the test had to be taken had slipped his mind. An awkward staring contest had ensued before Faye had quietly asked him to leave so she could pee. A rare luxury she had as a mother, to be perfectly honest. He was quick to grant her some privacy after that.

She placed the plastic stick face down and scrubbed her hands thoroughly, wasting as much time as she could before she had to to open the door. Henry was waiting just outside, as he had promised, an unreadable expression on his face. Of course he would keep his emotions hidden for now. He was an actor, after all. No sense in letting her know how much he was freaking out as well, right?

"Well?" Henry asked softly, his hand automatically reaching out for hers, needing to feel her skin on his.

"It takes a couple of minutes to work..."

"Are you alright?" Henry asked softly, gently cupping her jaw and tilting her head to look up at him. Concern. A look she hadn't been accustomed to all those years ago.

"I don't know... I'm scared."

"I'm so sorry I put you in this situation." Henry apologized, carefully pulling her close and wrapping his arms around her. He needed to hold her in that moment, possibly even more than she needed to be held.

"I know you didn't mean to... It's just... well I told you about the last time."

"I'm not him, darling." Henry assured, resting his cheek on her head. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I know, and I keep telling myself that. It's just hard to forget what happened before. For some reason, I thought he would have been happy. I should have known better, honestly. He never thought about anyone but himself."

"I can promise you, I would be incredibly happy to raise more children with you, if that's what you want. If you decide you don't want anymore, that's fine. I'll just have to settle for spoiling Briar even more to make up for it."

"I always pictured myself having a few kids. After having to go through my entire pregnancy alone and the miscarriage, and then having to raise Briar by myself, though... it wasn't easy. It made me wonder if I was even meant to be a mother."

"You're a fantastic mother, Faye. Briar thinks the world of you, and you've done an excellent job raising her, but you don't have to do it alone anymore."

"It's got to be done by now... can you go check it?" Faye asked hopefully.

"Together?" Henry asked, slipping past Faye to grab the stick.

"No, just tell me." Faye requested, chewing the inside of her lip nervously.

"Uhh... two lines means pregnant, right?"

"What?" Faye yelped, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.

"I'm just looking at the key! There's only one line!" Henry quickly corrected, his eyes going wide when he'd realized his mistake.

"Oh my God,  you asshole!" Faye groaned, throwing her arms around his middle and hiding in his chest.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you like that." Henry apologized, tossing the stick back onto the counter and holding her close.

"I'm so mad at you!" Faye whimpered, her voice muffled by his shirt.

"Would putting on your pretty new dress make you feel better?" Henry offered, smiling to himself at Faye's slow nod. "Then let's both get cleaned up. The sitter should be here in an hour, and I don't think answering the door wet and wearing nothing but a towel is a good first impression."

"You'd kill the poor girl if you did that." Faye snorted, tilting her head back and resting her chin against his chest.

"We need her to live. Someone has to watch Briar while we got get unreasonably drunk."

"Planning on drinking a lot tonight, my love?" Faye asked, raising a brow at him.

"Oh we are both definitely drinking tonight. It's a celebration and you've just been given the go ahead for drinking."

"But if we're both drunk, who's going to be the responsible one?'

"That's why we're hiring a sitter. We can both be irresponsible, at least for one night."

"Fine, but I'm taking the first shower." Faye sighed, pulling away and slipping down the hall, giving Henry a confused look when he followed right after, already stripping his shirt off the second he got into their bedroom. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Playing lifeguard." Henry taunted, shooting her a shit eating grin.

"Is that a polite way of saying jacking off while I'm showering?"

"Well you could always lend me a hand." Henry offered, already working on his belt.

"We only have an hour before the sitter gets here!"

"That forty five minutes more than I need." Henry growled, shoving the rest of his clothing down his legs, kicking them off, and snatching her up.

Faye felt the need to point out that his estimation of fifteen minutes had been a bit lean. It was almost half an hour before they reemerged from the bathroom. Henry tried to argue that they spent some of the time actually bathing, though he knew it was a pointless debate. All it took was Henry taking her dress from the closet, still in it's protective bag and laying it on the bed for her to drop the subject entirely.

"It's so pretty!" Faye sighed as she unzipped the bag, running her hands over the soft fabric. It was a soft grey dress, the skirt made of tulle and a structured corset like top to it. Henry had insisted she go with the grey after she'd tried on numerous other colorful options. All the color suited her bright personality, but clashed with her already brightly colored hair, and took away from the shimmer in her smile and the wide innocence she held in her eyes. In the grey, she shined. She was the center of attention instead of what she was wearing. It enhanced all of her wonderful qualities instead of competing with them. Henry had no doubt she would be the one on everyone's minds tonight.

Most of the drive there was spent with Henry trying to coach Faye on what to do. He knew how terrifying everything could be, and he knew people would have a lot of questions, mostly about who she was. He instructed her to just keep her eyes on him to avoid being overwhelmed by the crowd and the flashing cameras. He didn't expect her to talk to anyone, and advised against saying anything to anyone that was recording or looked like any type of journalist, especially without him there. He knew they tended to twist words and make mountains out of molehills, and he didn't want any more stress on her than necessary.

None of it felt real until the driver finally came to a halt, Faye spying the waiting crowd for the first time. Sure, she had been expecting some people. It was the season two premiere of a Netflix hit show. She just didn't know it would be this many. She wasn't a fan of crowds at the best of times. Now, she was debating on just having the driver take her back home.

"Eyes on me." Henry reminded her, smiling brightly when her brown doe eyes met his blue gaze. "None of that matters, it's just us." He assured, taking a slow deep breath which Faye mirrored before his door was opened and he stepped out, shooting a charming smile at the crowd as he buttoned his suit coat, the flashes of the cameras temporarily blinding him.

He turned back around and offered Faye his hand, seeming to relax more himself when she delicately rested her hand in his and slid from the car. Just as he expected, the cameras picked up into an absolute frenzy, everyone eager to get a picture of the mystery woman accompanying Henry Cavill at such an important event.

Brushing off their questions was easy enough for Henry, simply replying with "She's gorgeous, isn't she?" Whenever anyone asked who she was and moving along. That did nothing to quell the 'news' stories that popped up later that night and into the next day, all calling for who this mystery woman was and what her relationship to Henry was, however.

He had happened upon it by chance, just scrolling through his newsfeed on Facebook. It wasn't the title that caught his attention, however. It was the picture of her face, that bright smile he'd only seen in old pictures and those same wide eyes, now locked on someone else like he was the only man in the world. She thought she could just move on like that? Didn't that idiot know she was used goods? Nothing but a whore that would try to trap him into something for the rest of his life.

"That bitch!" He hissed, feeling his blood boil. Did she really think she could get away with embarrassing him like this? Going around and flaunting what being a whore could do for someone? No, he wasn't going to allow it. She was his, and it was time she stopped all of her nonsense and came back.

Taglist: @Xxxkatxo @Weallhaveadestiny @lunedelorient @summersong69 @mis-lil-red @lharrietg @amberangel112 @mansaaay

[ohheyitsokay]

congrats you angel, you deserve all the love and praise for your writing bc holy shit you’re so talented!!! for the soulmate au celebration, i’m thinking either javi or jack (your choice bc i can’t choose) with the soulmate goose of enforcement au 💕 ik it’s a bizarre au but the potential for chaos is insane 😂 anyways ily and i hope you’re having a great day honey

...not me, having JUST reread your javi/jack fic, considering both... definitely me

Anyway, thank you, jj, you absolute gem of a human. I swear I had to turn up the fan reading this I got so flustered. I hope you have a great day too! And I hope you enjoy- I had to do a little research, and made it shorter than I wanted to, so hopefully it fills your chaos cup still!  (You'll understand, and hopefully forgive my delay when you see what's under the cut :) )

wordcount: 2.5k

warnings: strong language, lil angst with happy endings all around. mild menace meeting menace shenanigans 

Okay this is written as pt 1 Jav, pt 1 Jack, pt 2 Jav, pt 2 Jack, bonus pt 3. If you’re only in it for one of the boys, it makes reading a bit weird, but I liked the format for the whole thing. Sorry!

>>

Javier wanted to hit it with a bat. Or a car. Or anything. All that mattered is that maybe then it would leave him the fuck alone. Of all the stupid, infuriating, ridiculous guides the universe could have given him to find his other half, he was sure this was the worst. Rumor was, he couldn't even kill it if he tried.

It's not that he didn't want to find his soulmate, but he... well, he didn't want to find his soulmate.

There were all sorts of excuses to spout - work, obviously a priority, inconvenience, not wanting to give up his way of life. Not to mention following a damn goose was an impossible task, plus the fact that the stupid thing didn't even like him.

It would appear seemingly at random, honking insistently or flapping erratically, and then be gone before anyone else could bat an eye. To say that he had become increasingly irritated would have been a huge understatement.

The truth of it was that Javier was afraid. No one in the world liked to feel like they were being controlled. People liked to know what was going on, and this just didn't fit the bill. He didn't like that he didn't know you, couldn't be chosen, by you.

His life was already complicated enough - messy enough - that a soulmate would only make it worse. He had made it this long, this far without needing one, so he was fine without, thank you very much. Even to himself, his lie sounded okay.

It was hard to face, the idea that there was someone out there, a relationship that he couldn't have control over. And someone who would love him unconditionally? Terrifying.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t allowed to do nothing, because it seemed like every direction he turned there was a goose from hell wreaking havoc on his life.

They had reached an impasse - glowering at each other as it had planted itself in front of his door. Little feet pacing angrily, unreasonably long neck, all of it was just begging to be kicked. Except, for all he was a seasoned DEA agent, Javier was almost afraid the thing could go a few rounds with him. Feet shuffling uneasily, his hand twitched for his gun, even though he knew he couldn’t, wouldn’t shoot.

It was stupid to have a staring contest with a goose. And even more stupid that the goose won .

Javier turned away, spitting spanish curses in a stream that would make his mama smack him. Maybe it wasn't too late to find a hookup he could use to crash, he was thinking, and that thought was apparently the final straw. The goose reappeared in front of him.

Hissing.

More curses, a quick turn on his heel. This time, it didn't move in front of him, it left a sharp peck on his calf, before dodging his kick.

It was herding him, against his will, to you.

-

When he saw the goose, Jack thought he was delirious. The Statesman lab must've screwed something up because he'd seen that horrible, wonderful, stupid goose once before, in another life.

And he never, ever thought he'd see it again.

He did a lot of thinking, that night and the next day and the next. Strangely, he did a lot of feeling, too, noticing how light his shoulders felt, how kind the ache on his heart had become. He visited their grave, pressed his forehead to the headstone, and breathed some deep breaths.

And when he saw the goose again, he lassoed it.

It wouldn't have died even if it was powered up, but he didn't take the chance, determination and longing filling his being like blood, pumping through his heart to each and every part of him.

Miracle of miracles, it let him, with all the glare a bird could give. Knees only making small pops, Jack settled on his heels, looking at it sternly.

"Can you take me to them?"

The expression on it's tiny, smug face didn't change, but it also didn't disappear to free itself, so he waited.

And he waited. And waited. And eventually, watching it with half an eye, he grabbed a doughnut and offered it to the stupid soulmate goose god.

It considered the doughnut, pecked it as Jack yanked his fingers out of reach, and apparently accepted. After it was finished, it began to tug him along, waddling on its makeshift leash as Jack's heart leapt into his throat. He grabbed the bag of doughnuts and his hat before getting dragged along, to you.

-

At his very core, Javier was a man driven by his personal sense of justice. Being herded by an immortal goose of mischief was unfair, it made no sense that he had to find you, somehow needed more, and wasn't allowed to choose. It pecked and honked and bullied him all the way to a crowded bar, which was a perfect example. 

Just as he was thinking, trying to convince himself he would've come here on his own, it disappeared again and he sighed.

He needed a drink. And, he needed to make some of his own goddamn decisions. Defiance and determination, he told himself. Not stubbornness. There was nothing to prove, it was just defiance and determination, to take his fate into his own hands and make his own choices. And if he was going to do that, he wanted to look for someone who wasn't an informant or a one night stand. His gut was looking for someone he could pull to his side and to show the universe that the goose was right to give up on him.

You were a perfect fit. Slightly disgruntled for whatever reason, even through the crowd he could see the faint, telltale wrinkles of someone just as... determined as he was. Shoulders held the same defiance he was so proud of, and he would be lying if he wasn't physically drawn to you as well. The inconsistent lighting could make anyone look good if you wanted it enough, but you... were something else.

There was a line of pink neon reflection from the top of your ear, across your cheekbone, and just grazing the line of your upper lip as you looked thoughtfully at something he couldn't see. Javier thought he wouldn't mind tracing that path with his fingers, and then maybe his own mouth, and his feet were already carrying him to you to look for an open door. The rest of your form came into view, and Javier noticed the bass of the music was turned up a little bit more than necessary- he could feel it thumping in his bones.

Talking to you went smoother than maybe it ever had before. You seemed resigned, at first, which was a reaction that caught him off guard, and that combined with the weariness of his week, making him unusually candid. In turn, you opened up to him like a flower turning towards the sun, fun and thoughtful and refreshing. 

He liked the way you laughed when his lines came out a little awkwardly - open and appreciative, and it made his chest puff out a little. He liked the way you spoke, too. There was kindness and romance in your soul, just whispering at the edges of the words, and while he didn’t pick up on that, per se, they made him feel special, handsome, worthy, but also trusted and comfortable and safe. Neither of you noticed at first, that you had shuffled into a quiet corner of the bar, that his body had moved close, a gentle shield boxing the two of you into your own little world.

When the question came - what brought you here, anyway? - he found himself answering honestly about half being led by his guide, then wanting to make his own path. His confidence faltered at your quiet laugh. His heart ached. A glance at the clock told him it had been two hours since he'd found you, and already he wanted to... choose you. To have you choose him.

He felt stupid that he had confessed so soon, but...

Oh, you were kissing him. There were hands shooting off sparks into his soul against his chest and his jaw and you were kissing him. Javier kissed you back.

When you pulled away, his mouth chased yours, not ready to give up the contact so soon, but you stopped him, laughing again.

"I have a confession," you whispered, and he paused.

“My guide led me here, too. I thought when it gave up on me when I saw you,” your next kiss was more chaste, “I think we got tricked.” Noticing he liked the feel of you in his arms, even if he didn’t remember pulling you there, he tightened his hold.

Javier felt light, understanding your laughter, and blissfully unafraid. “No,” he said, knowing already you’d understand him. 

“I chose you.” 

- 

Jack was running out of doughnuts. It was easier, safer to have the dumb bird half hog-tied, but he still didn’t feel any closer to you, just halfway across town. He dug in his boots and sunk onto a bench, yanking the goose to a stop, too annoyed to beg for a break. 

He wasn’t giving up and running away, absolutely not, he was just... running out of options. Or, doughnuts. And breath. If this pace kept up, he wouldn’t be able to tell you all the things he had planned out in his head. 

Eyelids closing against the southern sun, he let out a long, slow sigh. His heart was still racing, and he wondered if he was really as ready as he wanted to be, to meet his next soulmate. A sturdier inhale grounded him. He was ready, he knew he was. Whoever you were, you had to have the patience of a saint - it would be alright, he just needed a breath. The ground under his boots was sturdy, the breeze over his skin cooling, and the goose was mercifully quiet. 

“That’s one strange lookin dog you have there, cowboy,” The voice was teasing, but not malicious, and he grinned, eyes still closed. 

“She’s a purebred,” he replied, and he heard a huff of laughter like the first few notes of music. Waiting for your footsteps to carry you away, he savored the moment, feeling silly as he hoped his soulmate would like to laugh as much as he did. 

There was a weight on the other side of the bench, and he wondered at it, as you said, “Want to talk about it?” His smile was softer, this time, intrigued by the moment, but not wanting to be tempted into flirting, not when his soulmate was on the horizon. 

“Nothin to tell,” he replied, feeling suddenly strange. Jack opened his eyes, looking at the rope in his hands, feeling the fibers run through his fingers. “Just a free range chicken... taking a break from tryin to chase down my second soulmate.” He winced, definitely not wanting to look at you, after the second had slipped out. 

It wasn’t judging, though, the voice that said, “You seem like you want to talk about it.”

For once in his life, Jack didn’t know what to say, slipping off his hat to run his fingers through his hair before replacing it. He heard your half-laugh again, and it felt refreshing, like sweet tea on a southern summer day. 

“Okay,” you said, and he heard amusement this time, like you had something to say, some thought you were chewing on. 

Then, there was that terrible honk of the goose, not from his feet, but from where, assumedly, you were. Snapping his gaze to the other side of his bench, he saw a sight for sore eyes, half backlit, glowing like something he never thought he’d see.

There was an indignant goose in a cage at your ankles, now making grumbling bird noises in indignant conversation with the one at the end of his lasso. 

“I thought you were never gonna look at me,” Your arm was across the back of the bench as you grinned at dynamite smile at him. 

Jack returned it, feeling bashful and eager, dropping the rope to grab your closest hand. 

“I promise I aint making that mistake again, sugar.”

-

bonus ending:

Jack was clinging to your hand, grinning like a fool as you introduced yourselves, when another movement caught his eye. There was a man, walking up behind you, a resigned look on his face. Whiskey’s hackles should have been all the way up, yanking you into his arms at the way this man was approaching you, but instead he was dumbfounded for the second time that day. 

He was backlit, too, with shoulders that carried as much weight as the man in his mirror every morning, and he could see the shape of a gun as he knelt next to his soulmate. The stranger’s eyes when they looked at you... were as adoring as he was sure his must have been, a moment before, and he was familiar with you, like you’d known each other before now. Jack wanted to swallow, but his heart felt like it was in his throat, beating like he’d gone a round with a bull at the rodeo.

“This is probably a lot,” Javier said, taking you other hand and quirking an eyebrow. The geese made some loud, obnoxious noises and he looked at them appreciatively. “I wish I had thought of that,” he gestured at the lasso, and you smiled at him. 

“This is Javier,” you said, and you let go of them both to stand up and brush yourself off. Warm hands and strong grips were exchanged, and you watched them curiously as they shook, murmuring names and titles again. They were sizing each other up, certainly, but you felt a rush of relief as you saw a familiar spark of attraction in Javi’s eyes. 

“You got any more surprises for us, then?” you looked up at the cowboy, confused, only to realize he wasn’t talking to you. The goose in your cage was free halfway down the walk, the one in the lasso hissed. The poor man had been an RV in an earthquake and come out the other side overwhelmed and happy, of all things, but there wasn’t much more he could handle. To your surprise, he grabbed a crumbled paper bag and tossed the contents to the bird, before it gave a final honk, and waddled after it’s friend. 

“I guess that’s a no,” you said, suddenly shy at the fullness in your heart. 

“That’s alright,” Jack picked up his lasso, before looking at you and Javier, his eyes happy, and glinting with something stronger. “I think this is more than enough.”

And you agreed.

<<

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @beautyagegoodnesssize @princess76179

for whiskey:

@0celestialbitch0

[olivinesea]

In the Golden Dark, pt. 2

Part 1

a/n: This was already pretty much done so here you go. These parts are all rather short but that can be nice right? ~1.6k

i can’t concentrate if i keep seeing your face showing up in tea leaves lit up on my tv i can’t stand up straight under your gravity so i lay awake with my eyes closed

“Did you know 12% of people dream in black and white?”

“Wha-what?” Hotch groggily looked at the time on his phone. He had answered it blindly, autopilot kicking in to attend to the buzzing beside him on the couch. He blinked again and brought the phone back to his ear to hear Spencer’s voice more clearly.

“Yeah! It used to be a lot more when television was only in black and white but now that’s shifted obviously. Elderly people are still a lot more likely to have dreams that are—“

“Spencer,” Hotch interrupted the way the words were beginning to tumble out. When he was met with an abrupt silence he realized he didn’t have a follow up, he just needed a moment to breathe. To take in the dark living room, the flickering light of the television, its muted colors and grainy film showing a syndicated rerun, the kind only played in the middle of the night or the middle of the day, times when no productive person was meant to be watching. Something soft in its age, he found it comforting to put it on when he couldn’t sleep, woken again by nightmares that some monster had found their way to Haley and Jack. That they were suffering and he didn’t even know.

On the other end of the line, Spencer held his breath. He had been nervous about making the call, he wasn’t sure if it was too intrusive, too far across the boundaries they normally worked within. It wasn’t that he was worried about waking Hotch, he knew the other man was already awake. Even before they had started talking more, casually sharing details about the time they spent away from the office, it was obvious that Hotch did not sleep like a normal person. It was something else that they shared.

Seemingly endless minutes passed without another word from either man and his fear that he’d made a mistake grew. He told himself that Hotch was not pleased with the interruption. That he was being too assuming—why would Hotch be interested in anything he had to say at three in the morning? He’d called spurred on by the acute need to share a thought and, though he wasn’t totally conscious of it, a wish to hear that comforting voice, maybe even a quiet chuckle. He had smiled imagining that gentle sound, only he hadn’t realized it, the corners of his mouth moving without informing the rest of his mind. He touched his lips now with cold fingertips, running them over the dry skin, oblivious to the way his jaw clenched.

The silence between them hung like a bridge. There was a moment where both of them looked out at their respective living rooms, mentally steeling themselves to take a step and hope the other would meet them. Hope that they wouldn’t find themselves suspended over the water, alone as ever.

“I’m sorry for calling so late,” Spencer sounded so remorseful Hotch felt guilty immediately. He hadn’t meant cause him any anxiety with his long silence, he was just trying his best to gather his thoughts. To make sense of what he meant to do.

“It’s ok, really, I—“ Hotch hesitated, unsure how much detail to go into, how much reassurance was the right amount. He felt unreasonably awkward suddenly and twitched his fingers in irritation, “I wasn’t really sleeping anyway.”

“Really?” Spencer scrunched his eyes up, disliking the eagerness bleeding from his voice. He couldn’t help it though, the prospect of having the other man’s attention, even if it was only his voice reflecting from a satellite, knowing that Hotch was listening made him feel more secure. He’d spent too many restless nights pacing his apartment, starting and abandoning tasks in attempts to distract himself from the way the night was pressing uncomfortably close, threatening to overtake his mind. To have a friend to talk to, to reflect back his own reality, was a gift he could barely believe he deserved.

Hotch grunted as he adjusted himself on the couch cushions, supporting the back of his head on the pillows, resting the phone between his shoulder and ear. With his free hand he pulled up the blanket that had tangled at his feet. “Wide awake,” he said dryly. “What were you saying about dreams?”

Spencer’s smile was so big Hotch could hear it through the phone as the man stumbled ahead with the details of some completely unnecessary study. Hotch wanted to ask what had led to him reading such a thing but he was enjoying the happy way Spencer was running through all the new material he’d learned. He adored listening to Spencer speak, how he sometimes stopped short when remembering a related detail and how there’d be a pause while he took a split second to make the choice whether to jump to the new train of thought. Hotch smiled to himself and was pleased enough to offer hums of interest at inflection points. He let his eyes wander back to the television, as the title credits of another episode of Bonanza played across the screen, the pale wheat and horses and cowboys, already a distant fantasy in the 1960s, ancient history by today’s standards. His eyes fell half closed as he continued to listen to Reid’s voice.

“And, they just published a new study about how sleep deprivation decreases the body’s pain tolerance.”

Hotch snorted softly at this. “They really had to get a bunch of scientists together to figure that out? Someone paid for that?”

“Well it is always important to gather data and scientific evidence for these types of things. Anecdotal testimony won’t lead to any developments in the care for conditions like chronic pain,” Reid paused when he heard more quiet laughter from Aaron. He grinned.

“Do you want to hear something really crazy? They’ve found a connection between a person’s favorite sleeping position and their personality. Can you imagine!”

“Hmmph,” Hotch sank deeper into the cushions, settling in for whatever came next.

*

The calls became as regular as the midnight pancakes. Spencer would call with some piece of trivia, every night a new topic. He had a seemingly endless well of knowledge to draw on. In truth he spent the day trying to think of new ideas to share, new information he thought Hotch would appreciate. For no reason other than his own private satisfaction, he grouped topics thematically. This week they were going to be talking about space.

Now Hotch was ready, drowsy but checking his phone every few minutes to see if he’d somehow missed it ringing. He was looking at it yet again when it buzzed. He stared at the screen for a moment before answering, letting the name that flashed send a small thrill up his spine. He was not sure how it’d happened but he had come to rely on these calls. They still hadn’t discussed it, hadn’t acknowledged what this extracurricular time spent together might mean. They were simply seeking comfort, not questioning how this might be perceived outside these invisible moments.

“Hey Spence,” he barely got the words out before Spencer launched into that night’s prepared curiosities.

“Did you know most of the visible stars are actually multiple star systems? The singular stars are so much harder to see that astronomers used to believe that it was fairly uncommon to find a singular star like our sun.They hypothesized this was a contributing factor to why we hadn’t found evidence of extraterrestrial life. It is much harder for a planet to have the stability necessary for a habitable atmosphere with the potential fluctuations of a binary star system. Without as many single stars it made sense that it was exceedingly unlikely for life to form outside of our solar system.”

“I think it’d be nice,” Hotch murmured, not really thinking about what he was saying.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, ah,” Hotch stammered, a little embarrassed to have the comment acknowledged. He felt his neck growing warm as he tried to make out a reply. “Well, having two suns. I think it could be nice."
 “Why?” Spencer was genuinely curious.

“Um, I guess, I imagine it would be warmer for one,” he paused before adding on, waiting to see what Spencer’s reaction might be. He could almost hear the wheels of his mind turning with all the reasons Hotch’s logic was faulty. He hurried on before he became too self-conscious to finish his thought. “And, I’ve just never really liked the night, all the darkness. Maybe with two suns we could have a little more light in the world.”

Instead of responding, Spencer remained quiet, surprised by this uncharacteristically whimsical thought. Hotch could feel his whole neck had turned red, along with the warming tips of his ears.

“I—I don’t really like the night either,” he tried to sympathize. “It can feel…overwhelming.”

They sat for a moment, not sure where to take this or how the facts had turned into feelings.

“I’m happy I have you to talk to though.”

It was simple, but it was true and sweet and Hotch smiled, closing his eyes to better absorb the words.

“I’m happy too, Spencer.”

Now they were both blushing, the depth of meaning behind these brief statements readily apparent. For a moment, feeling the heat dancing across his face, Hotch wondered if this wasn’t a mistake. Maybe he was allowing things to become something irresponsible, something he couldn’t so easily walk back. He pictured Spencer, sitting across from him, animated and full of life, pulling further away from the shadows that teased around the edges. It didn’t matter, he decided. It didn’t matter what this was, only that they had found a hand to hold through the night.

“So, what else have you got for me?”

~Part 3~

[angstymdzsthoughts]

1 no war abo au where teenager omega wwx accidentally (it actually was an accident, the one instance where he wasnt trying to be a little shit) pulled lwj's headband off so now they have to get married even when lxc and jyl isnt married yet. yzy was more than happy to be rid of wwx and jfm couldnt do much with pressure from both his sect and gusu lan.

2 wwx was very apologetic and tries his best to at least be friends with lwj but lwj doesnt know how to deal with him. he keeps avoiding wwx even if he still makes wwx perform his marital duty. the lans are harsh and biased on wwx. making up his rule violations just to have him punished. no one would defend him bc even his husband is cold towards him. then lxc brings in jgy (jgs begrudgingly took my in just bc an omega is an asset and not bc he valued his skills) to gusu lan to marry him.

3 jgy is subtle and obedient, and despite his background the gusu lan elders much prefer him to wwx. xiyao's marriage affair was much larger and not just bc lxc was the sect heir but bc jgy was a better bride than wwx could ever be. wwx couldnt even enjoy the one time good food was served in cr, with his new pregnancy any food tasted like paper. maybe after the child is born lan zhan would look at him and protect him.

4 he didnt. he acted aloof as usual. even when their child lan yuan, the legal heir of gusu lan (by gusu lan law the heir is the oldest of one's generation in the main family), didnt even get a proper one month celebration, lwj didnt bother to fight for them. in reality lwj is torn bc he felt guilty towards wwx but the elders do not like his husband and by extension his child and they criticize him for not being proper enough. so he did what his father did best, standing by doing nothing.

5 it was truly unfair, lxc is free to be intimate with jgy in public but lwj gets scolded for visiting wwx's cottage more than 3 times a week. after 2 years, jgy is still not pregnant and cant resist jgs pushing him to get rid of lan yuan. wwx's omega instinct is in overdrive. it wasnt entirely unreasonable. he may be paranoid, but a venomous spider wont just magically appear in lan yuan's crib. wwx doesnt ask lwj to protect their son, he saw firsthand how useless his husband is in his inaction.

6 it came crashing down when ayuan got sick and he found the note in jgy's handwriting for ayuan's nanny, along with the remains of a poison. he took it up to the elders, not having any of their shit anymore. but they blame him instead, accusing him of being too greedy for power that he would try to get rid of his rival even when his own son was already heir. that he forgot his station, a mere son of a servant. he looked at lwj, who couldnt meet his eyes and didnt say a word to defend him.

7 that was the final straw. clearly them mother and son mean nothing to the entirety of gusu lan, so they would just leave. he brought suibian out and cut a few inches off his hair. you only cut your hair in mourning of spouse or parents. he continued by cutting off the tip of lan yuan's ponytail. from now on wei wuxian has no husband and ayuan has no father. using an invisibility spell he ran away from the wrath he just invoked.

8 he flew to lotus pier and hid under jiang cheng's protection. mdm yu would kick wwx out if she saw him and uncle jiang is as passive as his husband. the healers all report to mdm yu, so jc managed to get him some medicine to treat ayuan, but it didnt cure him, only lessened his symptoms. with jyl's marriage closing in most people are too busy to notice him. jzx is going to pick jyl up from lp instead of having her travel all the way to lanling alone.

9 wwx is glad at least jzx got his head out of his ass and returns his shijie's feelings. the lans come for the wedding, obviously. jc did his best to hide them, but got found out anyway. he ran away and ended up in yiling, sitting by the side of the street to get out of the rain when wen qing found him. the female alpha took him in, out of kindness since she remembered wwx to be one of the few students who were nice to wn during their study in gusu. she healed ayuan and came to like the boy too

10 it was wq who taught ayuan to read and write, wn the one who taught him to play games. jc visits them sometimes, even slipped a silver bell for him. jyl sometimes come when she visits ym. ayuan is almost 5 and gusu lan still hasnt had a new heir, so they are never truly safe from being pursued by the lans. it just so happens that wen xu travelled to yiling from nightless city to meet wq. he was greeted by a child, obviously related to the lans judging from his facial features, hugging his leg

11 wen xu is a decent person, unlike his sleazy younger brother. he appreciates competence like his father and respects wwx as a cultivator. (after all that trauma wwx's bar is very low). ayuan likes him so wwx has no qualms with being friends with wx. they become closer with wx's increasingly frequent trips to yiling.

12 wx began courting wwx. wwx never been courted, never been liked that way by anyone. wx even offered to properly adopt ayuan as his heir. wwx didnt feel it necessary, but it was nice for ayuan to have a father figure. wrh quite like both mother and son. wwx is a strong cultivator and ayuan has innate talent for cultivation. besides, if wwx marries wx and ayuan becomes wen yuan, they would never have to go back to that wretched place everyone calls sacred.

13 wwx agreed to marry wx, becoming young madam wen. but he didnt want any announcement. he just wanted to live in peace where he is. it was quite strange for the marriage of a sect heir to not be held in fanfare. the answer came on the next conference in nightless city. the alpha child sitting next to wen xu has lwj's nose. he has lwj's lips, has lwj's cheekbones, but he wears black and red and dons the surname wen.

14 jc and jyl werent surprised, but the rest of the sects were. lqr spat blood seeing wwx appear next to his son wearing wen robes. wrh didnt appreciate the ruckus and told them to keep it for later. lwj approached wwx after the conference. he admitted that the elders had been putting him on a grill since wwx left. elder brother turned out to be impotent, so the task of producing an heir falls on him. they basically want ayuan back.

15 wwx told him he didnt need to worry. he didnt have to do anything for them, since hes so good at it. just marry another omega, a proper one this time, and have a child with them, as he clearly is able to. besides, wen yuan is already formalized as an heir to qishan wen. so if they dont want a war with the wens they better just leave them mother and son alone.

16 then wen yuan came around the corner, looking for his mother. he called out to wwx, telling him that the banquet is about to start, lets go back to a-die. wwx left with him without another word to lwj. "who was that?" wen yuan asked. wwx grinned, "no one," -i just wanted an excuse for wen wwx

[damienthepious]

wow this hiatus sure is long huh

Tomorrow’s Some Kind Of Strangerland (chapter 5)

[Ch 1] [Ch 2] [Ch 3] [Ch 4] [ao3] [???]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum & The Keep, Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, The Keep, Sir Damien, Rilla, Queen Mira, Original Monster Character(s)

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ceasefire, Pre-Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, (some characters tagged will not appear until later chapters), canonical character illness, asking for help, (i still dn’t know how to tag things rip), (uhhhhh canon-typical fantasy monster-hatred? that’s gonna be a thing)

Summary:  When Mira took the throne, she did what no human ruler in living memory has done - she reached out, and brokered peace with the monsters. It is a shaky, uncertain sort of peace, but she and the current monster Senate have managed to maintain it for a handful of years now with only minor incident.

Lord Arum has not interacted with the human infection in the Northern Wilds since the ceasefire, but when his Keep becomes ill past his own ability to cure, the Senate has a peculiar idea for how to help the isolated Lord while testing the goodwill of their tentative allies at the same time.

Chapter Summary: Lord Arum adjusts to his temporary chambers.

Chapter Notes: less sick this week, thankfully. things still bad! just hanging in there, trying to keep doing my own thing, as always.

~

Arum can feel the knight seething as he leads him through the halls towards the… accommodations his little Queen insisted upon. Arum certainly can't complain about the adjustment; anything is better than listening to the vicious little creature babbling on about propriety and duty and whatever petty problems he has with Arum's voice. At least he has enough respect for his ruler to clamp his jaw shut, for a little while.

None of the other knights or servants pay them much more mind than a polite tilt of the head. Substantially more well trained than this irritating creature, apparently.

He buries a sneer. Was Mira joking, when she referred to Sir Damien as one of her most skilled knights, or was she simply setting Arum up for failure? Certainly they won't even get through the next full day before this skittish, irritable thing cracks and tries to kill Arum in his own borrowed chambers. An incident waiting to happen, this obnoxious, impossible to ignore little fool-

Sir Damien opens the door before him, dropping his eyes as Arum sweeps past stubbornly.

The chambers are... acceptable. Arum can see a number of points of structural inefficiency, but nothing so egregious as to worry him in truth. The stone is cut clean, the plush rugs dyed bright and lovely, the walls draped with tapestries and hung trailing plants (this last point being the most comforting; there is nothing he would have seen in his own swamp growing in this room, but the flora still looks glossy and well-cared-for). The front room houses bookshelves, a low table with surrounding cushions, and a writing desk beside a wide window curtained with green that Arum would be worried about if he had any faith that a human could climb these towers. A monster could, and perhaps Arum will still place a precautionary trap on the sill, but it is a relatively low risk. Arum can see the bedchamber through an open door, a much smaller room with a much smaller window.

The bed is piled with pillows and thick cloth. Humans and their soft, thin skin. Pathetic.

"Apparently," Sir Damien says, his tone frustrated and flat, "I will be staying in the adjoining servant's chambers. There is a hidden passage here," he says, and then he moves to brush aside one of the tapestries, pressing on what Arum had taken for a loose stone and swinging a small doorway open. The room behind the hidden door is somewhat smaller, less decorated, more utilitarian.

Arum does not bother to disguise the irritation on his face with this development. The knight certainly hasn't bothered to do the same.

"Provided that you do not enter these chambers uninvited and unannounced, I do not suppose I will have any reason to protest," he mutters, and the knight frowns. "You will not be afraid to sleep with a monster so close by?"

"I am not afraid of you," Sir Damien says, tone arch as he raises his chin. "Besides, I do not believe you would get what you want out of my Queen, if you attempted to assassinate me in the dark of night, would you?"

Arum keeps his eyes fixed on Sir Damien's for a long moment, a growl tickling soft in his throat. "So. You are capable of rational thought. Good." The knight sputters, his cheeks darkening with fury, but Arum turns his face away before he can protest more thoroughly. "Now. Leave me. It was a long journey, and I would quite like to rest unassailed by buffoons for the first time since I began to approach your shoddy little city."

The knight makes another noise, choking nonverbal indignation, but he either thinks better of speaking his mind in this moment or he is simply too angry to speak at all, and after a long moment Arum hears him step through to the other chamber and pull the stone door back closed behind him with an angry thunk.

Arum sags, just slightly, when he is finally alone again. He checks the door back into the palace hallway, first, latching the lock (for what little peace of mind that gives him), and then he begins to set up a few more trustworthy precautions.

He sets a small trap on the wide window, a fragile macrachnidweb lattice laced invisibly across the open sill, which will loudly set off a packet of snapseeds hidden beneath the curtain if broken. He hides another across the smaller window in the bedroom, just in case. He hides a detector under the lip of the table as well, the pseudo-cicada primed to alert him to any magic besides his own or the Keep's.

There is no lock on the bedroom door. Rather unfortunate. Arum sighs, then simply glares hard at the closed door for a long moment before he turns to the bed. He will set up a semi-permanent portal back to the Keep in the morning, when he feels better rested, when he has enough energy to cobble together a makeshift lock of his own. He already knows exactly which tapestry he can move to hide the portal against the wall; all he needs do is arrange the swamp dirt in his bags in the proper place, and then the Keep can grow a little foothold. If it doesn't need to produce a new portal in a new place every night, the strain shouldn't be unreasonable. It will allow him to continue to work towards his own cure while Mira's physician is still distant, and perhaps tomorrow Arum may even rest in his own damned bed again.

For now, he lowers his head, and then he climbs up onto the absurdly soft pile of human fabrics and curls around his packs for safekeeping, his eyes on the unlocked door with sharp distrust for what feels like a long, long time before he manages to succumb to sleep.

~

Sir Damien can sleep nearly anywhere, if necessary, and still wake with the dawn, with enough time to run through his morning exercises and meditate, at least briefly, with Saint Damien.

Waking within such close proximity to where a monster sleeps, however... it is disconcerting, to say the very least. Though, he did not lie, the night before. He is not afraid of Lord Arum.

He steps out into the hallway to clear his head before he attempts another conversation with that lizard, and he intercepts one of the palace workers, coming to meet him with a tray of food for himself and the monster ambassador. Damien suppresses an irritated huff, managing to thank the worker before he retreats back into his room with the tray.

Damien sets the tray down on the table in his room with a sigh, imagining the look on Sir Absolon's face if he heard that Damien had been tasked with serving food in the private chambers provided to a monster, and then he shakes his head to clear it.

He knocks on the stone door (less hidden, on his side of the wall), and waits a long moment. He supposes that it might take some time, if the creature is still in bed, for him to answer.

More than a minute passes. Damien knocks again.

"Lord Arum?" He pauses, and then he leans to press his ear closer to the stone. He cannot hear anything, though it is impossible to tell if that is because of the stone, or because there is nothing to hear. "Lord Arum, may I- may I come in? I have-" he winces, sighs, "I have breakfast for the both of us, if... Lord Arum?"

He knocks once more, and when that still yields no answer he frowns and grumbles a curse under his breath, and then he dares to press the hidden door open a crack, peering warily through.

The room looks... nearly untouched. Perhaps the monster truly was as exhausted as he claimed, or-

The door to the bedroom is still closed. Damien cannot- should not assume, simply because the monster is not in sight, that the creature has escaped- rather, disappeared into the Citadel unaccompanied, against Damien's orders-

He takes a deep breath, and then presses the door further open.

"Lord Arum, I wouldn't like to disturb you, but-"

A noise in the bedroom, strange and distant. Like- song? Or- chiming, perhaps. Unlike the rattling, rough voice of the monster.

"Lord Arum?" he asks, more suspicion coloring his tone as he steps closer to the bedroom door. "Lord-"

The door swings open, the monster striding out quickly enough to nearly collide with Sir Damien, growling with his frill flared and his cape half-draped over only a single shoulder.

"What? What is it? What do you want?"

"I..." Damien blinks, swallows, and leans back from the way the monster looms above him. "Er- there is- food. For the both of us. You did not answer, and I-"

"Thought you should barge into the private chambers your queen allocated for me?" he snaps, violet eyes flashing, and Damien feels a pulse of irritation burn past his surprise.

"You didn't answer," Damien repeats, more snap in his voice. "Do you want me to bring you your breakfast, or do you not?"

The monster glares for a long moment, his tail lashing behind him, and then he exhales a sigh and turns, reaching a hand over his own shoulder to right his cape again. Damien attempts not to notice the way the muscles of Arum's shoulders move beneath the motion, suggesting far more strength than Damien had previously assumed.

He will... need to keep that in mind.

"Ugh. Fine," the monster grumbles, turning and stalking to the table to drape himself across the cushions with an overdramatic sigh. "Next time I will try to wake more promptly, so you do not decide to kick down my door in a panic."

Damien narrows his eyes, then flicks his gaze into the bedchamber for just a moment before he turns back to his own room to gather the meal again.

The bed looks rumpled, though the sheets themselves seem as if they have not been turned back (did the creature simply curl up on top of the blankets?), and nothing much seems disturbed-

One of the tapestries on the far wall swings lightly, gently, as if in a breeze. Only one.

Damien shakes his head.

They eat entirely in silence, the monster ignoring Damien rather thoroughly over his spiced, vegetable stuffed bread. That is perfectly fine, so far as Damien is concerned. He does his best to ignore the monster over his own meal, despite himself.

"Queen Mira has requested your presence this evening, to take supper with her and a few other nobles, dignitaries, that sort," Damien says stiffly once they've finished, gathering their plates into a neat pile for the palace staff to collect later.

The monster narrows his eyes, his lip curling. "Fine," he says, somewhere near a growl. "If she insists."

She does not insist, Damien thinks sharply, barely biting his tongue. She is the Queen, Lord Arum should be honored that she would deign to grace him with such an invitation-

"That is not until the evening, however," he manages to continue through grit teeth. "Will I be accompanying you into the city today, Lord Arum?"

"Why would I need that?" he asks irritably, and Damien clenches his teeth even harder.

"I would hardly dare to guess," he says, his tone hopefully breezy and not still stiff. "Nor would I dare to assume that you should prefer to spend your time cooped up in this room alone, simply waiting for R- for Queen Mira's physician to return to the Citadel."

The monster blinks, then glances away, his frill fluttering oddly beside his neck and his scales- Damien is almost certain, this time, that he is not imagining it. The lizard's scales shift hue, a mottled pattern up his throat and on his cheeks shifting to a subtly brighter green.

"I do not see what there is to do besides wait, little knight," he mutters. "I do not desire any entertainment you think your city might provide while my home is dying, and I do not trust yourself or the citizens below not to attempt to slay me if I make some social misstep in the pursuit of such, which, as I have seen in the short time I have spent here already, I am very likely to do. I can hardly speak without committing offense. I dare not wander, lest I condemn myself by mistake."

Damien opens his mouth, then closes it again just as quickly. The monster almost seems- beneath his seething anger and that more subtle layer of sorrow Damien would prefer not to acknowledge, he almost seems self-conscious about his noticeable lack of human social graces.

"Well..." Damien says slowly, "If you do decide you would like to see more of the Citadel, I suppose that is precisely what I am here for. You would not be unprotected, and I think... I think you overstate the bloodthirst of the citizenry. Surely you saw, today, there were a number of other monsters in the market."

"Monsters under your bitter scrutiny," he growls, still not meeting Damien's eye. "No. I do not think I should like to risk my neck, even under your noble protection, oh brave Sir Knight."

Damien flushes again at the dripping sarcasm in Arum's voice, and then he turns to glare at the monster.

"There is no need to be so dour," Damien says, halfway snapping and halfway pleading. "The Queen herself has taken up your cause, as you wanted! Your swamp will be saved, because the most brilliant mind in the entirety of the Second Citadel - I can assure you of that personally - has been summoned to lend her skill. You should be grateful for what generosity you have been given even thus far."

"You would prefer me on my knees, little knight?" Arum spits, his teeth bared, and Damien manages - barely - not to splutter. "Have I not groveled thoroughly enough for your tastes?"

"No, I-" Damien shakes his head. "That isn't what I meant, I only- I only-"

"I understand," Lord Arum says stiffly, "that it is the fault of no one that your Queen could not provide me with the assistance I require at this very moment. I understand." His eyes flash, anger pulling quick across an anxiety that Damien cannot help but notice. "That does not mean that I have to pretend to be pleased about the delay."

"Queen Mira is dutiful and wise," Damien says, almost automatically, distracted by the monster's attention upon him. "She will do what is right, and she will do so in the proper way."

"And in the meantime," Arum says, looking away again, his gaze cast out the window towards the slow ascent of the sun. "In the meantime… my home suffers."

"I-" Damien stammers, but the monster does not turn towards him again. "I… am sorry," he says stiffly, and then Lord Arum scoffs.

"It is only us, now, little knight. There is no cause to pretend that you have a speck of care to spare for the suffering of either myself or my home."

"You…" Damien feels heat in his cheeks, feels inexplicable shame in his guts, feels sorrow rolling off of the monster in front of him in slow, undeniable waves. "Do... do not presume to know how I feel, Lord Arum."

"I do not need to presume," Arum says, his lip pulling into a sneer. "You have made your feelings rather intensely obvious."

Damien-

Damien supposes that he has. He swallows thickly, and then he gathers the dishes from their meal and turns back towards the door to his own temporary chambers.

"I... suppose I should leave you be, then. I'll accompany you to supper with the Queen in the evening," he says, only realizing how odd it is to say as the words leave him. "Until then- if you change your mind-" he reaches out, and raps his own knuckles off the stone beside the hidden door. "I will be... here, I suppose. I hope you will not be too bored in the meantime, Lord Arum."

The monster fails to look towards him again, his snout facing the window and his eyes distant, and he barely seems to notice when Damien takes his leave, precisely as unmoving as a statue until Sir Damien closes the door between them again.

[ibijau]

part 10 of the Nomad Nie AU // On AO3

Huaisang has a surprise for his husband, who tries to surprise him in return

It took nearly another week after Cunzhi’s little adventure before the Nie finally arrived at their winter camp. The entire time, Nie Huaisang stuck close to his husband, in case Lan Xichen had developed a taste for confronting wolves unarmed and needed to be stopped. Lan Xichen was both amused and touched by this, and didn’t complain. 

He thought that Khan Mingjue too seemed rather entertained by this turn of events, and acted perhaps a little less angry toward him these days. When they arrived at the winter camp, Lan Xichen was bossed around by the Khan just the same way as everyone else as they rebuilt the gers, and he was trusted with helping Huaisang and a few others check whether any of the animals had sustained wounds during the long journey. He also was a little warmer when the three of them retired for the night, and constantly teased him about the wolf. This greatly annoyed Huaisang, which seemed to be the aim, but Lan Xichen found he rather enjoyed the Khan’s dry humour. It reminded him of Lan Wangji.

When they reached the place they would spend the winter, it took very little time to set everything up, at least in Lan Xichen’s opinion. In less than a day, there was a whole village standing, looking exactly as if it had always been there. The herds were then separated, which led to a few small disputes here and there. The Khan ordered his brother and Zonghui to take care of those if they could. As for himself, Mingjue was only giving the horses a chance to rest a little, and then he would head with a few men toward the other camp, to make sure that everything was alright with them.

Mingjue left early the next morning, just as Lan Xichen was starting to wake up. He groggily bid his brother-in-law a safe trip, then decided it was really too early to be up yet and tried to pull Huaisang back under the covers with him to cuddle for a while. Huaisang indulged him at first, but before long he was escaping to eat something, saying he had a busy day ahead. He was clearly very proud of having been tasked with helping settle any disputes that might have arisen due to the migration, and refused to let his brother down when Mingjue was finally trusting him with something.

Any hope Lan Xichen might still have had about a quiet morning together was fully ruined when Meng Yao came to check on them. Huaisang and Lan Xichen were still having breakfast, but invited him to sit with them if he wished and share their meal. Lan Xichen was delighted to see his friend, as always. So was Huaisang, though he still left before long, eager for this chance to prove how very useful and mature he could be.

“We’ll chat later,” Nie Huaisang said in Hanyu, his accent much better than it used to be. “Keep my husband company, Menyao. Make sure he does nothing stupid. No more wolves for him!”

Meng Yao laughed, and promised to keep an eye on Lan Xichen. Satisfied with this, Huaisang dropped a quick kiss on his husband’s forehead and hopped out of the ger. Lan Xichen watched him go, unable to refrain a fond smile as he passed some cheese to Meng Yao.

“Do you think he minds that we are friends?” Meng Yao asked as he took the food.

Lan Xichen shot him a surprised look. “Of course not. Why would he?”

Meng Yao appeared to hesitate, the way he sometimes did when he feared he had some unpleasant information to share. He stalled a moment, nibbling on his piece of cheese, before diving in.

“These barbarians can be rather possessive,” he explained. “And I am right in guessing you are still refusing him his marital rights, are you not?”

Lan Xichen nodded and looked away, heat rushing to his face. It really wasn’t a matter of refusing anything at this point, and just that the occasion for it couldn’t be found. With Nie Mingjue gone for a few days, Lan Xichen was hoping they’d seize their chance at last… but of course he couldn’t have said that to Meng Yao, it was too private a matter.

“Huaisang is much sweeter than the others,” Meng Yao said, “but even he could get jealous. Lan gongzi should keep that in mind, and tell me if I create problems for him.” He sighed, his expression pained. “Lan gongzi is dear to me, but I will distance myself if it is needed. I do not want to provoke Huaisang into anger.”

Lan Xichen laughed awkwardly, and drank to hide his embarrassment.

“It’s fine, it’s quite fine,” he said. “Huaisang doesn’t mind at all. You’re his friend too, in spite of his brother.”

Meng Yao looked unconvinced. “These people will turn on their friends over anything. Even among brothers there is strife sometimes. If Huaisang weren’t so indolent, he would probably have been killed a long while ago, just so he wouldn’t pose a threat to the Khan’s power. Their grandfather killed his own father for power, it runs in their blood. So please, be careful, and tell me if I can ever do anything for you. You’re the only true friend I have, I don’t want for any harm to come to you.”

The story of Huaisang’s grandfather wasn’t unknown to Lan Xichen. Huaisang had told it to him, not without some pride, because the murdered father had been a cruel man who abused people and animals alike. Mingjue, who had been with them in the ger, had added that an unjust Khan could not be allowed to rule, and he would expect the same if he took a turn for the worse.

It had disturbed Lan Xichen at first, that anyone could talk so lightly of killing one’s father, one’s superior. In the end, he figured that perhaps the Nie too had a version of the Mandate of Heaven at play, and that Huaisang’s great-grandfather had lost heaven’s favour with his misconduct.

“I’m glad Meng gongzi feels this way,” Lan Xichen said. “I also see you as a true friend. If you had not been here to help me, I don’t know what I would have done. And I hope you know that I would be happy to help you as well, should you ever require it.” He hesitated a moment, then added: “For example if there might be a way to mend things between you and the Khan…”

Meng Yao failed to contain a slight grimace, and shook his head.

“No, the chance for that has passed,” he sighed. “He hates me too much now, and is too ready to blame me for everything that goes wrong in the clan. I’m sure he blames me for what happened with Cunzhi too, wouldn’t you say?”

Lan Xichen, quite awkwardly, didn’t know what to answer. 

It wasn’t that Meng Yao had caused that situation on purpose, of course. Still, Lan Xichen had become quite convinced that Cunzhi had escaped his mother’s care and hidden this way specifically because he had been so upset at losing Meng Yao’s company, and somehow hoped that making his displeasure obvious enough would allow him to get his way. It was likely that Khan Mingjue had come to the same conclusion, but was less kind with regards to Meng Yao’s intentions in that situation.

“Misunderstandings have happened in the past,” Lan Xichen said at last. “They can be corrected. I’m sure there must be ways to let the Khan see that you’ve never had ill intentions, only bad luck.”

“You think too kindly of the Khan,” Meng Yao scoffed.

And you think too ill of him, Lan Xichen thought with some disappointment. 

Khan Mingjue could be somewhat unreasonable when worrying for his brother, but even in his dislike he wasn’t unjust. He treated Meng Yao coldly and refused to deal with him more than necessary, but he didn’t go out of his way to be cruel to him, nor did he allow for him to be treated poorly by others. Aside from Huaisang, nobody was forbidden from associating with him. Lan Xichen was certain that if both parties had only made a small effort, they could have reconciled and returned to the friendship Huaisang told him used to exist between them. At first he’d thought all the efforts would have to come from the Khan, but he now saw that Meng Yao too would have to be a little more forgiving.

It would take time, Lan Xichen knew, and no small amount of work. 

“It’s fine anyway,” Meng Yao insisted, chewing on the last of his cheese. “I’m only biding my time until I can go home. I know someday my father will return for me, just as you must hope your family will do. When my father comes to get me back, it won’t matter much what the Khan thinks of me.”

The barely restrained fierceness in Meng Yao’s voice surprised Lan Xichen. His friend rarely spoke of his father, or indeed of anything about his life before joining the Nie. Lan Xichen was under the impression he had perhaps been less well treated in their home country than he was among nomads. From some of the things he said, Lan Xichen suspected that Meng Yao was either the child of a concubine or a servant who had been noticed for his intelligence and given an education, but never treated as truly part of the family. If so, it was unlikely that his father would ever bother to attempt to buy him back from the Nie, not the way Lan Xichen thought his own family might attempt once they’d built enough of a fortune with this new trade route opened to them.

It wouldn’t be for a few years at best, but Lan Xichen was unsure what he’d do if this happened. Of course he missed his home and family no less than Meng Yao did, yet he wouldn’t want to leave Huaisang behind. But it might be a pointless question anyway. Meng Yao might hope for his father’s return, Lan Qiren might attempt to buy back his nephew, but Khan Mingjue probably wouldn’t want to let anyone go who knew too much about his people.

Overtaken by a mild melancholy, Lan Xichen changed the topic and quickly finished eating so Meng Yao and him could go out and take care of their chores. Busy hands helped him empty his mind, though his mood remained a little off all morning. It was only when he returned to the ger for lunch that he started feeling better again, knowing he would see Huaisang.

Just as he had hoped, Lan Xichen found himself smiling happily as he entered the ger and started preparing for lunch. That smile only widened when Huaisang finally joined him, holding a bowl of dumplings in one hand, and carrying a dark wooden box under his other arm. The dumplings were carefully set aside, and the box presented to Lan Xichen.

“It’s for you!” Huaisang announced. “A gift for my husband.”

Lan Xichen glanced at the box, then at Huaisang’s excited face.

“Where did you get this?”

“I made a trade with old Xianjun,” Huaisang explained, handing the box to his husband. “Foals for three of his mares from my best racing stallion in spring, and he gave me this. It’s a Han thing, right?”

Inspecting the box more closely confirmed it was of Han origin. Its style had a southern flair to it, and Lan Xichen wondered how it had arrived so far north. It wasn’t a luxurious box, a little rough here and there, but still beautiful and made with obvious care by a competent artisan, and seeing this trace from home tugged at his heart. To distract himself from this renewed melancholy Lan Xichen opened the box while Huaisang peered curiously over his shoulder.

Lan Xichen gasped.

“Is it bad?” Huaisang asked, a note of worry in his voice.

“It’s very good,” Lan Xichen replied, sitting down to more comfortably admire his present. “Why did they have this?”

Huaisang chuckled nervously. “Old Xianjun followed my father on a raid against Han people when he was young,” he admitted. “He traded away many things, kept a few. Nobody wanted this and he found it pretty, so he kept it. What is it?”

“The four treasures of the study,” Lan Xichen said, only to be met with a blank look. “Ah, hm. It is used to write things, like in my books?”

Among Lan Xichen’s few possessions when he arrived with the Nie had been two books he’d taken with him. A caprice, his uncle had called it when they were getting to leave home, telling him he wouldn’t have any use for poetry, nor for that short history treaty he’d picked up some weeks earlier and never made time to study. A few months later and he knew those books by heart, as did Meng Yao who had nearly cried from joy upon being allowed to borrow them. As for Huaisang, he showed little interest in the books themselves, but enjoyed having the poetry read to him and explained, and he liked also the few printed illustrations.

“You can make a book with this?” Huaisang asked, looking doubtful.

“If I had something to say. I could also paint something,” Lan Xichen suggested, guessing that might amuse his husband more. The paper was of good enough quality that its age hadn’t made it too fragile, and the ink still seemed good at well. The inkstone was intact, its square shape simple but elegant. Only the pair of brushes wasn’t perfectly to Lan Xichen’s liking, since they were clearly made for writing rather than painting, but their quality was good, and his skill wasn’t high enough that the wrong tool would really hinder him.

“Paint something for me!” Huaisang predictably demanded, eyeing the box’s content with more interest now.

“Gladly. What should I paint?”

Huaisang barely hesitated. “Something you would miss if you went home.”

Hearing this, Lan Xichen’s smile faltered. It seemed he really couldn’t avoid thinking of home that day. At the same time, this had the advantage of being an easy request to fulfil, because there was only one thing he could think of painting after being asked this.

“I will do that. But it has to be a surprise. You can’t look at it until it’s done, Huaisang.”

“But I want to see how you do it!”

“After this, I teach you how to paint,” Lan Xichen offered. There were about three dozen sheets of paper in the box, which didn’t feel like much, but it would be enough. He’d just have to ask his family to bring him more next time he saw them. “This one will be a gift for you, so you can’t see.”

Huaisang went from pouting to grinning in an instant. Lan Xichen took a moment more to admire his own gift, then closed the box and asked his husband about his morning. They sat down and ate together, chatting about this and that, making plans for the rest of the day. When they were done with food, Lan Xichen took his box and started carefully preparing some paper and ink. Huaisang watched with fascination the process of grinding ink, asking questions about it that Lan Xichen answered as well as he could. Once he started actually painting, Huaisang was chased away to the other side of the ger where he worked for a while with leather.

Lan Xichen found it quite nice to be together like this, each of them occupied with their own work, occasionally trading a few words, but mostly silent and focused on what they were doing. He had never expected that it would be so comfortable to be in someone else’s company this way, least of all under such circumstances, but it made him glad once more than Huaisang and him had been brought together. Fate had really found him a perfect partner.

All too soon though, this moment of peace was interrupted. Someone came to ask Huaisang to help them with a dispute regarding cattle, and Lan Xichen had his own chores to attend. They both put away their work and went out, knowing they would meet again for dinner.

When afternoon reached its end, Xichen returned to the ger and found it empty. After tidying a bit, he took this chance and went back to working on his painting. It was no masterpiece, not when he had never received the education to create great works and hadn't touched a brush in months, but Lan Xichen was still happy enough with his work. He was putting the finishing touches when Huaisang returned, dusted with snow that had started falling, and carrying again some food. 

"Can I see soon?" Huaisang asked, staring toward the sheet of paper but keeping his distance, as he'd been asked. 

The painting wasn’t quite done, there were a few details to add, but Huaisang’s barely contained curiosity was too adorable. Lan Xichen motioned for his husband to come closer, which Huaisang immediately obeyed, rushing to his side and dropping on his knees right next to him.

“Here it is,” Lan Xichen announced, revealing the painting and handing it to Huaisang.

Just as he had hoped, Huaisang’s initially excited expression quickly turned to astonishment as he discovered that on the paper was a portrait of himself, painted as faithfully as Lan Xichen’s skill would allow. Huaisang’s face took on a very sweet pinkish hue that grew more intense the longer he gazed at the portrait, while his eyes shone with emotion.

“Something you would miss,” he mumbled, tearing his eyes from the painting to look at Lan Xichen. “Really?”

“Really,” Xichen said, putting away his brush in its proper place, telling himself he would clean it in a moment. First, though, he needed to kiss his husband. Huaisang, seeing him lean closer, hurriedly set aside the painting and threw his arms around Lan Xichen’s neck.

It wasn’t rare these days for the two of them to get passionate while kissing, and like many times before, Huaisang quickly ended up straddling Lan Xichen’s lap as he licked into his mouth, his hands wandering under the layers of his husband’s clothes. Usually that was the moment Mingjue would pick to come home and glare at them, but… 

But Mingjue wasn’t there at all this time, and at this time of day nobody would come looking for them. So Lan Xichen let himself fall back on the carpeted ground, and looked up at Huaisang, still straddling him.

Huaisang let out a strangled noise, but didn’t move. “Do you want…”

Lan Xichen quickly nodded. However much it had once terrified him to be wanted by Huaisang, he’d more than made his peace with it, his desire now matching his husband’s. There was no one else in the world he could imagine wanting as much as he wanted Huaisang, no one he would trust as much.

That nod was all the invitation Huaisang needed. He leaned down to kiss Lan Xichen with renewed passion, clumsily trying to untie his husband’s clothes while Lan Xichen did the same for him.

It was, to put it mildly, a fun night for both of them.