#i worked the day that iron flame came out and it was EASILY the book we sold the most of that day

[kazz-brekker]

objectively i knew that publishing decides ahead of time which books they want to be successful, but it's really SO fascinating to see it play out in real time now that i work as a bookseller. like, we've had plenty of new releases by popular authors like rick riordan and cassandra clare since i started working at my store, and although the really big books sometimes get a piece of merch like a sticker or a little sign advertising the book, iron flame by rebecca yarros is the only book we've released so far that had a midnight release party, mini tote bags for pre orders, specially made pins and temporary tattoos, multiple decorations for the store including a huge poster and cut-outs of dragons to hang on the walls, and a special edition of the first book that's only slightly different from the original book but is selling just as well as the sequel. it's wild. if that publisher decided to push any other book as hard as they were pushing the special edition of fourth wing, that book would be a bestseller several times over. as it is, it makes me dizzy to think about how many copies of those books have sold in the last 24 hours.

[duxbelisarius]

The Dragon has Three Heads or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Believe That Young Griff is the Real Deal

Before going any further, I want to warn anyone reading this analysis that it will contain spoilers for A Dance With Dragons, so proceed at your own risk.

This essay came about from an 'epiphany' I had while reading ADWD on break at work, specifically chapter Daenerys VII. In this chapter, Quentyn Martell and his companions present themselves to Daenerys and offer her a marriage alliance with Dorne. This being the day of her wedding to Hizdahr zo Loraq, Dany refuses and makes note mentally of Quaithe's earlier warning about not trusting "the Sun's Son." The identification seems simple enough, with House Martell's sigil featuring the sun and Quentyn being the son of Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne, but there are serious problems with this conclusion.

The issue with labeling Quentyn Martell the Sun's Son stems from how Dany reaches this conclusion; for starters, this is the original quote given by Quaithe in Daenerys II:

"No. Hear me, Daenerys Targaryen. The glass candles are burning. Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal."

And this is how Dany identifies Quentyn as the Sun's Son in Daenerys VII and VIII:

Something tickled at her memory. "Ser Barristan, what are the arms of House Martell?"

"A sun in splendor, transfixed by a spear."

The sun's son. A shiver went through her. "Shadows and whispers." What else had Quaithe said? The pale mare and the sun's son. There was a lion in it too, and a dragon. Or am I the dragon? "Beware the perfumed seneschal." That she remembered. "Dreams and prophecies. Why must they always be in riddles? I hate this. Oh, leave me, ser. Tomorrow is my wedding day."

...

The pale mare. Daenerys sighed. Quaithe warned me of the pale mare's coming. She told me of the Dornish prince as well, the sun's son. She told me much and more, but all in riddles.

George has talked about the fickle nature of prophecy in the books and publicly, citing the Duke of Somerset's death at the Battle of St. Albans in Shakespeare's Henry VI as an example of why the literal or easiest interpretations are not always the most reliable. While Dany's conclusion that Quentyn is the 'Sun's Son' seems straightforward, she bases it solely on Barristan's description of the Martell arms. Her reasoning is mainly to justify marrying Hizdahr by dismissing the Martell offer, as Dany herself barely remembers Quaithe's warning and bemoans her 'riddles'.

Assuming that the 'Pale Mare' refers to the 'bloody flux' that the Astapori refugees bring to Meereen, and that the Kraken, dark flame, lion, griffon and mummer's dragon refer to Victarion Greyjoy, Moqorro, Tyrion, Connington and Young Griff respectively, the sequence of Quaithe's warning makes no sense with Quentyn as the 'Sun's Son.' At the end of ADWD, Tyrion is outside the walls of Meereen while Victarion and Moqorro are en route with the Iron Fleet, and Connington and Young Griff are in Westeros. If Dany's return to Meereen from the Dothraki Sea is followed by her journeying westwards, then this sequence makes sense. Victarion will likely destroy the Slaver's fleets and is seeking Dany's hand in marriage, while Moqorro is with him for the purpose of acknowledging her as Azor Ahai and encouraging her to free the slaves of Volantis. Given Tyrion's association with Varys, Illyrio, Jorah and now 'Brown Ben Plumm,' and his family's role in Robert's rebellion, it makes sense that he would not immediately seek out Daenerys on her return to Meereen. Connington and Young Griff await her in Westeros, but Quentyn as the 'Sun's Son' precedes all of them, breaking Quaithe's otherwise sensible sequence. If Quentyn were the 'Sun's Son' he could just as easily have been paired with the Kraken, since both are sent by the heads of their houses to offer her an alliance, while Tyrion and Moqorro travel together on the Selaesori Qhoran (the 'Perfumed Seneschal') and Connington and Griff are in league with Varys.

The far greater issue with Dany's interpretation is that we have access to Quentyn's POV, and there is nothing to suggest that he seeks to betray Daenerys. His purpose was to approach Dany with a marriage alliance, to assist her in reclaiming her crown; his party was even sent by Tatters to scope out the situation in Meereen for a possible double-crossing of the Yunkai'i, specifically to aid Dany. The only thing close to untoward that he does is attempt to claim one of her Dragons, and this was a desperation move driven by his insecurities and his fear of returning to his father empty handed, which would mean that his fallen companions died for nothing:

"What name do you think they will give me, should I return to Dorne without Daenerys?" Prince Quentyn asked. "Quentyn the Cautious? Quentyn the Craven? Quentyn the Quail?" (The Discarded Knight, ADWD)

Volantis, Quentyn thought. Then Lys, then home. Back the way I came, empty-handed. Three brave men dead, for what?

...

His father would speak no word of rebuke, Quentyn knew, but the disappointment would be there in his eyes. His sister would be scornful, the Sand Snakes would mock him with smiles sharp as swords, and Lord Yronwood, his second father, who had sent his own son along to keep him safe … (The Spurned Suitor, ADWD)

Disqualifying Quentyn as the Sun's Son leaves us with only three options, of which only one really works. Trystane is the only other son of House Martell aside from Quentyn via Prince Doran, and given his limited roll in the story thus far I think it's safe to cross him off the list. Doran could theoretically work as the 'Sun's son,' as his mother was Princess of Dorne before him; given that Quaithe describes the figures as going to Dany, Doran's limited mobility and poor health would disqualify him. This leaves us with only one 'son of a sun,' that being 'Young Griff,' aka Aegon VI Targaryen, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne.

This association of Aegon with the Martells via his mother fits with the copious amounts of imagery linking him to the Rhoynar and to 'Egg' aka Aegon V of "Dunk and Egg" fame, specifically that character's travels in Dorne. Tyrion finds him living on a pole boat in the Rhoyne River, home of the ancient Rhoynar culture that Dorne descends from. The Shy Maid is operated by Yandry and Ysilla, so-called 'orphans of the Greenblood' which are another allusion to Dunk and Egg's travels on the Greenblood River in Dorne:

A poleboat had taken them down the Greenblood to the Planky Town, where they took passage for Oldtown on the galleas White Lady.

...

When they’d been poling down the Greenblood, the orphan girls had made a game of rubbing Egg’s shaven head for luck. (The Sworn Sword)

In Tyrion IV of ADWD, a massive horned turtle appears in the river by the Shy Maid, an obvious reference to the Rhoynish 'Old Man of the River,':

It was another turtle, a horned turtle of enormous size, its dark green shell mottled with brown and overgrown with water moss and crusty black river molluscs. It raised its head and bellowed, a deep-throated thrumming roar louder than any warhorn that Tyrion had ever heard. “We are blessed,” Ysilla was crying loudly, as tears streamed down her face. “We are blessed, we are blessed.”

Duck was hooting, and Young Griff too. Haldon came out on deck to learn the cause of the commotion . . . but too late. The giant turtle had vanished below the water once again. “What was the cause of all that noise?” the Halfmaester asked.

“A turtle,” said Tyrion. “A turtle bigger than this boat.”

“It was him,” cried Yandry. “The Old Man of the River.”

And why not? Tyrion grinned. Gods and wonders always appear, to attend the birth of kings.

When Tyrion and Haldon visit the Painted Turtle inn to find information about Daenerys' whereabouts, we have an interesting description of the inn from Tyrion:

The ridged shell of some immense turtle hung above its door, painted in garish colors. Inside a hundred dim red candles burned like distant stars. (Tyrion VI, ADWD)

We once more have Rhoynish symbolism in the turtle, while the 'garish colors' are reminiscent of Young Griff's hair, which is dyed blue in the Tyroshi fashion. Tyrion's description of inside the 'Painted Turtle' is one of dim red candles burning like stars, which can be seen as an oblique reference to the red rubies on Rhaegar's black breastplate, thereby associating the red of Targaryen heraldry with the cultural symbols of the Rhoynar.

The 'Dunk and Egg' imagery goes further, with both Egg and Aegon wearing distinctive straw sun hats, and being accompanied by their Hedge Knights from the Stormlands, both of whom have titles derived from their own simplistic personalities (Duncan the Tall, Rolly Duckfield). Moreover, Egg's journeying to Dorne ends up giving him refuge from the Spring Sickness that ravages Westeros, while Aegon's time in Essos serves as a refuge from Robert's spies and the chaos of the War of the Five Kings. While these similarities might be viewed as a doomed attempt by Varys to recreate Egg through Aegon, I think the purpose of these parallels is to establish both princes as following similar trajectories: both are sons of a Targaryen prince (Maekar, Rhaegar) and a Dornish noblewoman (Dyana Dayne, Elia Martell); become King of the Seven Kingdoms through unexpected circumstances: and if George plans to end ADOS with a mini-Dance of the Dragons, I would expect Aegon VI to meet a fiery end like Egg did.

If Young Griff is actually Aegon VI Targaryen as well as the 'Sun's Son,' this leaves the 'mummer's dragon' without any clear identity. Part of this is due to the conviction that Dany's identification of the cloth dragon from the undying visions with a 'mummer's dragon' or puppet dragon must be correct. In truth, there are countless cases from ADWD alone that show us that a mummer's object is not necessarily a puppet, but more broadly means something which is not as it appears:

I know one stands before me now, weeping mummer's tears. The realization made her sad. (Daenerys III, ADWD)

"Not here," warned Gerris, with a mummer's empty smile. "We'll speak of this tonight, when we make camp." (The Windblown, ADWD)

"My lord, I bear you no ill will. The rancor I showed you in the Merman's Court was a mummer's farce put on to please our friends of Frey."

...

I drink with Jared, jape with Symond, promise Rhaegar the hand of my own beloved granddaughter … but never think that means I have forgotten. The north remembers, Lord Davos. The north remembers, and the mummer's farce is almost done. My son is home." (Davos IV, ADWD)

His reign as prince of Winterfell had been a brief one. He had played his part in the mummer's show, giving the feigned Arya to be wed, and now he was of no further use to Roose Bolton. (The Turncloak, ADWD)

Fat Wyman Manderly, Whoresbane Umber, the men of House Hornwood and House Tallhart, the Lockes and Flints and Ryswells, all of them were northmen, sworn to House Stark for generations beyond count. It was the girl who held them here, Lord Eddard's blood, but the girl was just a mummer's ploy, a lamb in a direwolf's skin. So why not send the northmen forth to battle Stannis before the farce unraveled? (A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD)

Mummer's tears and smiles are obviously false emotions, being affectations put on to hide what someone truly feels. Wyman Manderly is engaged in a mummer's farce wherein he pretends to be loyal to King Tommen and Roose Bolton, but in truth is scheming to restore the Starks to Winterfell and assist Stannis against the Boltons. Roose Bolton, Petyr Baelish and the Crown have in turn engaged in their own mummer's farce by sending Jeyne Poole north to wed Ramsay Snow in the guise of Arya Stark, "a lamb in direwolf's skin." If the 'mummer's dragon' is in fact a dragon that has been made to appear as something else, then Jon Snow more than fits this bill. By birth he should be a Targaryen, having been fathered by Rhaegar Targaryen upon Lyanna Stark; instead, his fortuitous Stark features inherited from his mother, and Ned's claiming Jon as his bastard and raising him amongst his children at Winterfell, has allowed Jon to hide in plain sight from those who would kill him for being Rhaegar's son.

The significance of Dany, Jon and Aegon being the three heads of the dragon is due to their mirroring a less conspicuous triad in George's World: elemental magic and it's connections to the Long Night. We are aware of three forms of elemental magic in the story, being pyromancy, cryomancy and hydromancy. Pyromancy is the most obvious, being the control and use of fire as we see with followers of Rhllor, and also tied to dragons. Cryomancy or ice magic appears in the powers of the Others and in the Wall separating the Seven Kingdoms from the lands beyond. Finally we have hydromancy or water magic, which was used by the Rhoynar against the Valyrian Freedhold and by Nymeria's Rhoynar settlers to support their communities within the deserts of Dorne. Company of the Cat has an excellent video discussing these three 'schools' of magic, but to summarize what she's said: Blue, Red and Green are the colours commonly associated with Ice, Fire and Water/the Sea in ASOIAF; in addition to being featured on the arms of ancient houses such as Massey and Strong, these elements are in turn associated with three magical items in the books. The first, The Horn of Joramun, can raise and lower The Wall (Ice); Dragonbinder, a horn that was likely used alongside similar horns to control the volcanoes of the fourteen flames in Valyria (Fire); and the 'Kraken summoning horn' which is most likely the Hammer of the Waters, since the Hammer raised the seas to swamp the 'Arm of Dorne,' which would have filled the seas fill with corpses of the dead and 'summoned' krakens, which would have fed on the bodies of the drowned.

The Valyrian, Northern and Rhoynish heritage of Dany, Jon and Aegon ties them to these three forms of magic respectively, and by extension to the Long Night. We are given three accounts of the Long Night between ASOIAF and TWOIAF, which I dub the 'western,' 'far eastern' and 'near eastern' versions. The 'western' account concerns the First Men, the Night's Watch, the Last Hero and the Others; the 'far eastern' account covers the 'Jade Compendium' and the Yi Tish account of the Blood Betrayal; and the 'near eastern' or Rhoynar account in which the children of Mother Rhoyne sang a song to return light to the world. Aegon is tied to the Rhoynish account through his mother's heritage, with references to the Rhoynish account in the 'Old Man of the River' appearing in ADWD and Dany's vision of Rhaegar talking about Aegon's 'Song' (that of Ice and Fire):

The Rhoynar tell of a darkness that made the Rhoyne of Essos dwindle and disappear, her waters frozen as far south as the joining of the Selhoru, until a hero convinced the many children of Mother Rhoyne, such as the Crab King and the Old man of the River, to put aside their bickering and join in a secret song that brought back the day. (TWOIAF: Ancient History: The Long Night)

...

“Will you make a song for him?” the woman asked.

“He has a song,” the man replied. “He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.” (Daenerys IV, ACOK)

Jon's connection to the Northern account is obvious given his Stark lineage and service in the Night's Watch, as well as his dreams in ADWD:

Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. "Snow," an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall he sent them down to die again. He slew a greybeard and a beardless boy, a giant, a gaunt man with filed teeth, a girl with thick red hair. Too late he recognized Ygritte. She was gone as quick as she'd appeared.

The world dissolved into a red mist. Jon stabbed and slashed and cut. He hacked down Donal Noye and gutted Deaf Dick Follard. Qhorin Halfhand stumbled to his knees, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood from his neck. "I am the Lord of Winterfell," Jon screamed. It was Robb before him now, his hair wet with melting snow. Longclaw took his head off. Then a gnarled hand seized Jon roughly by the shoulder. He whirled … (Jon XII, ADWD)

Finally, Dany is directly referred to as Azor Ahai in the books while her visions from Daenerys IX of AGOT connect her bloodline to the Great Empire of the Dawn. The eye colours of the figures she sees match the titles of four of the eight emperors of the GEOTD, Opal, Jade, Tourmaline and Amethyst, with the Bloodstone Emperor killing his sister the Amethyst Empress and causing the Long Night. Azor Ahai and the Bloodstone Emperor are themselves connected, and I recommend David Lightbringer's Nightbringer series and "Azor Ahai the Bad Guy" video for a concise explanation. It's worth noting that David is well within the Faegon Blackfyre camp, but I think his theories here more than fit my own conclusions also.

Aegon being one of the three heads also fits in with the symbolic relationship between water, fire and ice and the green, red and blue colour scheme. As Company of the Cat points out in her video about the magic horns (timestamp 26:52), green is a secondary colour made from a 'cool' and a 'warm' colour, placing it in the middle of the spectrum while red and blue are polar opposites. Similarly, fire can melt ice back into water and water in turn quenches fire, situating Aegon at a middle ground between Jon's ice and Dany's fire. Whereas Jon's only aspect of himself that ties him to House Targaryen is his father and otherwise he is firmly associated with his mother's house, Dany is tied symbolically to her Targaryen identity in the books, being a product of Targaryen incest, the first to hatch dragons in over a century, and her ties to fire through her 'rebirth' on Mirri's pyre under the Red Comet. While Aegon's physical appearance and his father tie him clearly to House Targaryen like Dany, the support of his mother's family alongside his Rhoynar lineage and symbolism place him in a similar situation to Jon, besides their being half-brothers. This also calls to mind the three accounts of the Long Night: if Jon is the Last Hero leading the Night's Watch and Dany is Azor Ahai driving out the darkness with her 'lightbringer' (ie her dragons), Aegon is the unnamed hero who rallied the children of Mother Rhoyne to sing a secret song which brought back the day. To quote alexis_something_rose's essay about Young Griff, "I can wager who will be bickering and who will tell them to set their differences aside and join together in a secret song that will bring back the day."

Whether or not all three or some combination of them will play a decisive role in defeating the Others, or if that will be Bran's part to play, I believe strongly that Dany, Jon and Aegon will be the 'three heads of the dragon.' If 'Young Griff' is truly Sun's Son, Aegon son of Rhaegar, his joining with Dany and Jon represents a unification of the three Dawn Age narratives of the Long Night and it's eventual end. Uniting the icey North, the dragon lord's fire and the songs of Mother Rhoyne would make the endgame a true 'Song of Ice and Fire.'

[thebelugawhalefriend]

The Men Before The Rose - Yan!Royal Harem x Reader

PART ONE

CW: RELIGIOUS THEMES, EXECUTION MENTIONS, Homophobia

Note: This is a sequel to the first story! An expansion into Rose's heritage and how the world works for them. As someone pointed out, it's rather sudden how the homophobia shows itself and comes off as unartful. So! This will mostly dive into the division about same sex couples.

Months passed before you could consider yourself okay again. The isolation from your family and friends was something you slowly had to overcome the pain of. It still stings like an arrow to the heart, but living on was the least you could do for yourself.

In the meantime, you decide to busy yourself with finding the history of the royals. Rose isn't too excited to share in his own history, only providing you one book. Even given the sparse information Rose would provide, his family's long time rule was no mere feat to scoff at. What draws your attention most is his direct father, Aquila. Upon seeing his name on one of the pages, you turn to read the chapter dedicated to his reign.

Before our red haired king had assumed the throne, Aquila Florian sat upon the gilded seat of power. Hair as golden as the rays of sun, eyes a similar shade. No man nor woman could even compare to his mere size- Murals along the castle walls could only paint his figure from the top of his chest if they wished to paint his face!

By his side was his appointed wife that he named Tyto. Her previous first name has been erased from our records, but his command ruled that her name be changed to fit his rigid structure. In fact, much of his rule came from...

The book quickly proved itself to be a rather boring account of events. But, there is perhaps another way to experience the story. You close the leather book in your hands and set it onto the dresser, lifting up and wandering out of the bedroom.

"My Lady, to where shall I accompany you?" You're well aware of the guard outside of the room, and yet he never ceases to surprise you when you step out. "I told you before, you can call me (Y/N)..."

"Not when you've been wed to the king. I've been ordered to call you Lady and nothing more."

"Then... Alright, I don't wish to cause you trouble. Do you think you could guide me to Rose's study?"

The iron clad guard pauses for a moment, "His... His study is more than private, Your Grace. I wouldn't be allowed to lead you there- much less fulfill my duty to your care."

You shake your head a little. It's always been this excuse time and time again, "Is it a sin to want to know more about the man I married? About the family I am part of now?"

"With all due respect, not even Queen Florian has ventured within the study. I cannot let you violate the trust of the king- nay, your husband..."

"He's violated my own trust the day he commanded I stay within these walls and never see anyone I care for again. I'm not just asking as a..." You struggle to utter the mere words, "As a royal, but as a confused human being... Please, I must see the study."

The walk to Rose's study was short, but the tension made it seem like hours. Charles is anything but a hard hearted man. A tender gentleman just above your own height. While he was commanded to keep watch by the threat of death, he couldn't bear to see another moment pass with you longing for more.

"Thank you... Thank you so so-"

"Please make it swift, My Lady. Rose will return in a few hours."

You nod, easily slipping into the unlocked study.

Creeeaaaakkk....

The oakwood door moans as it reveals the room to you. It took your eyes but a moment to adjust to the darkness inside, but there's no mistaking what you're seeing. The eerily large room holds plenty of large murals that paint the elongated walls. Moonlight mixed with dim flames of the torches just barely illuminates the inside from behind you, but God almighty you want to see more.

"I'll need light..."

Closing the door carefully, you snatch yourself a candle from one of the nearby side tables and hold it to a lit torch. After all, no noble could leave their castle barren of a lighting system. It takes you little time to slip right back in and start to walk along the hall of artwork. Strangely enough, this didn't feel like a study. No, this felt like a room dedicated to telling the tale of their rule. You can animate in your head just what each painting told...

Men upon horses trample over others of their own kind. White stallions proudly sported iron clad warriors upon their backs, while at their hooves were unarmored and weaponless men. Swords glowed a beaming sun yellow to declare a holy victory to claim the land they fought for.

A man with white hair stands over a crowd of adoring people and dogs. What's strange is that the dogs stand on hind legs and praise him as if they themselves are human. Horses behind the crowd also cheer for him, but all four hooves stay connected to the ground.

A single long line connects a chain of kings, each one holding a link within a golden chain. Most sport blonde hair and blue eyes, but the last king stands as an outlier. He holds golden eyes and curled red locks. Under them each is a name, but most of the older ones were too faded to read. 'Raven Florian/Lady Mourn - Aquila Florian/Lady Tyto - Rose Florian/Lady Azalea/Lady (Y/N)'.

Even if the third one isn't the last, you take a long pause to look upon the names. Your new marriage has quite literally been set in stone. Painted with your name under the striking red haired man. Yet, you keep going. You must know more about them! What stops you is the hall widening into a rather quaint room. Now this looks a lot more like a study, with a large red chair sat in the midst of bookshelves and a messy desk of papers and a journal. It's the desk you're drawn to first, picking up the most worn out journal upon it.

"Blank?" You look on the cover. The only thing even describing what could be inside were the initials AF written on the leather cover's corner. "What could you be hiding?" You set your candle close and sit down, starting to read the pages inside.

Day of 30th, December, 1201

Today has transpired like any other. My breakfast was rather lean, but I can't complain when dinner is to be grand.

You laugh softly at such an inconspicuous entry. Maybe this would be a silly little journal of thoughts. Most follow such an idea, but some entries catch your attention more than others.

Day of 14th, April, 1202

Joanne of Jonstown has been captured.

Your eyebrows knot in confusion, turning to the page behind it.

Date of 12th, April, 1202

A grand disturbance has taken place at Noble Stewart's wedding. A strange rogue appeared and objected to the union, disgracing the ceremony to declare a disgusting lust for his wife. Any sane man would have wrung her neck on the spot, but the rat got away before he could catch her. It's no matter to him now. I have hired Jasper and his men to bring her to justice. With any luck, he could receive his own spot here by my side...

Date of 15th, April, 1202

Her execution has been dated for three days from now. I suggested we string and quarter her for her sins, but my royal advisor suggested I treat her not as a mere criminal. Rather, we could give her the same treatment as we do for suspected dark arts users. Not only will this serve as a painful death one like her deserves, but will also set the further precedent for what is to come of unlawful relations. If one is to partake in disturbing the union of a man and a woman for their own desires, they are to be burned at the stake. I have no quarrel with what the royal advisor pointed me to, and have let him write the law. It's on her execution day that I shall decree this law and set it into swift motion.

With an uneasy hand, you turn it to one of the final pages.

Date of 18th, April, 1202

The law has been set, and all was well. Not a single soul objected to the law while the spectacle took place. The

"Have you no respect for my personal space?" You immediately shift your eyes from the book to see those familiar golden eyes looking upon you with scorn. Dim candle light in his hand flickering and lighting up the underside of his displeased face. His figure draws closer as you retreat into yourself.

"I-I'm sorry, Rose! I wanted to know more- I-"

"My father's words are about as much history as murderers are innocent!" He practically roars, snatching the journal away and towering over your frame. "I gave you the resource you wanted... I gave you all you could ever want to know. This?" He holds up the book, "These are the ravings of a madman that no person should EVER learn from!"

"Learn from?" You start to rise from your position, a little offended by his assumption, "I wanted to learn ABOUT your family! Is it not my right to know what my children will be born into? What I tie myself to?"

"My father's words and thoughts have died with him. There is no need to continue learning from his example."

Standing up from your position, you place a finger to his chest and start walking him backwards. "You can't hide what your family has done to innocent people! Your father was a horrible-"

"I KNOW!"

His right hand drops the journal, latching onto your shoulder to allow his anger to set deep within. The glow from his candle dims to let the dark features of his anger settle in.

"I know he was a horrible man. He ordered the execution of many people who did not deserve it. If he knew of what I have now... He would surely kill me." Rose sighs, letting you go and setting down his fading candle. "I come from a line of men who claim to know their faith. Who hoped that persecuting the innocent would cure them of their own sins. You want to know what I think?" He looks to the book on the desk with a wicked snarl. "I think they're all burning in hell for the rest of their days. My father, his father, and the ones who came before. The men he hired that still work in the castle? They too will burn for being so stuck in their ways..."

You place a hand under his chin, bringing him to look at you. "It's no use to hide the history of your lineage. You are the result of those men, whether you like it or not." He tries to butt in, but you're quick to pause his interruption. "But what they've done doesn't make you a horrible man. It's what you do now that truly matters, does it not? You wouldn't have executed them. You let my mothers live in peace despite the law your father put into place..."

With a hefty sigh, he cups your face and finally draws out a smile upon his own. "You still violated my trust, dearest. I didn't want you to wander..."

"You assume I'd be content staying in one room for the rest of my years." Your teasing is bold, but his laugh was moreso. "I suppose you're right. Come then, I guess I owe you a proper tour of our home." As you both approach the doorway, you pause for a moment in thought.

"What is to become of Charles?"

"Ah... Him. He can't go unpunished for disobeying my order, my dear."

Your blood runs ice cold, but Rose is quick to try and soothe your tense worry, "Calm yourself! He's not going to be executed- Lord almighty, did you forget my whole point of not being my father? He'll spend some time thinking over his betrayal and punished as severely as the crime calls for. Which... Isn't too cruel."

"Will he continue to serve for us?"

"That remains to be seen. Come! I'll show you to the bottom floor!"

[littlefreya]

Penny Dreadful

Summary: Sherlock is cold, troubled and upset, his mind is fixed on cracking an unsolved murder. It’s the worst time to disturb him. But his hot-blooded little succubus wants to drag him into sin.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x OFC (First-person POV)

Word count: 2.5K

Warning: 18+, smut, teasing, bratty behaviour, ass-smacking with a cane, slight cane play, primal play, unprotected rough sex, biting, slight size kink, MaleDom, drug use. Lots of curly hair descriptions.

A/N: Not canon to books Sherlock, obviously, but seeing the photos and teaser Henry as Sherlock just sets up the vibe. So I had to. Many thanks to my beta @agniavateira​ !! Sorry for the ugly cover art :D.

Title: Penny Dreadful

Sherlock’s study was a bleak, musky chamber deprived of heat, notwithstanding the many candles that burnt at every corner. Perhaps it was the pristine heaps of snow that piled on the ledge of the window, or maybe it was his sullen mood that gave the room a sense of icy wilderness. 

Fumes rose from his mouth, vaping into the air. The tawny light kissed his thick mane of luscious, chocolate curls while he stood at the fore of his desk and leered at some parchments that troubled his brilliant mind for whatever reason. 

Fist seizing the golden tip of his cane, his thumb stroked the engravings that embellished the metal. Cases that he couldn’t crack often left him frustrated to the point of madness. Those wicked, sly obsessions made him even more irresistible.  

My nails bit into the wooden doorframe. Consumed by yearning, a blaze licked up my soul with its monstrous tongue. I often wondered how something so pure as love could be dangerous, to which Sherlock would reply, 

“Love is the greatest villain of them all.”

Unlike him, I didn’t care for evil. 

The detective unclipped the small chain he kept fastened to his vest and opened the silver locket, gathering a wisp of white powder on the tip of his pinky finger and pressed it to his nostrils. A small grunt escaped him, his eyes turning glassy. The “fairy dust” tended to sharpen his perception and elevate his stamina.  

I dropped to my knees at his sight, crawling on the floor. The black silks of my dress made a brushing noise as it dragged on the Persian carpet; my breasts peeked as my corset shifted with every move. Sherlock often said we must imagine ourselves as animals once we let desire play our strings. 

Accepting my inner wildness, tonight I was a cougar stalking her prey. 

By nature, his senses were sharp as blades, though the substance that streamed through his veins made a more heightened grip of the reality that surrounded him. He noticed and yet ignored me, letting his hot-blooded harlot crave for his attention.

If I was to be the feline predator, Sherlock was the hunter who pursued me for sport. An unfair game, yet nevertheless my favourite. 

Bathing in my own little fountain of mischief, I allowed my fingers to sneak toward his cane, brushing up and down the mahogany in slow, languid motion. My slender digits licked along the shaft and my bosom followed, pressing against the hardwood. I dragged myself up slightly to glimpse at my master from below: my Sherlock, always a sight for a famished girl; a colossus, intimidating, and breathtaking. Like a moth to a flame, I inched closer dazed by the light, wanting to bask in its radiance. 

The muscle in his cheek tensed, thick brows furrowing. A little squared wrinkle appeared above the bridge of his nose as he brushed through his dark locks with agitation.

“What ills that glorious mind of yours?” I hummed, playful fingertips climbing further up at the length of his cane.

“Something I can’t grasp,” he spat, not giving me the time of day. But I knew he noticed every detail of my wanton behaviour, it was evident by the way his breath swiftly became heavier. Sherlock might have solved crimes by profession, but all women were natural detectives; evolution granted us with a definite survival instinct, learning to read men between the shadows.  

“You can possess me,” I offered, fingers scraping over his thumb as it pressed onto the cane’s golden tip. My voice dropped to a whisper while my hand left the cane in favour of his thigh. The muscle flexed and twitched under my sinful touch, the fabric of his breeches stretched as his cock grew with its natural need to fulfil the wet, convulsing void in me.

“You’re distracting me,” he warned, voice low and stern. His lashes hardly even fluttered to my direction. 

Every delicate little hair stood up at the sound of alarm yet instead, I inhaled the soot of peril, allowing my hand to travel further and meet his hungry girth. It rose to my touch with gratitude, flinching even harder at the clutch of my claws. The flavour of desire was honey and salt on the tip of my tongue.

The low animalistic vibration of his voice wavered through his solid form. I felt it shudder all the way down to his swelling cock. A cautious man, Sherlock was measured and forbearing to a point that made me wonder if he even liked women at all before we fell into the vicious pit of decadence and violent delights. 

It was the contrary that was true: Sherlock loved women very much, his desires were simply… of a certain quality. 

His groin was warm and firm against my cheek. The crystalline-blue glare finally graced me with a sight so brooding my bones clattered.  

“Later, I need to work.” By the drop of his voice, I knew there won’t be a third warning. 

“Later, Later…” I taunted, rolling my chin over his aching need. “All work and no play…”

The gasp that pushed out of my lungs nearly whisked the candles off as Sherlock hauled me up by his hand and bent me over the desk.  

“Should I teach you how to respect my time?” He snarled, throwing the skirts of my dress over my head like a cape of the midnight sky. Stars collapsed under my skin at the sensation of his touch exploring the curve of my bare ass. Talons ruptured the tiny blood vessels, squeezing with the affirmation of his ownership. 

“No undergarments?” Sherlock growled dangerously while his thumb brushed over my silken entrance, toying with the rich elixir and smearing it further down my anticipating petals. I answered with a deep moan, stretching on this desk with a succumbing plea. 

“You came here aimed at disturbing me while I work.”

Settling onto the surface of the desk, I reached forth one arm lazily and chuckled. “You are a great detective, I… oh!” 

Something cold and solid caressed my dripping lips, driving between them in slow, calculated strokes. Throwing my head over my shoulder, I noticed Sherlock holding his cane against my sacred cove, staring at it as if I was yet another piece of evidence to be explored. The golden arched-tip pushed-slightly between my petals and entered just enough to make me hiss. For a mere second I wondered if he was going to fuck me using nothing but his cane.

“Look away; this is going to hurt.” 

I hardly had time to protest when the first smack hit the pillow of my cheek. A wheeze of disgrace shot from my throat, husky and embarrassing, but not as degrading as the sting the metal left at my burning backside.

“Bad girl,” Sherlock ticked his tongue and lifted the cane midway in the air, a flare of noxious desire bursting in his pale-blue orbs. This time I turned away and shut my eyes, gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles turned dead-white. If only it did anything to dull the pain, the sting was even more prominent, shooting all the way up to my spine where it coiled and forced a strident yip from my clamped lips. 

Yet the throb in my cunt was unmissable.

Sherlock knew very well that the hurt allied with pleasure, enhancing it even, like his powdery magic dust. 

Another smack and my nails scratched at the wood. Like a sinner nun indulging her own beating, I rode the waves of pain as they broke onto shores abundant with pleasure. There were hidden cracks in our public figure, the place where I burnt and Sherlock ascended as we pried our claws into mortal deadly sins. My senses rose to conflict with every smack and Sherlock took joy in every involuntary squirm of my body. 

Tongue pressed between his lips, he hummed as he admired his handiwork, painting my ass in obscene hues of violence. “Had enough? Or want to see which will break first, the rod or your arrogance?” Sherlock chided and pinched my sore cheek to further increase the pain. 

Embers whispered beneath my flesh, my legs jolted from the intense beating and by god, the trickle of my juices rolling down the back of my thighs made even a sultry woman such as myself drown in white shame.

Sherlock’s breath was a heavy guttural waft. His cane dropped to the floor and I heard the sound of metal clicking as he fumbled with his belt. I would be damned if I let him fuck me from behind. To have those eyes look away as he entered me was a vice I wouldn’t stand. 

“No!” I yelled, bracing on my wobbly elbows as much as I could and turned to face him. 

Sherlock’s glare widened, a chill of ice blew through his eyes and his pupils dilated like a crazed feline. “You’re saying no to me?”

“Yes!” I heaved and reached my hands to cradle his skull, pushing myself against the hardness of his body and forcing my lips on his. My kiss was feral, bruising the plush skin on and around his mouth, nibbling and biting until we tasted iron on our tongues. It was not long before I was shoved against the wall, our mouths still united, sharing one breath.

Or rather stealing it from one another.

We were pleasingly unequal. Sherlock was all iron and stone; a bulky, tall man who could tear me apart with his bare hands. I was a little lush thing, so tender, so easily bruised. Despite his power, the desire to claim the tiny wet hole between my legs was unquenchable, reducing him to a savage thing that spoke in raw inarticulate sounds.

He tore his mouth from mine and swept me up from the ground, hiking the skirts of my dress urgently to expose what he coveted the most. I felt the supple velvety texture of his hardness grind against my thigh, smearing the pearly drops of his arousal onto my skin. We both moaned at the sensation and moved to the rhythm dictated by our most primal instincts.  

“You want my cock?” He growled and gnawed his teeth at my neck, biting deep enough to break through the skin. I whined in pain, my voice rising a pitch as I writhed against him to ignite the smallest of frictions and serve the demon of desire in me. 

“Fuck me!” I begged, sliding my fingers through the mass of soft curls and tugging them with need.

Answering my plea, Sherlock speared into my unruly cunt, brutally spreading me open like he would tear the petals from a flower. I yipped into his luscious hair, my nails tearing into his nape as his intrusion claimed everything my body had to offer. I always found it odd how my flesh would resist and beg for him at the same time, my succulent canal fighting to push him by instinct yet he only further rutted into me. He reached his hands to my sore ass to squeeze my cheeks apart.

“Such a tight little harlot,” he groaned, engulfed by my garden of mysteries. Moaning so loudly, our duet reverberated through the corridors of the house. His lashes fluttered with ecstasy as he pulled back only to force me down on his imposing cock, attempting to rip through my denial. Or it was to tame me as I clenched around his girth, accepting and resisting him at the same time. I was nothing but a vessel for him to fill, and he did so with a fiery passion, glaring straight to my eyes while thrusting deep and hard into me.  

Books fell from the shelves nearby as we battled against the wall, my legs sliding up and down his waist, spreading helplessly in the air until my boots pressed into his arse. One of his hands reached for my corset, tugging on the ludicrous outfit to expose my breast. Ravenous, he licked his bloodstained lips, giving me a stare that made my cunt clutch him harder before he sank his fangs to pierce cavities in my tit.

“No!!!” I cried out and gasped as he thrust deeper to punish me for my protest. His heavy cock hit a spot so deep inside me that tears instantly emerged and fell down my cheeks, the pang bringing through a spasm of odd relief. 

Blood and saliva smeared along my cleavage as he dragged his lips further, licking and then kissing every patch he bruised. I moaned breathlessly, throwing my head back against the wall as his nimble fingers surveyed my neck, laying small threats to show me how easy he could simply suspend my very basic need. 

But my survival instincts already flew out the window the moment he penetrated me.

His lips hovered above mine as he fucked deep into my body, our cries creating an obscure symphony as he continuously slammed into my hilt, harder and more urgent with every plunge. The tears that fell down my cheeks were tainted with the conflicting aphrodisiac that pain brought through. In that instant I was whole, gratified by the friction created of the collision of our wet organs.

“Do it!” I gasped and nodded through glossy stares, swallowing hard to gesture what he already knew. With a swift snap of his hands, his fingers were bruising on my neck and he slammed into me at a furious pace, giving no care for my broken screams. 

Euphoria tore through my soul, crashing like hot waves of eternal fire. I came apart around his thick rod crying for God and Satan at once. Sherlock never slowed down, not even as he felt the tightening of my ring around him. It only made him fuck me harder, burying his face at my collarbone, chasing his own rapture at a punishing speed, grunting like a beast. Finally, he shuddered and pumped me full of his thick, silky milk. The muscles of his behind flexed and he ground his hot load into my warm cavern, making sure I received every drop. My hands reached to squeeze his taut ass as my legs clutched him still, wanting to keep him inside me. 

As if he had any intentions of leaving as he moaned and spasmed inside me. 

Smoke filled the room as few of the candles died; the scent of ash and the musk of our sex seeped through our noses while we remained entwined, shaking in each other’s grasp. Breathless and damp with sweat, Sherlock lifted his face from my neck and glanced at me looking so vulnerable, almost appearing lost. I moved my trembling hands back to his face, my thumbs caressing his sharp cheeks. 

“I know I am harsh…” he murmured, his eyes digging into my heart with nothing but a gaze of despair, “but please don’t ever leave me.”

My face fell at the sound of his words, my lips parting with awe. My detective could solve the most outrageous crimes, and yet he couldn’t realise I was shackled to him for all eternity.  

[goldensart]

One of the things I was always curious to see more after the toyline’s end was how the MU inhabitants would adapt to Spherus Magna. It was such an interesting concept to have a completely different lifestyle. The ones that would be most interesting would be the Turaga. I mean, they are leaders, but now there is a much bigger world to cover, so I had some ideas of what would each of them be doing.

Vakama: One of the easiest to make, in my opinion. He’s a leader, a guide, but he’s also a storyteller, and now he has 2 species worth of new audience memebers to tell his stories to. Not to mention that, now that they don’t live in a barren wasteland, both Glatorian and Agori have started to have more babies, which means he constantly has new generations eager to hear his stories. He also keeps active as a leader, being a calm guide others go to when needing  guidance. He’s also a reliable Turaga that makes other leaders, like Raanu, calm and hopeful about the future of their tribes. Still,  within him, the heart of a craftsman still lingers, and while some of his siblings might tell him its a waste of time, every now and then a suspiciously high quality kanohi shows up in the warehouse. 

Nokama: Calm and serene, yet strong, Nokama still guides any villagers that prefer to live near bodies of water. The most spiritual of the 6, she attracts those who seek knowledge. Being once a teacher, she takes this with stride, as with their civilization being a union of various different cultures, there is a lot to teach, both from the old worlds of Bara Magan and the MU, and from the newly reformed Spherus Magna. Few things make her happier than the expression of awe her students have when she explains a new concept. Seeing the flame of curiosity light up in their eyes makes it all worth it. Still, old habits die hard, and stubborn is as stubborn those, so new students are advised to behave, lest they get a stern lecture.

Matau: Easily the most easygoing of them all, to the point some wonder if he should be considered a leader at all. Luckily, he is more than capable. With Spherus Magana being safer than Le-wahi, his security-related responsibilities are greatly lessened, meaning he has more free time, to the detriment of others. Be it pushing for the developement of crazier and crazier vehicles, or playing pranks on other leaders, he always has the time for a laugh, which makes him quite popular with the younger Agori, Glatorian and Matoran. Some might say this makes him a bad influence on them, but his easygoing demeanor means  that whenever a villager needs advice, but considers their problems to unimportant for the other leaders, they got to Matau, knowing that, be it a scolding or reassurance, he will tell them what they need to hear, and make them laugh with every word. He walso has an amazing singing voice.

Onewa: Basically a blessing in the early days of the new village, his skill in moderating arguments made sure the union of cultures went as smooth as possible. This skill continues to this day, acting as a judge between disputes. He is so succesfull some joke he could have stopped the Core War had he just sat down with the elemental Lords to talk it out. He also keeps the culture of sports alive in the new village. Organizing leagues between Matoran, Agori, Glatorian, and even Toa (sometimes even mixed teams), and making sure the games are all fair. Be it Kolhii, Akilini, or even the gladiatorial matches the Agori and Glaotrian insisted be kept, though now way less lethal, if there is a sport to be played, Onewa will make sure it is played fairly. Also known for making amazing sculptures that go for thousands of widgets. That said, stone is not easily changed, and his anger still lingers beneath. Those unfortunate enough to have provoced it say that while his judgement skill could’ve stopped the Core War, they also say that even the Great Beings couldn’t stop his anger.

Whenua: While all the Turaga were happy to lead their people, his joy when arriving to Spherus Magna was compared to a Muaka in a Rahkshi den. Still a leader and guardian to his people, Whenua’s calling was to uncover and catalogue as many of the secrets of Spherus Magna’s spast as possible. Quickly organizing and bulding what is now called the Archives Museum, which eventually grew bigger than even Metru Nui’s Colusseum, he led similar-minded individuals in the search of memories from the distant past. From the earliest tools made of exsidian, to the first recorded conflinct, long before the Core war, he uncovered hundreds of memories the planet itself had forgotten. One of his proudest moments was the discovery of a bone that was incrdibly old, something that didin’t exists in the entirety of the MU; a fossil. With energy he hadn’t had since he first transformed into a Toa, Whenua led teams and organized dig sites, uncovering thousands of bones and stories. And as a Turaga of earth, it was easy. The earth spoke to him, telling him its memories, of when had the bones joined it. Whenua was able to date them to the dacade. He created an incredibly complete fossil record, uncovering evolutionary lineages, making discovery after discovery. Amongst his favourites were the fact that the rock steeds are distantly related to the creatures of Bota Magna, pinpointing the moment in time when the common ancestor of both the Agorit and the Glatorian first divided into groups that would become the species, the moment were the Skrall had evolved so much they could be considered a new species. From the evolution of species, to relics of civilizations older than the agori, whenua’s Museum held knowledge of everything the past could give. And the inhabitants of the mega-city knew who to go with when having questions, for Whenua was the speaker of the past, and the past is the best teacher one could have.

Nuju: Guiding those who preferred colder places, Nuju kept his mannerisms and character. Still speaking only in the language of birds, though thankfully appointing a translator, Nuju continued to look for any signs of what the future might hold. From star-gazing, to bird-watching, Nuju became an expert in predicting things like storms migrations, and even an armed conflict or two. Population movement, air pressure, for those who paid attention, the future was an open book. Still, while he kept the horizon on sight, his eyes were firmly on his people, looking for the future, but never forgetting about the present. Using his knowledge, he warned and prepared for hardships to come, saving countless lives. This skill made him popular with tribe members anxious about the future, many coming to him asking what to expect. His answer, while found unsatisfactory by some, was what many of them needed; “I can’t tell you how the future will go, all I can do is prepare myself for it as best as I can, and to take it when it comes”

Dume: The least joyful arriving on Spherus Magan, Dume had no interest in knowledge, teaching or stories, for him, only one thing mattered, the safety of his people. For thousands of years he had kept the city of Metru Nui safe, and this one would not be different. Still, he only had failed his city once, and that was a wound he would never forget. When ruling Metru Nui, he had kept his distance from his people so, when he was replaced by Makuta, nobody was close enough to him to notice. And so, the tyrant had free rign over his city, eventually leading to its doom. He wouldn’t fail his new city that way. His distance had given him the strenght to protect his city, but it had also been its downfall. And, while he now had 6 Turaga and other tribe leaders to rule beside him, one could never be too cautious. Organizing extreme security measures; passwords, secret codes, etc. Dume made sure he would never be replaced again, and if he were, it would be instantly obvious. He even kept a few bodyguards close to him and, while never becoming close enough to be called friends, it was the closest he had being to another beign since his Toa team. And this worked, as any time his people were threatened, Dume faced the threat with a will that would make a Toa of Iron blush. No matter the enemy, no matter the danger, Dume stood fast. This gained him a reputation , both with his people and his enemies. Rumors spread about him, some said he was once a Toa of iron that had willed himself tthrough a furnace and came out a Toa of fire, other said that he had stared down the Shadowed One himself. His reputation amongst his enemies was no less impressive, Skraall, Bone Hunters and Dark Hunters alike spoke in hushed tones about the “Red Judge”, who would command a legion of Toa to capture anyone who disrupted his peace,never to be seen again. Others claiming him to be a Toa, a Makuta, or even a Great Beign in disguise. Dume never cared for any of these rumors, all he cared was that his people were safe. 

[cherrywoes]

dark sun. (ryoumen sukuna x fem! vessel! reader x oc.)

iii. yugen.

— a profound awareness of the universe that triggers feelings too deep and mysterious for words.

rating: mature.

warnings: mentions of forced child bearing, violence.

YOUR NEW HOME was small, but much larger than the tiny closet that you had been sleeping in for the past several years. A bed with a mattress lay in the center of the room, the headboard pushed against the wall, and a desk and nightstand were the only other furniture to occupy it. It was much more modern than you had expected, but still kept to the traditional layout that most of the campus had to begin with. It smelled of wood polish, cleaner, and a faint incense that was making your stomach roll unpleasantly.

“They burned sage here,” Sayaka explained quietly. She stood behind you right before the threshold of the door, holding your bag while you scoped out your new abode. The rest of the ten minute walk had been silent between the both of you, filled with Ama-no-Kagaseo’s malice, Sayaka’s worry, and your disturbing apathy at the event. She kept running her fingers over the rope handles of your bag, working at each stray strand until it fell apart. “The previous tenant passed away violently and had lingering energy in the room.”

It was a convenient lie. Sorcerers didn’t ‘haunt’ in the same way that humans would haunt their homes, families, or killers; they did not remain behind at all. Wherever they went, there was no trace of them left behind. You knew that much from a book you’d snuck from Yaga when you were younger, before you were ever a vessel. Sayaka likely didn’t know that you were aware of that fact, nor would you allow her to be. You had to be clever now; you weren’t going to lose your freedom so easily now that you had it. And if that meant hiding things from Sayaka for now, then so be it.

“I see.” Ama-no-Kagaseo’s energy swept through the room and extinguished the incense burning in a corner. The smoke dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, floating up between the slats in the ceiling and encouraged to vanish by an incorporeal hand. You would have a headache later because of the smell, but you already felt better because it was gone. You, like Ama-no-Kagaseo, had an extreme sensitivity to anything purifying or cleansing in nature—although it couldn’t kill you, it could severely cripple your senses enough to the point where you would black out. Whether or not Ama-no-Kagaseo took over was his choice after that. You had discovered that little factoid after accidentally touching a blessed object in an elder’s office. “What am I to do here? I know they wouldn’t just let me stay here without some caveat in return.”

Sayaka followed you inside and set your bag beside the door. “There were whispers of having you keep an eye on Gojou and Itadori Yuuji, but I don’t know if they ever came to an actual decision over it.”

Oh, it was too convenient—in the off chance that Gojou would wield Yuuji to take down the elders and crooked system of clans and power, you would be there to keep them in check, to counterbalance the scales into neutrality’s favor. It was a good plan, a smart one, but you highly doubted they had factored in one thing: Ama-no-Kagaseo did not follow orders.

“Right. Of course not.” You pressed your fingers into the mattress, testing the softness. Beneath the fabric, your fingertips gave way to springs, hard and slightly broken in from where someone else had slept in a specific position. It groaned beneath your slight weight and you pulled back, eyes darting around the room to search for a futon—that would be infinitely more comfortable than this bed. “So, if I’m not going to do that, then what am I going to do? Sit here and rot until they call for me?”

You were bitter, and understandably so. Your freedom was on the leash of the elders who held the other end, usually with an iron fist and heavy hand. You were always raised to never bite the hand that feeds, but it was looking far too tempting right now. You could understand Gojou, just a little bit, and his frustration with the way things worked among the sorcerer society, but it did not make you feel guilty for what Ama-no-Kagaseo did to him. Not quite.

“Just…” Sayaka sighed and sat down on a cushion at the foot of your bed. She hid her hands in her pockets, fiddling with something that sounded vaguely like a chain or chain links clinking together like windchimes. She didn’t seem nervous, for once, but more exhausted—lethargic, even. The dark circles under her eyes were more pronounced than usual, her cheeks sunken and a little wan in the light. You hadn’t paid much mind to the changes in her appearance, but when she let her guard down it was apparent that she was tired. “Be careful. The president of the Kyoto campus is coming soon for the events—no, I didn’t ask—and he’ll want to see you, presumably.”

For just a moment, you had thought she would open up to you. Your gut tumbled with disappointment.

“When am I ever not careful?” With a slight scoff and a roll of your eyes, you evaded the cushion next to her and opted for sitting at the windowsill instead. It offered a perfect view of the courtyard and a small garden out behind it, flowers just barely peeking out over the stone paths. The wood was rough and unsanded, but you tolerated it just to maintain distance between yourself and Sayaka. “My entire life has been nothing but ‘careful’. You don’t have to tell me that, Fujiwara-san.”

You could feel her flinch at the sound of her last name. You never used her last name, at least not in private, much in the same way she only ever used your last name and never your first. It was new, bizarre, and foreign, because she knew, just like you knew, that the tiny chasm that Sayaka herself had made was starting to fissure into something bigger, something that wouldn’t just close on its own.

“Right. What was I thinking?” The sorcerer rubbed her face and exhaled a long breath. With a second glance at you, she got to her feet, shrugging off the vulnerability she had shown and replacing it with the Sayaka you knew. “I’ll leave you to unpack. Dinner is at five; you can join Gojou, Itadori-san and I if you’d like.”

With that offer lingering in the air, she stepped outside your room and shut the door behind her with a quiet ‘snick’ of the lock. It wasn’t locked, but the idea was there—after all, there were no tumblers on the inside of the knob.

“Indecisive.” Ama-no-Kagaseo manifested before you in a bright spurt of black flames, stars writhing inside each individual lick of heat. You reached up to allow him to hover over your palms to which he did so gladly, the fire oddly cold against your skin in comparison to the heat in the air around him. “She knows not what she wants.”

You huffed a breath. “I know. It’s her choice to make, though.”

“Mm.” A brief flash of fire and he was reaching for his human vessel against your chest. He lingered close to it for a moment, but you could feel his thoughts churning in the connection you shared, ponderous and curious. “Interesting.”

“What is?” You inquired, watching as he allowed his human body’s eyes to slide open for the first time in decades. They were completely black and enveloped with stars, much like you had been told how you appeared, and a single blue dot appeared beneath his eye.

“Nothing. For now.” The eyes slid shut and the flame retreated back into your open palms. “Hungry?”

Your stomach was rumbling, but a glance at the clock on your new desk revealed it was just four-thirty. You wondered if you could get away with eating early and retreating to your room again without ever having to run into Gojou or Itadori, although that was highly unlikely. Avoiding anyone here was as impossible as the moon rising before the sun.

“It’s a bit early,” you said instead, leaning against the windowsill and tucking your knees to your chest. You rested your hands on your knees, watching Ama-no-Kagaseo flicker curiously at your denial for food. “It’s okay, I’m not that hungry.”

A quick rush of flames indicated he didn’t believe you, but he went incorporeal afterwards, reverting back to a cool breeze that lingered in the air around you. He likely had nothing else to say or nothing on his mind that was important; he had a habit of doing such lately, though you could never pinpoint why. You supposed that it was not important for him to retain some physical manifestation while he was thinking, or that it was not his priority if he was too deeply in thought.

With a sigh, you sat back and stretched out your legs. You weren’t sure what to do now; years without freedom had put limits on your movements and hobbies. To now be handed that freedom on a silver platter, probably with later conditions, you almost wanted to go back to being stuck in that closet room all day and night. But you couldn’t do that, not when opportunity was already in your grasp.

What did people your age do? You stared outside the window at the stone path, eyebrows furrowed in thought. You were certain they didn’t have a Curse, that’s for sure, and they definitely weren’t a vessel for the world’s most evil being in creation. They also dressed differently from you—you, who looked like you had stepped out of a mystical, traditional Japanese fantasy novel—even when they were required to wear uniforms. Their sense of style and overall mood, just from meeting Itadori Yuuji, was different from yours. You wouldn’t fit in in modern society, or even the sorcerer’s carefully monitored one.

You were stuck, in a sense, in an era that you weren’t born in.

Ama-no-Kagaseo lifted a strand of your hair with an invisible hand in comfort. He was not quick to offer a solution and merely left you to ponder on all of the possibilities within your combined power. After all, they had to be your decisions to count to the council, not his. Any hint that he was persuading you in any way would force them to lock you up in a sealed room and execute you on sight.

But that was the issue, wasn’t it? There weren’t any other female descendants. You were the last remaining female Shiraishi. The men in your clan, while unrelated to you and having married in, were too old or uninterested in obeying the whims of the elders, as was their right. You had no choice in the matter. If you wouldn’t produce an heir willingly, they would make you do it by force—you had been told that they would sweep the women away to a clinic in Tokyo and create a child artificially, guaranteeing a female offspring. You weren’t, but your father was nonexistent in your life and may as well be as dead as your mother.

“Then I’ll just have to end it,” you mumbled to yourself. It was the only right conclusion. You would stop subjecting innocent girls to being vessels and you would simultaneously release Ama-no-Kagaseo in the process. But to do that, you would need help and information from Ryoumen Sukuna. He was, after all, the one who developed the technique to seal Ama-no-Kagaseo into a human body in the first place. He would be gone as soon as all twenty fingers were found, anyway, so there was no risk for him to be resealed again. You would just have to bide your time and wait carefully until the time was right. “What do you  think, Ama-no-Kagaseo?”

In your connection, you felt him full heartedly agree—but there was also reluctance there, hesitation.

“What is it?” You inquired softly. He surprised you by completely manifesting—a childlike version of his personal form, indicative of his tumultuous emotions because, even though he was a god, he experienced emotions on a childlike level, experiencing them for the first time—and pushing himself into your arms, uncaring of his actual physical form against your chest. “Amatsumikaboshi?”

His white hair, turning a dark blue and then black towards the ends, brushed against your arms as he further wormed his way against your side, just small enough to fit on the window seat with you. He wore a drastically oversized yukata decorated with a dragon scale design, expensive, and of the same fabric as your kimono. A golden eye, as gold as doubloons, peered at you from behind a fringe of snowy white strands, and atop his head sat two sharp horns, each as white as his hair and darkening to blue towards the points. He was not as intimidating like this, but you still held the same respect for him, and he you.

“No.”

Amused, you raised an eyebrow and rested a hand on his head, combing through the strands soothingly much in the way he would yours when you were tired. “‘No’, what?”

Amatsumikaboshi—not Ama-no-Kagaseo, for this was no normal representation of a false identity—fixed you with a determined stare. He was of so few words that you only understood him through his emotions, new and unexplored as they were, and he was keeping them from you for some reason, fixed on the idea that he was going to tell you himself.

“No separation.” He frowned, then, and reached for your heart, and traced it back to his. “No split.”

“Oh.” You blinked at him, then, tilting your head to further meet his eyes. His pupils were unusual slits now, some link to a dragonic form you didn’t know of. “But we will part some day, Amatsumikaboshi. I’m only human.”

He seemed angry at that fact, eyebrows furrowing at being reminded of it. He never liked being reminded of your very finite life, at risk every time you got sick or ate something that could have been laced with poison. He glared—glared at his human form—and all at once, seemed to come to a conclusion. Some invisible future began playing out in his head, all of his own creation, and whatever it was, it made a smile appear on his face. It was the first time you’d ever seen him smile out of happiness, at least in a physical body you could see. You’d felt the others against your skin or hair, but seeing it was a different thing entirely.

“Do not worry,” he said after a few moments of silence, meeting your concerned gaze once more with disturbing intensity. “I can fix it.”

“Fix it?” You echoed. You reached forward and adjusted a fold of his yukata that threatened to crease, usually out of habit of doing it to your own. He grabbed your hand and placed it back on his head instead, waiting patiently for you to resume petting him. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Yet.” He rested his head against the juncture of your shoulder and chest, a hand creeping up to rest against your heart and feel the gentle beat against his fingers. “For now.”

Blinking, you were about to question him further when your stomach interrupted you. A loud growl tore through the momentary silence and Amatsumikaboshi snickered, sitting upright, all questions and thoughts forgotten—or at least ignored.

“Eat,” he said, a hint of a smile still on his face, and leaning forward, brushed a kiss against your cheek. And then he was gone in a rush of blue, black, and white sparks, as incorporeal as he was before.

You sat on the windowsill, a blush creeping up your neck, and touched the tingling skin on your cheek in slight shock. You knew he was watching you, amusement rushing through your connection, and something else—so fast you couldn’t even guess as to what it was—and probably laughing to himself.

Embarrassed, you got to your feet and slipped on your shoes, heading down the hall towards the room where Sayaka had invited you to eat with her, Gojou, and Itadori Yuuji. Hopefully they didn’t mind you being a little late.

Before you could even turn a corner, a man was staring at you—dressed entirely in black and wielding a dagger in his right hand.

“Who are you?” You demanded. He didn’t answer.

Instead, your vision went white, and before you knew it, you were back inside your consciousness, inside Ama-no-Kagaseo’s domain, except you were keenly aware of your physical body hitting the floor and Ama-no-Kagaseo’s true form standing right beside you.

“Ama-no-Kagaseo,” you whispered, shock weaving into your voice as he carefully enveloped you into his arms, much like you had earlier. He was two heads taller than you in this personal representation of himself, warm, and lean. “What happened? Why am I here?”

He hummed against your head thoughtfully, dark and insidious. “Someone is trying to break my connection to you.”

“What?” You pulled back to stare him in the face, watching those golden eyes flicker over your face as if memorizing a dream. “What do you mean ‘break’ it?”

“Don’t worry.” Ama-no-Kagaseo smiled indulgently and pulled you closer again, your ear pressed against his chest—and to your shock, the steady beat of a heart sounding against your ear. “No power in this universe will ever separate us.”

And for once, you didn’t really believe him. 

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[arrivisting]

I’d love author commentary on basically the whole scene at Ekkaia in all my war is done (or any individual part of that scene, if your prefer). Taken together, it’s one of the most beautiful and emotionally complex and heartrending things you’ve written, from the description of the sea itself, to the difficulties of Fingon and Alqualondë, to Gil and the ocean and his ‘mother’, to Fingon and Gil beginning to tackle the thorny subect of Maedhros.

I should admit something about all my war is done: it's the most fugue-like my writing has ever been. I jotted down a few notes on my commute into work - I was deeply underwater with my PhD at the time, three months away from submitting - and then the idea of writing a sequel to scion seized me so profoundly that I sat down in the Starbucks where my bus stops, took out my laptop, and wrote instead of just collecting my coffee and walking down to my office. I wrote 15k. In one day. In about five or six hours. I've never achieved anything like that before or since - I do have good days where I can knock 2-4k out easily, but not 15k. (You might note that the posted part of all my war is done is only 12k, but I wrote all the way up into the next bit with Fingon in Tirion that you've read, up until Turgon at the dinner table). I didn't sit down or plan events; I didn't actually know much about what would happen: but I knew they were going to Ekkaia and they'd have some kind of resolution there. These are my phone-notes, from that morning:

You can see, I think, something of the way an idea hits me. I note down a few snatches of plot, not necessarily in any order, some lines I think people should say at some point, although I might not use them, sketch out some things (Formenos's ruins were going to feature more heavily, but they're waiting for a later story).

(It makes me laugh, the words my phone doesn't accept - Gil-galad, for one - and the ones it automatically capitalises from where I've yelled enthusiastically about elf things at people. I never stop long enough to correct spelling etc when I'm trying to get something down).

I clearly knew from inception that I wanted Fingon's place to be called the hill of waiting, and had tried out the name in Sindarin; because my verbs are not good, I came up with Amon Dartha. It was when I was redrafting that I realised Amon Darthir had existed actually in Dor-lomin(!!!) and the name was even more perfect symbolically than I'd meant it to be! Did I know that, unconsciously? I don't know.

You can see, too, that the Sea of Ekkaia was almost the very first point to hit me, and that I knew it and the scene there would be important, and that I knew that the story was about Fingon finding a way to tell Gil-galad that he had been loved, and wanted, and that meant talking about Maedhros; and that at the end I wanted Gil-galad to be gently, impersonally, firmly clear that he would not, could not, be staying to wait with Fingon.

Okay, DVD commentary proper - I'm sorry, I remember awfully little about writing this, given the fugue state and my thesis and everything, so I'm not sure how useful this will be!

“Oh,” said Gil-galad when they broke out of the woods and began to ride down over the dune-lands to the rocky shore. “Oh!”

The Sea of Ekkaia was beautiful, in its own way, but that way that was like no other place in Arda, in either Aman or Middle Earth.

It was a dark-blue that was almost black, even in the late afternoon, and the shore was less sand than gravel, a strange inconsistent rubble of rock and broken sea-shells that had been dashed to pieces by the constant fury of the waves. Staring out to sea, one did not see the far-away horizon the way one did on the gentler coast of Belegaer: there was no gentle faraway blue haze through which one might, perhaps, on a clear day, imagine that Middle Earth could be glimpsed, or at least the Straight Path.

No: instead along the horizon there was a seam of silver light, and then a great blackness, where the Sea of Ekkaia met the Uttermost West that was not quite the Doors of Night, but was certainly the end of Aman itself. If you stood on the shore watching, the seam would ripple with a pulse of light, sometimes green and sometimes white.

It was so far from anywhere the Eldar of Valinor lived. While they clustered around the Belegaer like moths to flame, this shore seemed instead to repel them. Was it the sight of the world’s end itself? It might be; yet Fingon thought there was more to why this wilderness was so little visited, this howling black sea lashing itself against a grey shore. It was beautiful, but not in the way Elves liked things to be beautiful: it was too raw, too unfinished, too savage.

It was too close to where Mandos kept his Halls, which were not only a thing of spirit but also matter, at least in the way that things in Aman were both. Too close to where Nienna’s tower looked out into the Void and where she wept, and wept, and wept. It was too close to death and to rebirth, to judgment and to pity.

There's a little Dawn Treader, I think, in this idea of the uttermost West. I don't know why I thought the seam of the world should pulse with strange light, but it's an uncanny kind of geography, so near Mandos and Nienna, and I like the sense that this is the end of the world, but not the end of the universe.

A lot of this came together serendipitously. I knew some kind of memorialisation of the river that bore Gil-galad needed to be part of his story; that meant going to the sea; and it's clear from the notes that I had already decided that couldn't mean Alqualonde because of kinslaying reasons and memories. (And that that too would need to be confronted). Therefore: roadtrip to Ekkaia. Therefore, the question: what would Ekkaia be like? We don't really know anything about it - only the good qualities of Belegaer. This was really written by a process of inversion, a way of pulling what we know about Belegaer inside-out, and imagining a place at the world's edge, a place that was empty, a place that was uncannily close to difficult things, to Mandos and Nienna; a place that seemed to repel the Eldar as surely as Belegaer drew them like iron filings.

I was thinking visually about New Zealand, too. I spent my childhood summers on the beaches up north, mostly around Tūtūkākā, which are bright and lovely, with golden or white or tawny sand, with gnarled pohutukawa and blue-green water. Like this:

That's what beach and sea meant to me, and it was a shock the first time I went to one of the black sand beaches where the wind howled and the colours weren't blue, green, gold, but iron, grey, navy, black. I loved it, but it felt so other, so passionate, so strange. That shock and that wild beauty and desolation were things I wanted to get at, though Ekkaia would be far more wild and desolate still.

They left the horses in the thin sea-grass, and their shoes, too, and walked down to the water. “I missed it,” Gil-galad said, and closed his eyes, breathing in the brine. “I missed it badly, all the long years besieging Mordor before I died.”

I think Gil-galad would be very marked by his upbringing first in the Falas and then on Balar; you don't lose that, if you grew up by the sea.

The wind took up his long dark hair and made a banner of it as they walked along the rough crescent of rocky ground where the waves met the shore, and around their bare ankles small stones tumbled back and forth in the lace-edge of the water.

When I was young I used to stand in the water and let the waves bury me up to my ankles, watching the water move in, out, spreading skirts of lace overlapping as new waves came in. I could do it for hours. There's something very liminal about the water's edge, between the solid land and the sea, which is why I put this conversation in it, I think. They're in a liminal space and at a liminal moment. It's the scene the whole story has been inexorably building toward, the point where all Fingon's painful scraping-away of his barriers finally reaches his skin.

“Sometimes in Middle Earth it became very difficult to believe in the Valar,” Gil-galad said, his eyes still closed, “in the blood, and the mud, and the filth. There were so many great and small unfairnesses, day upon day, year upon year.” He opened his eyes and looked towards the Uttermost West where the world ended. “And here it is impossible not to. Look at it!"

This is a little more hopeful than the original version, which I don't have anymore, but went pretty much:

"Sometimes in Middle Earth it was very difficult to believe in the Valar,” Gil-galad said. "In the blood, and the mud, and the filth. There were so many great and small unfairnesses, day upon day, year upon year.”

It was a comment more about Gil-galad's rueful scepticism than wonder - because he fought the Dagorlad before he died, because he spent the last ten years of his life in mud and blood and filth and horror. I work on the First World War - its literary legacy and traces in the decades after, more than its immediate experience or actuality, because there was a ten-year period after 1918 where it was more latent than overt, a traumatic lacuna of silence, a Nachträglichkeit- and I thought in the blood, and the mud, and the filth was a little too on the nose.

I kept it, though, because Tolkien was drawing on his own memories of the trenches with the Dagorlad and the Dead Marshes, with those blurred lines of solid land and mud/bog, the living mixed up with the remains of with the dead, all the themes you see again and again in the war poetry and the officer war-books. (Santanu Das is very good on this, as is Eric Leed). Paul Fussell is a bit old-hat now, but his argument that WWI altered the sensibility of its survivors because of their close, consanguinous co-existence with the dead is something I still find valuable. I think there's a lot of WWI survivor in the way I think of Gil-galad, actually, I'm just realising - not that he survived the Last Alliance. He's detached in a different way from Fingon. Fingon's built himself a thick layer of repression/denial, a kind of callous to protect himself from confronting or thinking about what Maedhros did, and what that means for him and to him; Gil-galad is entirely present, but somewhat detached in some ways, the way people who came back from war could be. Not that Fingon and Finrod aren't also separated from the Amanyar by their time in Beleriand and experience of war and death, but Gil-galad lived there for millennia, and he fought a longer, harder, more total kind of war than they did.

But he's at the Sea of Ekkaia, as west as you can get. So much of Tolkien is about that endless longing glance west, that movement: why is this very westernmost edge so under-explored?

I wanted Gil-galad to be softened by this encounter with the sea, so I went back and let his wonder be as much at the spectacle itself as the sea, like the greater hand at work he had sometimes doubted being visible was something wonderful rather than something to be bitter about. I wanted to position him to be potentially open to, perhaps, the Valar; perhaps, to Fingon. I hope he doesn't come off as closed-minded: I think of him as having a fair mind, and good judgment, but - despite placing him here between the sea and the shore - very clear personal lines between what he thinks is just, and what is not. Certainly, it helps a lot, never having known the Feanorians when they had not fallen.

The seam of the universe pulsed with light, and beyond it was – what?

Unutterable nothingness, something worse than death.

Perhaps Maedhros.

This is an important line for Fingon. He hasn't though the name of his own accord for much of the story, flinching away from it; it's only come in when Finrod and then Gil-galad speak the name. This is the first time he's thought it clearly of his own free will, and this is I think the first signal that he's brought Gil-galad here to be as honest and earnest with him as he can be, however much it hurts, or however much it might drive him away. Because if he isn't, and doesn't, Gil-galad will be driven away anyway, and Fingon wants to be connected with him, the first time he's wanted that kind of bond with anyone since he returned.

(I think of Finrod as someone who just kept turning up, regularly, and forcing Fingon to associate with him; and then bringing Amarie; and then his children; and not taking no for an answer. It bothers Turgon rather terribly that they seem to be friends now, when they were never that close Before: that Fingon pushes him away, but allows Finrod to keep pushing; that Finrod does push. He doesn't know about Gil-galad, of course).

He's brought Gil-galad here to show him if possible that he was wanted, to conjure up lost Ringwil where she might be felt if not found; and to do the same for Maedhros. This is a signal that this journey to the sea is as much about Gil-galad's missing father as his missing mother.

The almost-forgotten tang of salt in the air always mingled with the smell of blood in Fingon’s worst memories, and he was not the only one who remembered. The waves were gentle around Gil-galad’s feet, but they boiled furiously around Fingon’s, delivering small spiteful slaps at his calves.

Spiteful was probably the wrong word here. I don't necessarily mean a dramatic boiling or bubbling; but the water is harsh where it touches him, the kind of slapping roughness you get when the tide is coming in rough.

It took Gil-galad longer to mark the difference, engrossed in the joy of the sea and spectacle as he was, and when he did, his face changed. There was something terribly sad in his eyes when he lifted them from the water to look at Fingon.

It wasn’t why he had brought Gil-galad here; but Fingon didn’t want to imagine the look he would receive if he brushed aside the silent question. “No,” he said. “I am not forgiven.”

“So I see.”

They could probably leave it there.

But Fingon won't, because he's trying. He's really trying to connect after all the time flinching away from it, and he's remembering what Gil-galad said about talking, and what Finrod said about mistakes and silences in their first life.

He said, “You said you loathed the thought of being the son of – a murderer. But my own hands have not been clean since Alqualondë, and death didn’t unstain them. All the time you thought I might be your father, you must have known I was a Kinslayer, too.”

I tried to signal this in their earlier tower conversation with Finrod, and Gil-galad's changing of the topic, but I feel like it's a little abrupt here.

“Yes,” Gil-galad said, and his expression didn’t change. “And when the knights that had served you came to me, they told me that you killed that day in ignorance, that you came upon a battle already being fought; that you took up your sword to save those you loved and didn’t question whether it was just. I heard that from others, too, those who had less reason to bend facts to a flattering pattern; survivors of Gondolin and of Nargothrond. I did ask."

“Ignorance wasn’t an excuse. I died ashamed of it, and I live again with the shame.”

"Good!” said Gil-galad, and there was no forgiveness in his voice, even when Fingon jerked his head up in shock. Instead there was the stern ring of a king used to weighing the ideals of justice against the world as it was, the king who had walked arm in arm with Eonwë the Maia, led his people through many full-fledged wars, and held court and meted justice to them for an Age. “That gives me a far better opinion of you than any of the stories did! I’m glad.”

I remember talking to you about this in the comments, about what it meant that Gil-galad wasn't forgiving him. I think I really meant condone, but I also don't think it's Gil-galad's place to absolve Fingon - he wasn't the one wronged! - and that it's important to me that, because Fingon does truly regret it, he doesn't wish to be absolved, to slide away from it. I don't mean he ought to wallow in it or flog himself with it daily, but I think it would be important to him to shoulder and own that guilt rather than ever allowing himself to put it behind him or have someone else tell him it’s quite all right.

I think this is a moment where I show that they're quite similar, too, because even if Fingon wasn't aware that a bracing, clear assessment was just what he wanted, it was what he needed, rather than people being kind (which he's had a lot of, since he returned; and which hasn't touched that central guilt he's hidden from them, that he loved Maedhros, who had done such terrible things. It's prevented him from accepting kindness made him block people reaching out to him. Gil-galad is not being kind, but just, and still reaching out).

It felt like Fingon had been struggling to take a full lungful of air for a long time, and now something constricting in his chest had loosened, as it hadn’t even after the Valar themselves had judged him. It was only now that he realised that he hadn’t wanted Gil-galad to forgive or absolve him. He had wanted – needed – Gil-galad to be better than him, to withhold forgiveness when it was unmerited; and Gil-galad had. He had become the shining legacy they had all hoped he would be, the thing they had all somehow done right.

The water slapped at his ankles again, in impatient reminder.

This is too brief a transition. I should have fleshed the join out more.

“I think Ulmo would come to you here, if you called. You were a king by the sea in Middle Earth, and you may not remember it, but it was a river who gave you life.”

Gil-galad looked at him as if he’d grown an extra head. “What?”

“I brought you here for a reason,” Fingon said. ��Where did they go, the drowned and poisoned rivers of Beleriand? I don’t know; but Ulmo might.”

I've really personified the rivers, but I think it's a clear and easy extrapolation from the Withywindle and the River-daughter in The Fellowship of the Ring that I don't need to justify in order to argue that every river might have had its own attendant Maia-spirit. It does make what happened to the Rivers of Beleriand much worse, though, and I wanted to look at the way a character that was a throwaway mechanism in scion ended up being sickened and dying as horribly as Beleriand did; this story was really about following all those lighter bits in scion home, to the end of the line, and looking at the long-term impacts of something that began more lightly. In this verse, Ringwil was a river, but also a person; and I think of her and Finrod as sharing a strange human-river friendship and overlapping enthusiasms.

He clapped Gil-galad on the shoulder, hoping it said all the things he meant it to say. Affection had been so easy for him once, in the life that had been taken from him by the fiery flails of the Balrogs, but now it came hard, and the sea-smell was in his nose, the terrible memories too close to the surface.

He had surely outstayed Ulmo’s tolerance by now. Fingon left Gil-galad there in the water, and didn’t dare glance back until there was thin sandy soil under his feet again.

Only then did he look once more towards the sea.

Gil-galad was standing in the shallows. His broad shoulders were bunched tight, as if he was readying himself for something very difficult, a confrontation with one of the Valar he had long doubted.

Then he spread his arms out, empty-handed, and tipped his head back, and the light on the horizon grew unbearably bright, whiter than white, more silver than silver; and a face began to move upon the water.

I really like this, honestly. Which I can't/don't say often! The temptation to overwrite this was strong, to show this encounter, to describe the Vala: but I think it's often stronger not to show something numinous, to pull away, to let the mind fill it in.

Again, this is Gil-galad as I imagine him: still somewhat distanced from the Valar by the Dagorlad and the things that happened there (and I think perhaps doubly unhappy in that he lived through the end of an Age once before, and that time, at least, the Valar came: they did not come in the Second, nor send so much as a messenger, and such obscenities as the fall of Ost-in-Edhil and the drowning of Numenor had been allowed to happen, and Men and Elves were left alone to come together and break Sauron's grip). Doubting, but not angry; doubting, but still curious. Open to listening.

a face began to move upon the water is of course a deliberate sideways reference to

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

-

It took a very long time. Fingon could not watch; his eyes dazzled.

Can you tell I was teaching The Duchess of Malfi at this time? Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle; she died young. That sense of a light too bright and white to look upon; that sense of guilt; that faint reference to life lost untimely. This wasn't meant to be a direct intertextual reference, but that net of meaning was there, lightly. Again, I wanted to under-write rather than over-write. I know I have a tendency to over-write.

And of course - there's a sense here that Fingon is refusing the kind of close enoucnter with Ulmo he could/might have. There's water in his eyes. From the wind?

-

“Thank you,” Gil-galad said when he rejoined him at last. His eyes were glowing, and he whistled Ceredir to him from where he was tearing ropey roots of sea-grass from the dunes with great relish. “Thank you for bringing me here;” and he didn’t say it the way he’d thanked Fingon for the horse, or the armour, or the sword, or even the lance.

Because this is a real gift, something that means something to both of them, something more honest/painful. Fingon's been trying to connect through gifts but not serious conversation or sharing, like some estranged parents do, throwing money at the problem rather than giving of their time or their selves, and however well-meant, it hasn't worked.

“I didn’t truly do anything."

“You brought me to the Sea. I know – I could see – how difficult it was for you."

"Well,” Fingon said lamely. He cleared his throat. “What did Lord Ulmo say about – oh, I can’t call her your dam! – the Maia who bore you? Did she – was she there?”

The dam pun is Finrod's. Don't blame me.

A little of the light dimmed, but it didn’t quite fade away. “No, she’s gone. Back to the Timeless Halls, he says; but one with him again, Ulmo, at the same time.” Gil-galad made a noise. “I don’t pretend to understand any of it, all the metaphysical nonsense of the Ainur! But he was kind to me, and he told me something of her – that she delighted in the making of me.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “I left the flowers we gathered earlier in the waves for her and the sea didn’t dash them back onto the shore. I’m sure Ulmo broke a few laws of Arda there.”

I like this image of the flowers suspended in the water. I had it clearly in mind from before I began to write.

"You were wanted.”

“I’m beginning to believe it,” Gil-galad said.

“You should,” Fingon said. He took a breath. Talking is how you sort things out; and a long time ago, Fingon had been known for his valour. Gil-galad deserved to know how much he had been wanted, who had called himself a political compromise given birth. The truth of that had stung.

And it was less than the truth. Fingon could still remember the first time he had opened his mind to Maedhros over the leagues between them and let him see Gil’s small face through his own eyes, holding nothing back. He had shown Maedhros the dark long lashes and the squashed baby nose, the milk-blister on the bow of Gil’s upper lip, the way his whole head turned an alarming red when he wailed; shared with Maedhros Gil’s fondness for being tossed in the air, his splashing joy in his bath.

This is is me trying to describe a baby without being too sentimental about it, because Fingon wasn't all, oh look at the toesie-woesies, or my son, my son: his eye was more detached, and you see him in scion thinking of Gil-galad as it.

I've been thinking about why Fingon in no way allowed himself to consciously dote on the baby, why that streak of denial that's so strong in his second life was there in his first light, and really: it would have been dangerous to let himself love him, to see Gil as his son and Maedhros's. He was born at a time of terrible loss, after the Flame, when they all expected they could die themselves. He was moved around Beleriand like a game-piece. Fingon was always going to lose him: he wasn't going to get to raise him, after all, until and unless Morgoth was defeated. Maedhros wasn't going to meet him, until and unless &c. It was easier not to let oneself get attached than it was to confront those hard facts and let oneself be hurt by them. Easier to think of him as a baby Finwean prince, and that only: a political pawn, not a son.

Conversely, Maedhros maintains a physical distance, but not an emotional one. Here's a bit from Maedhros's perspective:

Finrod had told him that. They had written, back and forth, in the long months as Ringwil’s belly swelled, as the child formed, as it began to move and stretch and turn frog-like inside her. They had corresponded constantly during the first months of the child’s life in Nargothrond, and during the first months of his life, Finrod had sent long scrolls detailing every change in Artanaro’s weight, his length, his hair colour, his eye colour, how much milk he’d consumed each day: screeds winging forth to Himring until the child was old enough to survive the secret trip north.

Fingon’s letters had been infuriatingly spare of useful information while the child was fostered at Barad Eithel. Beloved, ineloquent Fingon: Fingon, who had nevertheless shown him the child as no reams of paper could.

Fingon had given him forever the rounded bloom of his full cheeks, and the pursed mouth, sullen in sleep: the feathery, rather cross-looking eyebrows, and the small hands with their deep dimples and smaller fingernails, curled into the edge of Fingon’s furred mantle.

Maedhros had felt the way Fingon hovered between wonder and confusion at what they’d wrought: the way he couldn’t quite manage to think of the child as his own, this thing spun out of air and calculation and freshwater into heavy, solid life. He could have loved him so desperately, Maedhros knew that. He was halfway there, hovering in terror on the edge, afraid of falling. If the baby had stayed in Barad Eithel longer; if Fingon had watched him begin to creep around on fat little knees, to pull himself up on the furniture and to take his first steps – to hear the baby babble turn into words and speech – his heart would have opened to him like a flower, and the child would have become the centre of his universe, the sun in his sky.

Fingon had never known what to do with Idril as an infant, either, but he’d easily become an adored uncle as she grew up. If they’d had more time – if the child had been permitted to stay with Fingon even a month longer before being sent for safety to Cirdan –

Well, they’d never had enough time.

There had been few walls between them then, so he had felt Maedhros’s bright joy, the painful love, in its moment of birth: swelling and swelling like a cloud with rain, as though his heart was growing and his blood was leaking out of him at the same time, transmuting into pure tenderness and iron purpose.

I like this because I think of the Ekkaia scene as a cloudburst, full of emotion that has been swelling and swelling and now released. This is one bit of the breaking-through.

He had never needed to ask whether Maedhros considered Gil-galad a son.

“I don’t want to talk about – him,” Fingon said with difficulty, and the salt breeze stung his face, his eyes. “I know you loathe him, and rightly; and I do, too. I do hate him; or I hate what he did. I do! But you should know – you deserve to – that he wanted you, badly, although he never met you; he never wanted the shadow on him to touch you or to taint you.

And this. You can see here where I spun off into cliffs of fall, which isn't a scion story, but sprung out of this speech. It was already there in those sketchy notes, too, a lot of what Fingon's saying here: this important line about hating Maedhros, or what he did (that movement from clear certainty to trying to separate the deeds from the loved one; to urgent reptition - I do! I mean it, I really do! - which means he doesn't, can't: this is the heart of Fingon's guilt, because he wants to hate Maedhros utterly, but he can't, and he is profoundly in denial about that).

“He always wanted children; I took that from him even before the Oath did, but I gave it back to him with you. I loved you first of all for that, but he loved you for yourself. Because you existed, against all hope and possibility and fate and chance; and because you were ours.”

Gil-galad said nothing. There was still a wildflower tucked behind his ear, but the brilliance had quite left his eyes.

“Well,” Fingon said at last. “I needed to tell you that. You should know that you were never – not only – you were wanted very much."

Beloved ineloquent Fingon, &c.

-

They were some miles from the beach when Gil-galad said, “‘Ours’?”

“Yes."

-

I was trying to let the gaps and breaks talk for me in the text. Under-writing.

The beginning was full of these little breaks, too, because they didn't yet know how to talk to each other; now at the end, that connection, and their conversations, are breaking down again. It's echoing that ride together at the beginning very strongly, but now it's not Gil-galad trying to become acquainted and Fingon giving light, unsatisfying answers. These are the real questions/answers at last, and the whole story has really been about getting to the point of Fingon and Gil-galad in Aman where they actually could have the kind of conversation Gil-galad was trying to have at the start.

-

Some miles further, Fingon said, “Did you ever meet him in Beleriand? After I died. I always wondered.”

“No,” Gil-galad said.

It didn’t seem like he was going to speak again, and Fingon had begun to assimilate that knowledge, that pain – that Maedhros had never seen him, had only ever known him through Fingon’s own eyes – when he added,

“But I saw what he did. Have you ever seen a whole city ruined, and known the ruiners to be Elves? It wasn’t even a city, poor Sirion! It was a refuge, a place for the desperate, as far to the West as they could get, as close to the safety of the Sea. They had so very little. No great stone palaces, no towers, no spires. Little enough fresh food. They were able to grow so little, and they lived on fish, and sea-weed, and what brave hunting parties would bring back; and hope. They lived on hope, and they thought Elwing wore it around her throat, but the Valar didn’t come for them: Maedhros Fëanorion and his brothers did instead, and they burned and killed and ravaged. I’d say they salted the earth, but it was salt already. To fall on any innocent Elven city would be a horror: on poor Sirion it was the greatest cruelty I ever saw, and entirely pointless."

They said nothing more.

I like this, too, actually. You see a little here of why Gil-galad might be healthily sceptical of the Valar - they didn't come for them: Maedhros Feanorion and his brothers did instead - and that very post-war experience of seeing a descrated, destroyed town. Worse when you had seen it when it was whole, when you knew the dead and fled.

Sirion is, I think, the worst thing the Feanorions did. I find it worse than even Doriath or Alqualonde (though they're all awful!). These were desperate survivors, huddled together at the edge of the sea for protection. So many of their leaders had been killed or lost. Idril and Tuor had disappeared; Earendil was away; Maedhros and the others struck while only Elwing was there, and she was so young, and so alone, and so damaged already by what they'd done in Doriath. And now they’d come again. There's something about the revictimisation that gets me. It's awful.

I wanted it to be weight and counter-weight - that soft, painful, remembered moment of Maedhros seeing baby Gil-galad through Fingon's eyes, something Fingon has clearly not deliberately thought about since he was reborn, but dredges up now for Gil-galad, because he should know: and which is echoed in the beginning by Fingon's question to Finrod. But Maedhros is still the person who did the things he did, and I wanted to set that soft moment of truth against his deeds at Sirion, another truth, to point out clearly why Gil-galad would recoil so hard from this offering, this honesty Fingon wants to be able to give him. This is the dichotomy at the heart of the story: reconciling Maedhros and how one felt for him with what he did, and how one feels about that. It is irresolvable, at least for Fingon, at least at the moment I've ended it at for now.

I don't know if this is quite what you wanted, @warrioreowynofrohan, especially because like I said, I wrote this story in a frantic fog, but I hope this in some way suffices!

[creoterative]

AoT x GoT Headcanons

This just came to my mind and in a few hours, I built a whole story with this sh*t, but who cares, so I’m gonna focus on the dragons for now ;)

warnings: mentions of blood and murder, mentions of ehhh.... not so good bed scenes

and of course, spoilers for both

Daenerys Targaryen

-portrayed by Historia Reiss

-although she entitles herself as the ‘Mother of Dragons’, she sees herself as more of a big sister and the Dragons see her as such too

-is a very openhearted and -minded person, just as Dani was in the first seasons

-wants to break the wheel and earn her right to the Iron Throne by releasing every single slave in all of the Seven Kingdoms, because she was used by her father to gain him more power (she was forced to sleep with several generals)

-loves her three dragons and if something happenes to them, she goes on full rampage

-when Reiner gets shot by a spear, she feels extremely guilty and apologizes to him even weeks after 

-her favorite of the dragons is Reiner because he is strong, kindhearted, but a beast in battle, she trusts him the most, which is why she has a connection with him

-Galliard is her favorite when it comes to insulting and threatening her enemies, because that boy knows how to use his teeth and scowls

-Bertolt is her favorite when she needs someone to talk especially when it comes to serious decisions, Reiner can’t decide either and Galliard always wants someone to die, so Bertolt is the only one with a little bit of a brain to work with

-she enjoys laying on top of any of them in their dragon forms, because their bodies are extra warm then and can protect her from the cold, no matter what

-Historia hates it, when her boys fight, so if they do, she will start crying and plead them to stop, which, of course, they do immediately

-because of her experiences with her father and his trusted allies, she doesn’t know how to handle new faces and gets really shy around them, so her dragons get a little... overprotective in these situations

-but she can be a damn strict ruler, if anybody does something, that she doesn’t want to be done, fist on the f*cking table and a stern look, everybody will crawl on the floor

-she gets to know Armin Arlert later in the series and is attracted by him, although two of her dragons do not like him that much at first, has a relationship with him later on, but is killed by Armin right in front of the Iron Throne

-the reason why she gave all her ‘sons’ different last names, or last names at all, is because they actually aren’t related to each other and her consultants didn’t allow her to give them her own last name, since the Reiss family is highest royalty to them. Many of her consultants actually only see the three dragons as tools for battle and not actual members of the empire, Historia creates.

Drogon

-Reiner Braun, there is no better one for him

-but the role of Drogon himself would be a little... different

-Reiner can transform into a light golden dragon, bigger than a Boeing 747, with even brighter horns and claws, his scales shine in the sun and sometimes, when the light is just right, slight glittery patterns can be seen all over his body, giving him some kind of royal appearance

-his flames are bright as well, still orange, but intensive

-also his armor is the strongest among the three brothers

-he is Historia’s choice to ride into battle, which he is very honored by

-is very proud of his origin and powers, but doesn’t show this pride as much as Galliard does

-doesn’t interfere too much into politics, is more of a fighting guy and wants to prove his value to the queen, Historia

-his roar is veeeery deep, can smash a grown mans eardrums into pieces and scares the enemies even before they see him

-as he grows up, he realizes, that killing people gets to be a habit and Historia isn’t just breaking chains anymore, but also kills those, who don’t want to bend the knee, which he highly disagrees with

-nevertheless, he doesn’t interfere until the last day of Historia’s reign, he is the one to melt the iron throne in rage and carries Historia’s corpse to the place, where she gave life to all three of them

-as a dragon, he can fly, but he actually isn’t too good at it at the beginning, Galliard and Bertolt get way ahead of him, which is why Historia almost decided to ride Galliard to battle

-he likes to sleep in human beds more, being out in the open is more a Galliard thing

-gets in fights with his brother Galliard wayyyy too often, but gladly Bertl is there to reason with them, if that doesn’t help, Historia will just start crying right next to them (as they grow older, they don’t harrass eachother as much because... they would burn whole villages)

-he was the first to learn how to breathe fire

-his title amongst the people is ‘the one who breathes gold’

Rhaegal

-Bertolt Hoover would earn the role of Rhaegal, the fierce green dragon, Armin Arlert gets to be his rider later on

-in his dragon form, Bertolt is even bigger than Reiner, a good amount of bigger I should say

-his scales are actually green as well, but a lot darker than Rhaegals in the series, while his teeth are black, as they should be according to the books, his wings are the only ones being without any cuts or wholes, since he doesn’t really fight with his brothers

-he is known for his technique of clapping his wings together and creating a whole storm to send people flying, when he is asked to fight by Historia

-Berts flames are a dark green colour, sometimes a bit of black can be seen as well

-although he isn’t Historia’s first choice in battle since he is rather calm and shy, he can be a real threat because of his size alone

-he actually prefers to fight in the dark, because he can hide more easily even though he is the biggest of Historia’s dragons

-Bertl is the one, who is the most aware of his powers and controls them perfectly, which is why he always reminds his brothers to be careful with their tails or their wings, much to their confusion, I mean, he is the biggest of them, by far

-he’s a gentle giant, most of the time, and Historia’s preferred place to sleep on is his back in dragon form

-that boy can be such a d*ck, when it comes to sleeping, accidentally of course, because, well, he sleeps, but his positions while doing so are... random. In both forms actually, a house was smashed to dust one time

-politics are absolutely his thing, he loves to be a part of tactical meetings and enjoys to help his queen/mother with difficult desicions, although he is pretty shy around other people, who don’t belong to his closest family

-his roar is deep, but not as deep and loud as Reiner’s, even though he should have the lung capacity to make it even louder than his, which is because he actually hates to roar, is more of a silent assassin, you almost can’t hear his wings

-as Historia begins to grow a darker queen, he keeps himself out of it, only follows her orders, but deep inside, he questions their actions and feels sorry for what he has done

-he is really sceptical at first, when Armin approaches him, but as soon as he senses the Reiss families blood, he calms down and lets Armin ride his back

-they actually have a connection similar to that of Historia and Reiner later on, which allows Armin to lead Bertolt into battle and give him commands, just like Historia does

-he has this look, when he is in his dragon form as well as in his human form, a look, that can easily make anybody uncomfortable, though he just looks very directly at somebody. That is his way to say ‘back. the hell. off’

-Bertolt is shot down by three scorpion bolts in the battle at Dragonstone, Galliard isn’t there to whitness this, but Reiner and Historia are right next to him, leading to Reiner wiping out a whole fleet of ships in blind rage

Viserion

-the best one to play this part is Porco Galliard, just called Galliard by everyone, he hates his first name

-Galliard is the smallest of the dragon brothers, but he is actually the toughest and fiercest, leading to him being used in most of the battles Historia fights as the first one to attack the enemy

-in his dragon form, Galliard is of a smaller statue than his brother Reiner, but still pretty big, has copper scales, which pretend to seem a little bit darker, than they actually are, his claws look as if they are really made out of pure copper, but his teeth are pure white

-the fire of this boy is HOT, like he can literally melt rocks and metal like frikin wood, also his flames are of dark orange colour and sometimes a little bit of yellow sparks through

-he actually likes to use his claws to crush catapults and sink ships rather than using his fire, although it is really strong

-is the fastest of the dragon brothers and loves to speed through the enemy lines

-he often teases his brothers because he is the first to rush into combat and ‘makes things easier for them’ (actually he has to save Reiner a lot... and teases him for that as well)

-always the first one to say ‘let’s just kill them all, we know they deserve it, mom’

-he is rather harsh and cynical, but can be really sweet with children, tries to convince them that dragons are not always vicious beasts

-he often wanders around alone, sometimes disappearing whole months only to return from some smaller battles, because of that he has the best orientation amongst his brothers

-he absolutely hates fish

-Galliard actually would never allow any human to ride his back, not even Historia, doesn’t matter if Reiss blood or not, he HATES to be controlled, so Historia can only tell him what to do if he agrees to ‘help her out’

-has no interests in politics. AT ALL.

-Galliard doesn’t like other people, but is loyal to the kingdom and its queen, protecting Historia with his life, if he has to, still, no other people, except maybe some children, he grew fond of

-when he roars, it sounds like a damn hurricane is coming, high pitched, but terrifying as well, people sometimes actually think, that a storm is coming, when he roars, which he is very proud of

-is the first to notice Historia’s turn to the darker side of herself but thinks, that she finally accepted his sight on things, but as soon as it resolves in killing people just for the effect, he starts to question her, and actually speaks his mind to her very openly, only receiving stern looks from her

-he absolutely hates Armin when he first arrives at Dragonstone, shows that by growling at him and just flying away

-Galliard is the first of the dragon brothers to get killed, an ice spear pierces through his shoulder and neck, which kills him mid flight, is later revived by the Night King, also known as Eren Yeager, to fight against Historia

-he gets killed again when Mikasa Ackermann stabs the Night King in the chest, right after Galliard destroyed the wall of ice and fought his brothers in a devastating battle, in which Bertolt gets injured badly

[amjustagirl]

Chapters:  one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven.

Wordcount: 2.3k

Summary:

Akaashi Keiji catches glimpses of another life in his dream.He dreams of fields of endless gold, of constellation of stars that light up the night sky. He hears echoes of the birdsong in her laugher, the songs to the gods in the wind.

(Loosely inspired by Kimi No Nawa)

Masterlist link here 

AO3 link here

Author’s note: This fic is a little different from my usual work, so I’m a little nervous about publishing it. If you do like it, would love if you leave a comment / reblog / anything!

If you’d like to be included in the taglist, do drop me a msg/ask!

‘It’s for my mother’s birthday’, Akaashi says, and the florist tilts her head in thought, a dimple appearing on her right cheek. 

‘What about pink carnations? They’re pretty and well within your budget’.

‘Good choice – plus it means that I’ll never forget her’ he says, nodding in approval and she bustles around to gather her materials, fingers nimbly twining tissue and ribbons around the blooms. 

‘Oh - ’, he begins to say in surprise when he notices she’s included a bunch of baby’s breath in the little bouquet, because a university student’s budget only stretches that much. 

‘Don’t worry, it’s on the house’, she hastily reassures him, her curly hair bouncing as she shakes her head. ‘I just thought it’s sweet you’re buying flowers for your mother.

‘Thanks.’ He smiles at her. She grins back and promptly trips over her own feet as she hands the bouquet over to him. ‘Watch out’, he calls, reaching over the counter to grab her elbow in an attempt to steady her.

‘Sorry! That’s so clumsy of me. Um – I’ve been meaning to ask you for some time, but would you like to grab coffee with me someday?’ she asks, cheeks flushing as pink as the flowers in his arms. 

‘Oh’, he says, dumbstruck. ‘I – uh’ 

She must read the hesitation in his face because she shakes her head self-deprecatingly, saving him from floundering awkwardly. ‘Sorry! I don’t know what came over me – please forget I ever said that!’ Then she bows and ushers him out of the store, waves away his apologies with a laugh and calls after him to ‘please come again!’ 

His mother fusses over him when he presents his bouquet of carnations to her, bending down to press a kiss to her cheek. ‘Why does it look like university is treating you so badly?

‘I’m fine, mum’, he tries to distract her with a hug, but she’s having none of that. 

‘Are you really, Keiji?’, his mother asks, lips pursed. ‘I know my son well enough to know he’s not sleeping well’. 

‘I try’, he offers, but he knows his excuse falls flat when she sniffs. He’s so irredeemably busy with school work and internship that sleep is practically the last item on his list of priorities and things to do and tasks at hand, but he knows if he breathes a word about the amount of work on his plate, his mother would nag him relentlessly until she’s convinced he’s taking care of himself again

So honed by years of dealing with Bokuto-san, he switches tactics to diversion. ‘So mum, tell me how auntie managed to talk Yuji-kun into going on blind dates?’ His mum brightens and immediately turns her mind to her favourite nephew’s dismal love life. 

But his mother insists on him staying over that night, so he finds himself staring at the ceiling of his old bedroom, in a bed that suddenly feels too small for the worries that adulthood is cramming into his head. He’s patient, counting the spaces between his breaths but sleep eludes him and he sits up, determined to sneak in more work at the very least.  

He tucks a pencil behind his ear, ready to get cracking on his thesis when he tilts his seat too far on the back two legs of his chair and loses his balance, falling onto the floor with a thump. ‘Damnit’, he curses quietly, hoping the noise doesn’t startle his mother awake, but from his vantage point on the floor, he can see the omamori he inexplicably refused to throw away on New Year’s Day hanging on the bars of his windowsill. 

‘What are you doing here’, he mutters, untying the charm and running his thumb along its fraying seams. The charm obviously does not respond - it’s an inanimate object after all, but for some reason, he slips it in his pocket when he returns to the dorm when morning comes. 

The frequency of his dreams starts to increase. 

He’s back in her body, curled up under a pine tree on a cool autumn day. 

‘I can’t believe you convinced me to spend an afternoon running around like a forest nymph when we could be studying to ace your exams’.  There is a tinge of disdain in his words because he  knows  her grades are better than decent, though they’d be better if only she’d spend more time on her books instead of flower fields. 

‘Aww, a nymph? Someone’s feeling extra poetic today’, she teases lightly. 

‘Don’t try distracting me from the fact that you really should be studying’, he insists, displeased. 

‘I do study’  she protests, but he hums disbelievingly, the spectre of Waseda’s devilishly difficult entrance exam looming in his mind. 

‘Not enough to get into a decent university at this rate.’

‘I don’t want to go to university, Keiji, I’ve tried telling you this before’, she sighs. 

‘You don’t?’ 

‘Nope’  she responds, popping the word in her mouth. ‘I just want to sell flowers to people someday, is that so bad? It’s simple - they make people happy, and that makes me happy in turn. If we only have a lifetime to spend on this earth, shouldn’t we pursue what truly brings us joy instead of dreams others impose on us?’

‘ I suppose that makes sense’, he says, sounding vaguely convinced.

‘Course it does’, she responds easily, a smile flickering in her voice. ‘I always make sense. Now. Let’s not squabble, it’s my turn to tell you a story today’. 

So he listens, enthralled despite himself, as she spins tales of the Kodama, tree spirits dwelling in the ancient forest, how her mother taught her to always offer a prayer to the gods before chopping down a tree - and if the tree bleeds, to back away because it means it has a Kodama living, breathing within it. 

‘Are they real?’  he asks her, when she finishes a tale of a  Kodama who assumed human form after falling in love with a maiden blessed with cherry blossoms in her cheeks.

‘Of course they are’  she laughs. ‘If you close your eyes and listen carefully, you can hear them sing. ’

He closes his eyes, but the forest remains eerily still. ‘ I don’t hear anything, ’ he says, disbelief colouring his tone. 

‘Maybe it’s because they know you don’t really believe in them yet.’

He wakes up with the scent of pine in his nose, the lingering touch of grass against the soles of his feet. 

‘Electricity is a fickle beast in this household, so the first thing you need to do when you come home is to light the fire in the irori. Even Toya-chan knows how to do that, and he’s eight!’  

He stares balefully at the sunken hearth lined with stone and filled with ash, situated right in the center of the old house.  ‘This is a fire hazard’, he tells her stubbornly. 

‘Fire is life, you spoilt city boy! It only becomes dangerous if you don’t respect it. Now come on, or you’ll end up freezing to death and I won’t be able to save you. I always keep a lighter in my pocket and in the store room there’s coal and if really necessary, some petrol I flinched from the petrol station – ‘

‘You better make sure the teachers don’t find your lighter and think you’ve been smoking – ‘ he interjects and she continues as if she doesn’t hear him. 

‘So you light the fire and hang the kettle from the iron hook, and voila! You can cook porridge or soup if electricity runs out and you can’t rely on the rice cooker or stove. And when the night is too cold to sleep in your room, you can drag your futon out here for warmth. It’s kinda nice, almost like camping. Now, let’s see you try lighting a fire yourself!’ 

Her fingers are thin and nimble, but they’re unfamiliar implements to him, so he fumbles with arranging the coal and scrap paper around damp wood. He has to resort to using a drip of petrol to coax the damp wood to ignite in flames but he counts it as a triumph anyway as fire dances in the sunken hearth.  

He can hear her cheer – ‘Congrats city boy!’ Ignoring the implied insult in her words, he smiles. 

He’s back in her skin again when her voice echoes in his mind. 

‘Y’know you’re not gonna be able to learn how to put on a bra if you don’t open your eyes when doing it right?’  she says, amusement ripe in her voice. ‘Every girl has tits, Keiji . If it makes you feel better, I’ve seen your dick ’. 

‘What?’ he yelps, eyes still stubbornly closed. 

‘How else was I supposed to use the urinals? Goodness, being a guy is so convenient when it comes to peeing, you just point and shoot - ’

‘Right, that’s too much information, thanks’, he huffs. 

‘Well, you’re gonna make me late for school if you don’t open your eyes’’, she sing songs, and he knows she’s banking on his reverence for punctuality and perfect attendance records to get him to look in the mirror, but he’s not sure it outweighs his mother’s lessons of being a gentleman.  

‘Keiji-kun ’, she says again, amused. ‘I do appreciate that you’re trying to protect my modesty, but those rules don’t really apply when we’re in a situation like this, you know? If it makes you feel better, I give you explicit permission to look at my breasts when strictly necessary.’

‘Can you not say it like that’, he grouses before cracking an eye open, somewhat persuaded, and somehow manages to snap the tiny hooks in place. ‘Bras are like torture devices’. 

‘Don’t I know it’, she chuckles.  ‘Be glad you only have to put up with it every once in a while’. 

He snorts, more comfortable once some semblance of her modesty is secured. ‘I’ll count my blessings then’. Twisting at the waist to zip up her skirt, his breath catches at a glimpse of freckles on her back in the mirror. He forgets he’s still standing in front of the mirror as his fingers idly ghost over the constellation, a spray of stardust on bare skin. 

‘Keiji ?’ she asks, confused. 

‘Sorry!’, he startles. ‘It’s just - I never noticed you had freckles on your back before.’

‘Yes - I’m aware I have them, and?’, she replies archly, and the irony that she’s completely fine with him staring at her breasts but not her back does not elude him, but he holds his tongue. 

‘They’re arranged in my favourite constellation’, he tells her honestly and he’s relived to hear her chuckle again. 

‘I’ll show you the real thing next time’, she promises, before switching seamlessly to berate him -  ‘And you can stop staring at my back now, we’re gonna be late for school! ’

The next day is spent wondering if he’s a creep for dreaming about half naked sixteen year old girls – even if there’s nothing remotely sexual about his dream. 

He sees her run through the woods like a fawn discovering spring for the first time, watches her come to a stop at an open clearing framed by trees. There is a shrine in the center of the clearing, cracked and covered in moss, but she approaches it reverently, dropping to her knees. 

‘There is old magic in this shrine’, she whispers, brushing leaves and branches away before laying her omamori down at the altar. ‘ Do you remember the wish you made? ’ 

‘I wished for more time - I got greedy and asked for yesterday to come again ’, he answers, voice hushed. 

‘And I wished for the exact opposite. I got impatient and asked tomorrow to arrive, as fast as it can ’, she replies, tilting her face up to the sun. 

‘I suppose that’s what happened ’, he says. ‘Our wishes got tangled up, and our bodies and souls got thrown through time and space’. 

‘Hm. Do you think we have souls, Keiji? ’ she asks him.

‘Yes  ’, he says, sounding perplexed. ‘What else would we be swapping?’  

‘What colour d’you think your soul is? ’ It’s a strange question, but he’s used to anticipating the unexpected from her. 

‘Blue. It reminds me of the summer sky ’, he replies.

‘Fitting’, she laughs with a cheeky grin on her face. ‘Since the sky is a star’s domain’. 

‘What about you’, he asks, so accustomed to ignoring her teasing about Bokuto-san. ‘What colour do you think your soul is?’

‘Yellow, I hope ’, she says dreamily. ‘It’s warmth and life - like flames lighting up wintry nights, or daffodils on the first day of spring’ .

He wonders if it’s a coincidence that the strange dreams hit him in full force right after he brings back the omamori. 

But Kenma’s right, he’s become strangely addicted to the narrative his dreams are showing him. It’s like the books he snuck under the covers at night, emerging bleary eyed in the morning because he was intent on seeing the story end. And if he’s being completely honest with himself, it makes him feel like that he - quiet, bookish Akaashi Keiji is the protagonist in the Ghibli movies that Bokuto-san makes him watch, so he doesn’t put up a fight against the dreams that re-invade his sleep.

Taglist: 

@1tooru @kageyamakock @animeflower26 @underrated-fruit-tarts-official @bongofrito

[the-lady-writes-what]

Gilded Cage, Part One

Summary:

Keigo Takami, AKA Hawks, has turned villain and you don't know why. After a run-in with the League of Villains, you give chase after the former hero. When you end up taking a bullet to the knee, you're surprised that Keigo not only left you alive, but has taken you to his secret lair. He's built a special cage for you. He says it's to keep the League from coming after you, but you can't help but wonder if it's true or if he just wants you for himself.

Content: Kidnapping Sorry. No smut this time, but it'll be in the next one. Stay tuned

Villain!Hawks x Hero!Reader

(You're a pro-hero whose quirk is basically bending metal. Think Toph Beifong from Avatar: The Last Airbender)

PART 1 / PART 2 / PART 3

This part does not contain smut (See above mentioned note). For smut, please follow the links for Parts 2 and 3

                                                       ---080---

It was hard to walk down the halls of Endeavor’s agency these days. The news of Keigo Takami’s, also known as Hawks, betrayal hit Japan’s hero world like a tsunami. It turned into a question of who the next hero will be to go against their moral code and become a villain. Your workload had increased in the drama and paranoia that followed after Keigo’s sudden villainous change. Endeavor worked you down to the bone, but that was because he must have seen you as useful. Your hero name? Iron Maiden on account of your ability to bend metal, such as iron, steel, and copper. Netting bad guys was a whole lot easier when you could wrap them in a fence or trap them with a lamppost.

You finished the afternoon’s paperwork before heading to the breakroom for some lukewarm coffee. You half-expected Keigo to be sitting on the counter where you used to find him. He used to be a fan of Endeavor’s, so he frequented the agency whenever he felt like it. Of all the time you got to see him, it became evident that he wasn’t there to goof around Endeavor’s office. You should have known better than to encourage his casual flirting, but you couldn’t help yourself. Keigo was the first guy who turned your way after a dry spell in the romance department. It had been months since you last had a date, and even if Keigo was joking, it was nice to have a conversation with someone that didn’t involve hero work.

If only you knew back then that his over-confident smile belied an insidious plan to turn to the other side.

Keigo didn’t hurt people. Much. It wasn’t a great comfort to know that he at least didn’t go around murdering people as soon as he became a villain. That didn’t change the fact that he had become one of them. He robbed banks, caused collateral damage to the cityscape, and set the hero society into panic mode. Nobody knew who would switch sides. Heroes and civilians were starting to look at each other with suspicious eyes ever since.

You fixed yourself a cup of coffee when the cellphone on your hip went off. You immediately stopped what you were doing to pick it up. Shocked, you found your boss’s name and number on the screen. You didn’t hesitate to hit ‘receive.’

Endeavor’s voice came loud and clear, even over the sounds of fighting.

“We need you over by Central Park. Takami’s new crew showed up, and we need your quirk to help round them up!”

“On my way, sir.”

Central Park was at least ten miles from your location. Even if you speed, you won’t make it there on time by car. Not this close to rush hour. Of course, you had other methods of getting to where you needed to go. You pried open the nearest window and lept threw it. Part of your hero costume involved strips of steel wire you could sling around with like that American comic book character. Sailing over the city and swinging in between buildings was much faster than any car. You arrived at the scene with the villains terrorizing civilians trying to enjoy their day at the park. You spotted three of them charging at you as soon as you hit the ground. They were nothing but mooks. Clustered together, it was quick work wrapping them in a bundle of wire. You spotted others and repeated the process. Keigo was nowhere in sight. You heard the sound of flames engulfing the trees. Pillars of red and blue flames shot up in the distance. You found heroes to take care of the villains you’d already captured before heading towards what should have been the epicenter of the fighting. Endeavor was busy with Dabi, and there seemed to be no other villains in sight. Still no sign of Keigo anywhere.

“Endeavor!”

You dodged a blue fireball just in time. You hoped that Endeavor would order you to go elsewhere. Five more minutes, and you’d be cooking in your costume.

“Takami headed west. I leave it to you to apprehend him!” Endeavor was so focused on his opponent that he didn’t turn towards you when he gave the order.

You had to dodge more flames, both Dabi’s and Endeavor’s, to head towards Keigo’s last known whereabouts. Away from the smoke and flames, you found a trail of red feathers. There was a moment where you stopped to wonder if Keigo had been injured and left behind some feathers by mistake or if he was deliberately mocking you. However, you didn’t have a moment to linger on that. You followed the trail of feathers regardless if it was a plot.

Keigo made it easy for you to follow. That should have been your first red flag. You were so focused on getting him in handcuffs that the apparent beeline to him was so fucking clear as day. You picked up the feathers as you went. You had a fistful in each hand by the time you reached the end of the park. Your trail went ice cold.

That is until you spotted the shadow of bird wings graze above you. Your head whipped to the sky. Hawks swooped down, nearly knocking you down to the ground. His wings grazed you. He perched himself on a branch far above you.

His appearance was vastly different from the last time you saw him. He wore an all-black suit with a red and gold tie. Pewter rings were on his fingers. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, but his smile was the most unnerving thing about him. You lashed outwards with your arms, the metal from your gauntlets catching him by the ankles.

“Keigo Takami, you’re under arrest. You have the right to—”

Keigo didn’t let the mild impairment weigh him down. His wings couldn’t be easily held down by you. He flew straight towards you. His height never hid the fact that he was powerful. He plowed you into the ground. The wires unwhirled around his feet and let him soar above you.

“Get back down here, bird brain!” You lashed out your wires again in hopes of pulling him back down to earth.

Each time Keigo moves just a little bit out of reach. You already spent so much on capturing those D-level cronies that you didn’t stop to think of conserving your limited amount of iron wire. Keigo’s wings took him high above to where your weapon couldn’t reach him. He smirked down at you before taking off.

You ran after him, going so far as to hopping over the chain-link fence and following on foot. Your wires came in handy twice today as you soared from lamppost to lamppost, tracking Keigo’s aerial movements. Citizens yelled words of encouragement as you chased after Japan’s new most wanted criminal. The air stung your cheeks, and you could feel your eyes watering as you sped faster between rooftops.

Keigo made the mistake of flying to close to the building whose roof you just scaled. There was a split-second decision. You could stop and let him get away, or you could take the chance. You lunged for him, limbs scrambling through the air to find purchase. Your hands grabbed his suit jacket. Hauling yourself upon his back, you managed to secure your legs around him and put his neck in a headlock.

“As I said before, you’re under arrest!” You screamed as the wind busted your eardrums.

Keigo merely looked over his shoulder at you. His smile was cheeky as ever.

“Really, Princess? The way I see it…you’re the one at my mercy. Unless you got a plan to get us both safely on the ground without bashing our brains on the concrete.”

You growled as Keigo caught you. You didn’t think this far ahead.

You screamed as Keigo flew up towards the sun at lightning speed. Light burning your eyes, you had no choice but to shield them. Keigo used your distraction as the opportunity to shift your weight off his back. All too late, you felt your legs and arms loosen around him. Soon you were plummeting back to the ground. With any luck, your wires would find purchase on something and save you from falling to your death at the last minute. At the rate you were falling, good luck.

You were ten feet from meeting a concrete rooftop when Keigo reappeared. He wrapped you in his arms almost in a possessive manner.

“You’re way too pretty to let splatter. Come on. I’ve got a much better place to finish this!”

His clever hands worked your phone from your belt. Keigo dropped it on the ground, where it shattered several feet below you. Your only chance of survival was to let him take you where he wanted and not get your brains to plaster the sidewalk. His wings soared over the city. You once imagined being in his arms like this. It only made your stomach churn with the thought of what he was going to do to you once you were where he wanted you.

Keigo dropped down in the industrial district. Factories surrounded you. The smell of iron and diesel filled your lungs. But of all the places he picked, why did Keigo go where you had the most advantage? Didn’t he realize that with all of this metal, you were the one with the home-field edge? You didn’t have the time to ask or react when he pulled out the gun from his jacket.

In a flash, your life flashed in your mind. You didn’t stand there waiting to die. At least, you were going to make sure they say you died fighting to your last breath. You charged for Keigo, metal whips whirring to life.

BANG!

It was over. Except instead of sweet oblivion that came with death, you found yourself bleeding on the ground. Your blood pooled around your knee, where he shot you. The pain was exquisite as the bullet lodged itself in your knee cap. You weren’t going to be standing on that leg for a very long time; you could forget about fighting. Keigo’s black shoes came into your line of vision. From shock, you got onto your elbows to look at the bastard.

“What…the hell?” You ground your teeth. “I didn’t picture…you to be the sadist. Going to kill…me…slowly? Is that how you roll now?”

Keigo put his gun away. Then, he reached into the other side of his jacket. When his hand came away this time, he held a syringe.

“That was just to keep you from fighting me. I’m going to get you patched up real quick. Just as soon as I give you your medicine.”

Keigo was faster than you. Your hand shot up to grab him, but the needle was already in your neck. He squeezed the trigger and pumped you full of the drug. It took a few minutes for it to kick in. By the time he had you in his arms again, your head was spinning. A moment later, you finally found that oblivion you were looking for earlier. This time, you were reasonably sure you’d wake up this time, and you weren’t going to know where he was taking you. And that was the scariest thought you had before passing out in the former hero’s arms.

When you woke up, you noticed the stiffness in your leg. Your favorite color draped the bed you laid in. Your hero’s costume was gone and replaced with a negligee you wouldn’t own even if you had a boyfriend. It, too, was in your favorite color. The lace hem barely touched your upper thigh.

Further down, your right leg was held in a cast. Your foot rested on a pillow. As your vision cleared, you got a better picture of where you were.

It could have been described as a room if only it had more than one wall. Where plaster walls should have been, stood solid gold bars. The floors were marble tiles. There was a dresser, a desk, a lavish set up on a vanity, and a familiar coffee table on which sat a widescreen T.V. Every item in your cell was made of either wood, fiber, plastic, or metal you couldn’t bend, including the bars. Squeezed between the actual wall and the cell bars stood a small room. With its door closed, so you couldn’t discern its purpose yet. Footsteps came down the hallway. They rounded the corner. Keigo smiled at you like you were a pretty bird in his cage.

“You’ve been asleep for a while now. Doc had to give you an extra shot so you wouldn’t wake up in the middle of your surgery. Sorry I had to bust your knee cap. You can be so stubborn sometimes.”

“Why am I in a cage? Why am I dressed like this? Just what the hell are you on?” You started to get up from the bed, but it was difficult to swing your leg over the bed when it was in a cast.

“In reverse order,” said Keigo, “I’m not on any drugs. I thought you would look cute in that negligee, and it’s in your favorite color. I put you here for your protection, and honestly, you look damn good in it.”

“Why? Why the hell did you do any of this?” You still struggled to move your damn leg.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’d hate to come in there and show you why.”

His eyes held a glimmer of that charm you once fell for, but there was a predatory light that eclipsed it. Keigo leaned against the bars, stroking the beams.

“Solid gold. It took me a long time to find enough money and resources to build this thing. A pretty little cage for my pretty little bird.”

“Just how long have you been saving?” You wanted to know how long he had wanted to put you in here, yet you still dreaded his answer.

“A couple of years. My original idea was to take us on a cruise. It probably would have been much more romantic, but things come up. You change your plans. Ideals become tainted, and you have to find new ones.”

“What happened to you? You were the number two hero! Some so many people looked up to you. There are still people who believe that this is just a rouse to capture the League of Villains. How could you do that? How could you betray everyone’s trust?”

Keigo didn’t say anything. He held his head down as if lost in the thought. He braced his forearm against the bars as he leaned his head against his arm. Inhaling a long breath,

Keigo let out an aggravated sigh. When he looked up at you, you saw a different man. “Let me ask you this, Princess. How could somebody’s parents sell their kid to the government? How could anyone take a small kid and turn them into a child soldier? For what? So they can pat themselves on the back and say that they’re morally superior to the villains. They take kids from their parents and steal their childhood. And when those kids grow into adults and realize what a shitty system they were raised in, they stare up at you surprised that you had enough of their bullshit.”

“T-Takami…”

“I realized too late that everything that was supposed to be mine was taken from me. My family. My name. My childhood. For what? So I can be number two behind a man like Endeavor. Have you spent time with the bastard? I never noticed it before, but all of a sudden, it becomes clear that society cares less about a hero’s moral code and more about their ability to beat down the nail that sticks out. Ever wonder how his youngest got that scar?”

You nodded. You vaguely remember hearing Endeavor talk about his youngest son.

“It turns out Endeavor pushed his wife around so much that she went mental. She burned the side of Shoto’s face because it reminded her of the man who knocked her around and forced to have his four kids. Does that sound like hero material to you?”

Blood drained from your face. It made sense…in a way. You never met Endeavor’s youngest, so you couldn’t verify the truth or not. For all you knew, Keigo was pulling it out of his ass to make you sympathize with him.

“Why didn’t you go to the authorities? There must have been someone who would have investigated it.”

“By the time I found out, nobody would have believed me at any rate. Endeavor might be a bastard, but he’s still the number one hero. I’m just the rejected garbage the Safety Commission doesn’t want to clean up.” Keigo unlocked the door to your cage.

“Why are you telling me this then?”

Keigo crossed the “room” and picked you up from the bed. You couldn’t move your leg without feeling a jolt of pain go up to your thigh. There was no way for you to struggle. “Because I made a deal with the League. As long as I keep you by my side and you don’t go anywhere, they won’t touch you or your family. I’m afraid you won’t be seeing much of the outside world for a while. At least until Shigaraki accomplishes his goals.”

“You know he’s crazy, right?” You sneered.

“Yeah. Little bit. He’s also the first person who made any damn sense when I realized how badly they screwed me over,” said Keigo as he carried you down the hall.

There were a few rooms that he walked past, but he stopped at the end of the hall. He kicked it open. Your heart fluttered like you were his bride; he carried over the threshold. Your stomach churned with guilt rotting inside it. You shouldn’t be having those kinds of thoughts for the man who turned into a villain and kidnapped you. He confessed to planning to keep you as a prisoner for however long it took for that maniac Shigaraki to complete his mission.

Keigo brought you to an actual bedroom. It was a little more sparse than the cage he planned to keep you in. He must have spent more on you than himself. Looking around, the bedroom contained a giant bed and little else. He had you sit on the bed for a moment. Keigo pulled back the covers and fluffed the pillows before gently grabbing you and laying you out. There was a contraption hanging from the ceiling that he pulled down using a thick cord. He slipped your leg into a sling and adjusted it to your comfort before Keigo left you to pull clothes from the dresser. He disappeared into the adjacent bathroom didn’t return until he was half-dressed in a pair of black sweatpants.

Small scars littered his chest and shoulders. From what, you dared not ask. You remembered his words about a stolen childhood to be raised as a soldier. You wondered if they were true. Your mind was plunged headfirst back into the present when Keigo crawled under the sheets with you. Your face went red.

“Relax, Princess. I’m not going to do anything,” he mumbled. He turned off the lights.

“Then why am I dressed like this?” You asked in the dark.

You felt Keigo’s weight make the bed dip. He settled on his side so he could snake his arm around your waist. He snuggled uncomfortably close, but he kept his hands mostly to himself or above the blanket.

“Because you look damn cute in (fave color). I like looking at you.”

His breath against your skin created goosebumps in its wake. Your eyes eventually closed to sleep. As you drifted off, you asked yourself: How long could you live like this?

                                                       ---080---

[powerosewaterpuff]

so i was having some late night feels (angst) aaanddd i’m adding onto the reverse robin au i was playing around with a while ago, which is jason being the oldest of the batkids with dick coming while he’s bruce’s partner aaaand yk i might’ve cried bUt yOU CANT PROVE ANYTHING

dick and jason had a little ritual they would do, whenever jason came back from patrol they would sit together, some reality tv playing as they just talked. it was mundane, and really wasn’t all that special as they debated whether real housewives of beverly hills was better than real housewives of new jersey, but dick found himself desperately yearning for it as he curled underneath jason’s bedsheets, hugging an old sweater that smelled like his older brother, whispering to a pillow, pretending that maybe it was jason

the night bruce came back, his heart gutted and carved out, resting heavily in his hollow chest, is not a day they ever talk about, ever. dick claims not to remember much of it, too much confusion and heartache. but he remembers counting every single breath bruce took before uttering the words that sent his world crashing down once again. he remembers the racking sobs that pierced into dicks ribs, as he kept repeating a self assuring mantra of thisisnthappeningthisisnthappeningthisisnthappening. he remembers bruce collapsing onto the caves floors, the weight of the world crushing him with its unrelenting rage. he remembers feeling paralyzed, unable to reach out to bruce and unable to comprehend what was happening, just like how frozen he was when his mother just slipped past his fingers, just brushing against it ever so lightly before crashing into a mess of blood and brain. he remembers running, running up the stairs, running from alfreds call, running from bruce’s shaking hand reaching out for him, running into jason’s room because he was alive, he knew he was alive this was all nightmare constructed in his head, only a nightmare that was bound to end (it never did)

bruce was against robin. bruce was against every shred of robin. he was against the idea of robin, the conception of robin, anything that had to do with robin was banned. he wouldn’t hear of it. but dick was always told he was a little bird born with a lions heart, and he proudly displayed it. he fought and fought and fought, because goddamnit bruce you’re killing yourself. bruce never really allowed it, but dick still did it. bruce would be on a constant lecture in patrols that consisted of go home right now or i’m dragging you back cape and all. it never really worked though, no matter how hard bruce tried to suppress it. dick would just come out the next night, ready to fight crime by bruce’s side with too much heart and too much enthusiasm (it was jason all over again.)

dick became far better at faking smiles from then on. it was ironic, if he really thought about it. his own performer parents had never taught him to lie so well, to grin so easily when his heart was aching with an immovable weight. but he knew he had to do it. his days were a sacrifice he was willing to give to make bruce content, if he could even do that. he knew bruce never slept, so he would trot into his room and plop onto his bed, and force bruce to read a book to him. dick didn’t really sleep, but he knew it brought bruce some shred of comfort when his son was by his side, safe and present. it was okay, really it was. dick could fake smiles for the rest of his life if it made bruce smile at him one more time.

bruce hadn’t been able to stomach looking at jason’s grave ever since the funeral. dick went every other day. he did a similar thing with his parents, because a lesson he had always been taught by them was that the dead while may not be able to talk back, did quite enjoy being talked to. maybe it was a silly childhood reassurance, to sooth dicks worries about death, but it helped. he would sit by jason’s grave and discuss anything and everything. he told him about how he had met this girl barbara who was the commissioners daughter and she was really awesome. he would blather on about how wally has already hit a growth spurt and roy was even taller then both of them which annoyed him to no end. it leaned towards nervous rambling at some point but that was okay, dick liked talking. it helped quiet his mind.

it was the small things that dick noticed that were never going to be the same. jason’s “designated” spot at the kitchen table was never touched. the console he had bought when he was around 14 wasn’t touched until a solid year later, but even then dick felt a little weird playing anything without jason’s snarky comments. waking up in the morning to go to school without jason either throwing a pillow at his face or dumping a bottle of water onto him is something he hates. jason’s phone was also kept in its exact spot, inside of the drawer of his nightstand without ever moving. (dick used to call it sometimes, just to hear the voicemail. he would leave a message behind too, but no one knew. no one ever found out about it either.)

dick hated how much he missed being called sky monkey. it was such a stupid nickname, from all the plethora of nicknames he had generously given jason the permission to use, he had stuck with baby bird and sky monkey. but jason used to laugh about it, telling him dick would never get a more fitting description of himself.

dick and bruce had one of their most heated arguments over that stupid plaque and case. dick remembers spitting out that bruce could stand looking at that good soldier but couldn’t even go see his sons grave. he knows it’s a low blow, but he’s burning with confusion and venom is dripping from his tongue. they (dick) talk about it a few night later, hug it out and what not, but it was a moment dick realized just how emotionally stunted bruce was and it set off a little angry flame in his chest. one that never quite fizzled out, but changed to sadness as the years went on.

it was weird reading shakespeare the first time in class for dick. he kept imagining jason’s voice in a midsummer nights dream. he kept closing his eyes and seeing the scene fold out in his head. jason playing lysander as he had his lines memorized the best, pouring every ounce of talent into his grand performance in their bedroom. dick had a little script in hand as he played puck, with each of them swapping out roles as the other characters. they had pranced around the room, hopping onto furniture and climbing onto beds. dick felt sick to his stomach playing lysanders role in a class reading, because he could hear so fucking clearly jason’s voice with his brimming accent come to life in his head. (or maybe it was because he felt an unexplainable feeling of pure guilt, because he lived. he’s playing lysander now. jason isn’t. and dick feels like a fucking thief)

(i’m stopping there before i cry oOPS I-UH IMMA GO REWATCH 10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU BC THIS AU HAS A WAY OF DESTROYING MY HEART BUT I LOVE IT SO MUCH ANYWAYS?? OH OH AND IF ANYONE HAS ANY GOOD BATFAM FIC RECS LIKE WHOLESOME FAMILY ONES PLS SEND THEM MY WAY PLS AND THANK YOU :)!! )

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Is It Really THAT Bad?

How many fucking times must I talk about this movie?

I feel like this movie doesn’t need an introduction. Everyone knows this film. Its reputation precedes it. It didn’t bomb and it’s not generally considered one of the worst films ever made (at least on the level of films like Robot Monster or The Cat in the Hat), but this movie is easily one of the most divisive films ever made. This film has generated enough arguments that, if we harnessed the energy of all the flame wars it has caused, we could probably power the entire world until the heat death of the universe.

With the impending release of Zach Snyder’s bloated redo of Justice League, I’ve decided to go back and ask myself of this film here… is it really that bad?

THE GOOD

Here comes the most uncontroversial opinion: the action scenes in this movie rock (or at least two of them do). The standouts are the titular showdown, which almost makes sitting through the rest of the movie worth it, and the epic warehouse fight Batman gets into, which is like something straight out of the Arkham games. It’s so good. And aside from that, a lot of the cinematography in the film is good. The film knows how to look good, though unfortunately it does end up being a lot of style with little substance.

On the subject of Batman, I think Ben Affleck is a great and inspired choice. I certainly think he’s worthy of standing alongside Batmans like Clooney and Keaton, easily embodying both the Dark Knight and Billionaire Playboy aspects fairly well, though the writing does not always handle him quite as well as it should (we’ll get to that soon enough). Henry Cavill, while still a rather dour Superman, is as good as ever as Superman, and Gal Gadot as Wonder Woman was a great choice here, especially since she didn’t have control so that she could insert anti-Arab racism, like some DCEU movies.

Perhaps one of the movies most impressive feats is how, in an uncharacteristic moment of brevity, it manages to condense the backstory of Batman into the prologue, getting it out of the way and not making us sit through yet another Batman origin film. This is literally the only thing the movie has over the MCU; where that franchise just has the character Spider-Man inexplicably in existence without even a hint of his origins, they just get Batman’s tragic backstory out of the way so we can see him beating the crap out of people. If more superhero movies want to take this route and just condense the backstory into an opening montage like this, I’d be down for it.

THE BAD

I really could just say “most of the movie” but that’s such a cop out. Let’s actually look at the problems. Let’s work our way up through the things from least problematic to most, shall we?

The best place to start is what Zach Snyder did to Jimmy Olsen.

Jimmy Olsen is made into a CIA spook who is brutally killed early on, and yes, that was Jimmy Olsen. Snyder put him in to shock audiences with his senseless murder, and also because he felt the character had no place in his series. Does making Watchmen just turn people into joyless husks who like to horribly bastardize iconic characters? Jimmy Olsen is ultimately a small microcosm of the film, but he is the sum total of everything wring with the early DCEU. He is bleak, soulless, and shows a critical lack of understanding about the comics and why people enjoy them.

Now let’s move on to the more exciting problem to discuss: the villains. I don’t even think it’s worth wasting much time discussing what’s wrong with KGBeast. While it is kind of interesting they’d think to use the guy at all, the fact he never dons the costume and dies by the end of the film is unfathomably lame for a character named KGBeast.

Now, onto the main antagonist, and the most infamous part of the movie: Lex Luthor.

Lex Luthor is horribly, horribly miscast. Jesse Eisenberg is a great actor for sure, and he’s effective in movies like Now You See Me, The Social Network, and the Zombieland films. But here he is being asked to play one of the most diabolical cunning geniuses in comic book history, and rather than play him as such, he plays him like a cartoonish twit. This Lex is utterly unrecognizable as Superman’s greatest foe. Does anyone think Lex Luthor would send a jar of piss to someone as a joke before he blows them up? That’s more something the Joker would do on an off day. Lex is not cunning, not intimidating, and not diabolical in the slightest, and yet there are moments where Eisenberg’s acting chops shine through and Lex, for a moment, is almost engaging. Luthor really suffers the way Doctor Doom tends to in film adaptations: the filmmaker clearly doesn’t get why people like the villain, and decide to do some weird, unique take that will only cause to alienate fans.

But perhaps the worst of them all is Doomsday. Doomsday has exactly one claim to fame, and that’s killing Superman, so as soon as he shows up if you have even a passing awareness of the character you know how the movie is going to end, which robs the film of tension for its last battle. The fact he also appears with little buildup and doesn’t have any characterization doesn’t help; Doomsday is just the Big Gray CGI Blob that superhero movies try and pass off as a final boss for the heroes to fight. This has worked precisely once, in Iron Man. The Incredible Hulk and Venom did not make it work, and this film is nowhere close to being in the same ballpark as Venom.

By and far the biggest problem, though, is the movie’s incredible length and its very existence in the franchise at this point in time. This is an epic superhero crossover in which two of the biggest comic book characters of all time fight and then team up… And it is the second movie in a franchise. While they do a good job of establishing Batman rather quickly, Wonder Woman comes out of nowhere. And then at the end, Superman ‘dies.’ We have had one single movie prior to this to make a connection to the guy, and yet here he is getting a temporary comic book death with no buildup whatsoever that we know is going to be reversed sooner than later because the movie telegraphs this to us.

Imagine if, instead of building up the character over the course of a decade and putting him in all sorts of different stories, the MCU went right from Iron Man to Endgame. You go from a simpler, character-driven piece to a massive crossover where a hero dies right away, and it doesn’t give anyone time to care. Tony Stark had multiple films worth of characterization under his belt before they threw him in a crossover, let alone killed him, but Snyder expects you to give a damn about a Superman who just started his career in the previous movie of a franchise.

And the ass-numbing length of the movie is no justification. Even before the director’s cut came out this film was a slog, and the director’s cut really does nothing to earn its existence. All it does is add more runtime to an already tedious and bloated film, leading to the same exact ending and fixing none of the overarching narrative problems of the thing. The problem with any director’s cut is that ultimately the movie is still going to be Dawn of Justice, it’s still going to lead to extremely rushed character decisions, and it’s still going to be a mess. You’d have to redo half of the film to make this into a worthwhile and coherent narrative that’s actually worthy of being an entry in a superhero franchise.

And to top it all off, the movie spends far too much time foreshadowing for its own good. People criticized The Mummy for shoehorning in way too many shared universe elements right off the bat, and if that movie was bad for it, so is this one. The cameos from all the members of the Justice League, while striking, could be excised from the plot with little to no impact, and the Knightmare sequence is just excessive and weird.

Is It Really THAT Bad?

The answer to this question has never been harder.

On the one hand, this film does have some merit. There is some good casting choices, good cinematography, good action… But then, on the other hand, the film is overly long, pretentious, has poor writing and dialogue, mishandles everyone aside from Superman, and is just incredibly unpleasant.

This film is in many ways the exact problem Christopher Nolan created with his Dark Knight trilogy. Nolan, by grounding the fanciful characters of comic books into a realistic setting, created a climate in which someone could suck any sort of joy or meaning out of comics. The success of his films meant that people would see dark, gritty realism as preferable to joyous, colorful escapism, and the negative effects of his films, however good you find them, are still felt today even as filmmakers are finally shaking off the grit. Dawn of Justice is the zenith of Nolan’s style of superhero film. There is nothing fun, joyful, or engaging to be found here; it is simply the characters you know and love forced into dark, miserable scenarios that ends in death and misery. Where’s the fun? Where’s the color? Where’s the wonder, the excitement, where is any of it? This film paints a bleak and miserable and hopeless picture of a world of superheroes. It really makes me think of this rather famous comic panel:

I absolutely hate this movie, but not because I think it’s bad. I hate it because it has enough good ideas where it should be the best thing ever, but it really isn’t. It’s a miserable slog of a film that does nothing to justify or earn its massive runtime whatsoever. It really does belong somewhere between 5 and 6 on IMDB, because I can almost see why people like it, but it just isn’t even remotely close to being how good its fan say it is. This is not a good superhero movie, and this is not how we should want superhero movies to be. There is a market for serious superhero fare of course, and there’s no reason that these films can’t engage with mature themes or anything, don’t get me wrong. But this is absolutely not the way to do it.

[royaldescendants]

the darkest little paradise

moodboard made by me

masterlist

Chapter 1

Hades sat in his living room, turning off the TV. His own kid was getting engaged, and he hadn’t even been able to meet the kid she was planning to marry.

He chuckled, wondering how things would’ve gone down if this had been way back when. The kid would’ve had to ask him, and if he’d gotten that far Hades would’ve said yes.

On the condition that the kid was the one to tell Mal’s mother of course, because there was no way Hades was getting in the way of his wife potentially crying over their daughter ‘growing up too fast’.

He had seen the tears when Mal started walking. And when she started talking, when her first word was ‘mama’? He had had to call her best friend to console her. Probably why gods weren’t typically too involved, he mused, the heartache of not knowing if your kid was immortal or not was excruciating. 

He drank from the skull flask he’d traded for with the faux-pirate crew. Had to keep up the aesthetic somehow, and it wasn’t like he was able to get anything stronger than a weak ale. It was the only thing that kept for a long time, wouldn’t make you sick, and had some semblance of hydration. 

He wondered if Mal remembered that she used to have to drink it too, or if she’d gotten so used to drinking lemonade and sodas, or whatever else they drank on the mainland. He didn’t really know, and didn’t have the energy to care anymore. She looked healthier, happier too. That’s all he needed to know about her new life.

-------

A few hours later, Mal was collapsing on her bed. She was tired of her father’s antics, tired of having so much pressure to both conform to Auradon’s standards yet stand up to the treatment that everyone on the Isle was given. She hated the decision she proposed, but no one else had come up with literally any other solution to the problem.

She reached over to her nightstand for her water bottle, and finding it empty, she threw it in the trash can that was currently full of tissues. Nightmares hadn’t been kind lately. 

She froze as the plastic bottle hit the soft bed of long dried, tear and snot-stained tissues. 

Kids on the Isle don’t get clean water, and here you are, contributing to pollution.

She went to the bathroom to wash up for the night. 

Remember the cold saltwater that Mother always shoved your face in, eyes open? Remember the taste of lye soap?

She finished quickly, ignoring the accusing voice. Closing the barrier was best for everyone, it made sense. Da- Hades almost escaped today, what could happen next time? 

You idiot. There’s always two sides to a story, you of all people know this.

The faces of the kids, trying to hide away as her father threw a fit about going home, being a god…..

The eyes haunted her the most. Dead, void of hope-

Hope you could’ve given them.

Void of anything but despair.

------

The way the sun shone into Kore’s apartment in the mornings should have been considered a crime. It was bright, it was overbearing, and it was way too early. 

For Kore, it didn’t really matter anymore. She got up before sunrise every day, and had been for the last sixteen or so years. 

In this case, as far back as she could remember. 

She made her way to grab her jacket and gloves, ready to start sorting and gathering the ripe fruits and vegetables to be sent to the kitchens, just like every other day.

Hands pausing in tying her shoes, she realized that she’d never had to get new ones.

Strange, every other worker had gone through two pairs every other year. 

But it was better if Kore didn’t dwell on it, of course. She wasn’t supposed to, that wasn’t her job.

She didn’t get paid to think about shoes, she got paid to tend the grounds the way nobody else could. 

And this year, teach an elective about ‘plants, fae, and nymphs; the natural world of magic’.

It was a small summer class, but it was better than nothing. 

Kore hurriedly made her way to the greenhouse, snapping her fingers after the doors closed, and summoned all the fruits and vegetables to the great big basket at the front. 

Sorting out some stray carrots that got mixed in with the potatoes, she sang a mindless tune, not knowing how she knew the words.

“And I’ll sing you to sleep, and I’ll see you tomorrow

Bless you with love for the road that you go-”

The door opened. “Kore? Is that you singing in here?”

It was King Adam. “I was just passing by, your voice is lovely by the way. I haven’t heard that one, do you remember where it’s from?”

“I don’t think so,” Kore said, frowning over an oddly bent carrot. It reminded her of some sort of flame…. “I just started singing it out of boredom, I think. Do you think it’s some sort of lullaby I used to know?”

King Adam smiled thinly. “I don’t know if it’s best to dwell on it. I’m sure it’s nothing bad, but we don’t want to take any chances, now do we?”

Kore shook her head.

“Excellent. Now, these look positively splendid, I’m sure tonight’s potato soup will be excellent, all because of you, my dear.” 

------

After tending to a sick flowerbed around one in the afternoon, changing into a pair of overalls and a breezy cotton button down (and no shoes) sounded really nice. Kore then made her way to her new classroom, with her new keys. Unlocking the door, she decided that she should probably look over who was in her class so far. 

“Hey, you’re Lady Kore, right?”

Kore jumped, not having realized that a few kids had entered the classroom, or that the bell to dismiss the previous period had rung. 

“Well I suppose I must be, you can just call me Kore though, I don’t have any titles, your majesty,” she said, nervously. Kore recognized the kid immediately. 

Not knowing who Ben Florian was, was absolutely impossible, considering he was the king at this point. 

“Oh, you don’t have to say ‘your majesty’, it doesn’t make sense, especially considering you’re the teacher here,” he said sheepishly.

“Alright then, should I call you Ben? I’ve heard you prefer your nickname over your full name.”

Before he could answer, the door banged open again. “Ben, you won’t believe what I just did- oh, I didn’t realize you weren’t the only one here.”

“It’s alright Evie, I was just talking with Kore here. We both don’t like titles, it seems,” he said in a relieved manner.

“It’s not that, it’s that I really don’t have one, Ben.”

He turned back to her. “How do you not have a title, but you’re teaching this class? I thought all the teachers had some sort of speciality and political say over it?”

Kore laughed, as more students followed Evie in and sat at the back of the small room. “It’s complicated, I’ll tell you in a minute.”

As everyone seemed to be settled, she decided to grab the clipboard with the class list on it. “Alright, if you hear your name say here, if I mispronounce it please let me know, and if your name is not called please let me know at the end. Ben Florian, I was just talking to you. Jay of Agrabah?”

“Here.” The voice came from the boy wearing blue and yellow leather, with a red beanie. Good luck working in that, a voice whispered, recognizing that leather and plant magic didn’t always mix well. Kore had no idea how she knew, but she decided that it must have happened before.

“Carlos De Vil?”

“Here.” A boy with a red and black flannel said, quietly. He doesn’t have the gift, how will he do this class? Wait- how do I know this?

“Evie Grimhilde?”

“Present!” What is it with these kids and leather?? At least this one has some shapeshifting magic, Kore thought, absentmindedly recognizing the way Evie’s eyes seemed to shift colors with the light, making her look more innocent. Just the way a student would want to on the first day of a new class.

“Jane Fae?”

“Also present.” Finally, someone who is dressed properly! The light blue shirt would probably get some dirt on it, but the jeans and tennis shoes, all noticeably with no wool, leather, or iron included, would work perfectly. Wool wasn’t necessarily taboo, but unless you were working with animals, it didn’t give any advantages.

“Doug Dwarfson?”

“Here.” Oh god. Dwarfs and plant magic? This’ll be interesting. Ah well, jeans and a casual t-shirt are better than- oh no, iron in the shoes. That’ll be reactive.

“Mal…doesn’t have a last name?” 

“Yeah, the system erased it. I’m here, though.”

“Perfect. Alright, that’s everyone, time to head out. Leave your stuff here, it’s the last class of the day for a reason.”

Without another word, she grabbed some materials and books, and marched out of the room, only stopping and looking back when she realized none of them were following. 

“Guys? We have to go to a better place for this, you know…”

“Uh, Lady Kore-”

“Just Kore, Ben.”

“Right, my bad. Kore, I thought this was more theoretical, take notes on what’s possible, kind of class?”

Kore snorted. “I don’t mean to laugh, Ben, but if that were the case, they wouldn’t have delayed teaching this for so long. Finding someone with nature based magic, someone willing to teach, and someone who knows plants intimately? Harder to find than you’d think.”

“Haven’t you been here for years though?” Jay interrupted, coming to the door.

“I have. Unfortunately, I don’t have any claim to a title, so they didn’t realize my qualifications until this summer. Shall we proceed?”

Making their way outside, they chatted amongst themselves as Kore was deep in thought as to where to go. 

“Alright class, this is Greenhouse 13. It’s mostly empty right now, but it will be where we go from now on, unless I tell you otherwise. If something changes at the last minute, I’ll try and put a note on the door so you know to go to the classroom.”

Unlocking the door, it creaked open with Kore’s push.

“The iron in here is less than it is in the other greenhouses, can anyone tell me why that matters?”

Evie chimed in. “Because iron causes burns and injuries to fairies.”

“Correct. They do prefer to be called the Fae, in some cases, exactly like Jane’s last name. If they refer to themselves as Fae, you need to be very careful. They can twist the truth very easily, and they have lots of stories about them for a reason. However,” she paused, turning on the lights at the back of the greenhouse. “That doesn’t mean you should automatically be suspicious of them or their intentions. Many Fae in this day and age don’t really care about all the things they used to, they generally mind themselves and how they phrase things.”

“What was my mother?”

The class looked at Mal, who had suddenly become very invested. “Before her banishment, or whatever.”

“Maleficent was an interesting case,” Kore bit her lip, not sure how she knew. “She was a fairy, yes, but some of her actions would suggest that she could be classified as Fae. However, she was under……” This was where Kore cursed her lost memory. Only knowing the last sixteen years, when she had been working at the castle was perfectly inconvenient for moments like this. 

“Under what?”

“Call it a sort of jurisdiction. Forgive me, my memory isn’t all there, though of course Ben might know?”

All eyes turned to the teenage boy, who was sitting against a wall, ready for the class to start. “Uh, I think you’re right. I can’t remember who though, it’s not common knowledge.” He chuckled. “Honestly I’m surprised that you know, Kore.”

“I think I must have worked on something before working here, something with…...whatever it was. Ah well, shall we get started?”

[iamtheempress]

Lets Talk

She nursed a nice bruise on her face in the bathroom, one that bloomed from her cheek to the top of her brow, extending a green fingertip to her cheek to heal it slowly, hopefully bringing back some natural skin tone to her cheek again.

 A normal practice for treating her wounds all her life, all while keeping herself awake and conscious with an energy drink that was half empty and the ever present feeling of anticipation. The source of anticipation lingering on that phone beside her, a burner phone she bought at the beginning of the day.

Chiaki's eyes flickered to her burner phone right next to her, waiting for a reply from a face shed only met during a fight earlier that morning with her father. 

Heroes against Villains, that old fight that will seemingly never ever cease, she cant remember why the incident happened but she just knew that she and her father were first responders along with a handful of other heroes.

 She inspects the faded mark on her face and closes the door to the bathroom, quietly as to not wake her mother who had tried to quell her worried eldest daughter, Aoi had retired to bed about an hour ago… the media had picked up on the travesty of a fight that happened earlier that day. Causing a nasty uproar from civilians and the media alike.

It was everywhere, newspapers, radio stations, the internet and she can hear the newscaster announce it clearly. "Pro Hero Witch is in the Literal Hot Seat today, is she someone we need to keep an eye on? Her power was in full effect keeping a fifteen-story building from crushing her and her battered teammate, FullCharge. Who had beaten the negligent heroin enough to make her heal him, after she did this the building she was supporting fell upon her and 5 other civilian lives, after letting the villain come to know as Dabi escape-'' she turned off the tv sick and tired of hearing of how useless she’s been, the ensuing argument she had with her family left scars on her psyche she wouldn't bat an eyelash at, she couldn't care about her reputation when she let people die on her watch. 

Useless. Lazy. A joke. 

She let those 5 civilians die so callously, she didn't know them and yet she doesn't feel as bad, atleast not right now. Casualties are a norm for heros, right?

The icing on the cake was to hear the media call her that word negatively again. 

Witch… 

A name she used to take her power back from a horrible nickname in her childhood. Now once again weighing on her like chains to the floor.

 She walked to bed holding the phone and lamenting, falling to her bed with a resounding flop.. It's her fault.. she let Dabi go, and everyone saw it.

 She let everyone down and even had her phone blown up by her friends. She turned her attention to the group chat and took a peek from behind the iron curtain of guilt. Bakugou's name was the first to catch her eye.

Bakugou: Chili. Hey dumbass answer us! We have been trying to call you all day and you leave us on read. Answer us goddammit! We don't want to confront you ourselves and see what your deal is but we will if you don't answer us for the rest of the night.

Midoriya: We will give you another 30 and we're coming over, we promise we're not going to gang up on you, Chili…That wouldn't be right. 

Chiaki: How can i trust that, you all saw my situation, no one did a damn thing to help me, i get im also the healer but that includes people defending me in order to heal at a distance or else I HAVE THE TARGET on me. I cant face any of you. 

Bakugou, Izuku, Shouto and more are typing…

She wept rubbing her eyes with her sleeve and making her tear up. Out of everyone… she assumed someone would understand but they all seemed to give her the same look, it made her heart stop. Once again she's the bad guy in a situation she lost control over. With guilt in her heart, she recalled the last moments before he got away. 

Dabi got her father off of her. No hesitation, blasted him clean off of her with enough force it could have singed her head to toe, but he didn’t. She went to get up and saw her father immolated in blue flames as she turned to see the same man she was sent to apprehend was standing fixed about 10 feet from her, his eyes trained solid on her. She looks up at the buildinh started to grown from the integrity being lost from the fight, it began to collapse down on them until she suspended it above the both of them, mere feet from his head; they stared at one another like deer in headlights. A sinister smirk spread across his features before disappearing from her view, in the kick up of dirt and rubble, 

Chiaki couldn’t bring herself to apprehend him. 

Why..? Did he see the desperation in her eyes or the fact that she barely had a leg to stand on when her own father took her down a size, when he saw insubordination over saving herself and not her father who was completely fine? Or was there another ulterior motive to keeping her alive?

Upon trying to close her eyes, and hopefully forget about this whole day.  

The burner phone buzzed to life. 

The screen could have been the brightest thing in the room, a beacon in the night beckoning her. Distant thunder rumbled to indicate the dire decision she's made, as well as a storm that was approaching.

 Her heart stopped, she lifted the phone slightly and slid her thumb over the screen. To see the text message from an unavailable number. 

“How is that eye feeling, Witch?” 

The text read, her fingers flew across the keyboard. 

“It’s been better, I fixed it up. Is this really Dabi?” upon sending the message the text came up as read. Is she really thinking of doing this… he messaged her back quickly. “Maybe I am, I have seen the news today and that shot of you and I standing before the building collapsed on us was cinematic so I have to give you props for that. I’m guessing the reason you wanted to speak to me was not make pleasantries and talk about our days.” 

“You want to join the League.” 

There it is. The question that lain heavily upon her mind. Shed never considered it as much as she has recently. The ridicule of her graduating class, her power seen as something not all heroes should use for good. She proved time and time again how she is not something to worry about.. But here she was.. Being abused and taken advantage of by the people she cared for. 

“Yes. I do.” She sent it with no hesitation and sat up in her bed looking down upon the phone, he made quick work of messaging her back, again. 

“We havent recruited anyone worth our time in a while. From what I saw recently as well as today. We were considering reaching out to you..but this works much better. Meet tonight?” Her golden eyes widened and her mouth popped open out of sheer shock. “Around what time? Ill be there” She stands up, with a loud crack of lightning the rain poured outside, she cursed and saw a location pop up on her phone.

An old and run down apartment complex outside of city limits. “Now. Get going. Text me when you're close.” Chiaki sprung out of bed without a second thought. Redressing herself in simple attire, something to not be seen on the streets so easily especially at night. Black leggings, worn in combat boots her mother gave her, a large black hoodie and that burner phone.

 While tying her hair up in a bun she saw her phone, the one with her best friends messaging her… and Midoriya’s name front and center..

Izuku: “Hey, cmon, Chili. We know you’re there.. We saw what happened and we want to know if your alright…We can see you reading our messages”

Izuku: What happened with your dad wasn't right but something doesn't add up from that fight, Chili.”

Bakugou: “It makes just as little sense to me too dumbass! Why did he spare you and go for FullCharge.”

Bakugou: “You better not have done something youll regret dumbass we cant lose you!”

Kiri: “I already have Shouto were on our way to talk to you, Spooky, were not mad..”

Her heart stopped in her throat as she started typing to them. She could see them all stop typing in unison. 

“Theres nothing to talk about. You all have made up your mind about me..i can see it. I sound like im just a problem to all of you. Consider me gone.” Chiaki tossed her old phone to the bed and scrawled a note. 

“I loved you all.. I'm sorry I'm not who you wanted me to be.”

With one message her phone began to blow up. Without looking back, she was gone. Hopping from her window to the road below with a splash into a puddle and starting her jog, leaving the only home she's known her whole damn life, as well as leaving her hero life behind her.

About a solid 30 minutes later she noticed she saw the buildings become more and more dilapidated marked with graffiti as sirens shrieked down streets and seedy characters crept behind alleyways, the city limits were within a mile away, and so was the old apartment building. 

Impatient and eager to meet him face to face, she messaged him.. "About a block or two away." she pulled her hood up as she exited a mini markets awning that was closed, rain started to shower down upon her, her light hair hidden beneath the oversized hood, the old marquis sign coming into sight. 

The phone vibrated in her pocket, Chiaki pulled it out and the words shone bright across her face. “You better not be some spy.. I won’t be too happy. So in your best interest, i'd be 100% transparent with me.”  She texts back quickly. “I am an open book and got little to hide.”

The text was read and the old marquis was above her, “No turning back now… the guys will be looking for me in no time.” She said to herself and entered the lobby of the closed apartment building, through the heavy wooden doors. It looked like it used to be grand but now it was so in disrepair that the wallpaper was torn back from walls and holes were created from years of neglect. 

Chiaki pulled her hood back and looked around, listening to the silence of the apartment, she took a breath and emanated a glow from her hands, her fingers and thumb lit up like bright green glow sticks.

From behind a darkened figure glided his scarred palm across the tattered wall approaching her slowly, he speaks up, cutting the silence and startling her. "Ah..There you are, you certainly didn't waste your time, Witch" she gasped and whipped around to see him, Dabi. She let out a nervous laugh and took a step forward, if she were not in this situation she wouldn't hesitate to take him down but this instance she felt on equal ground to him so she felt no threat.

 "I don’t dodge opportunities, especially ones like this, I would have contacted someone sooner but I wanted a reason to do this.. And you seemed like someone I wanted to contact first hand." Dabi approaches her until he is within mere feet of Chiaki, his feet shuffling with each stride, he's easily taller than her by more than a couple inches, being 5”2’ is sometimes a hindrance.

He blows air out of his nose with a laugh. “You were in luck then.. I had my eye on you for a while and finding intel for you was far more complicated than we expected. Chiaki Nakamura is it?”  one hand stuffed into his pants pocket and the other out to gesture towards her, his scarred hand fanned out, talking with his hands was natural for him to do it seems. His cyan blue eyes raking down her front and back to her eyes. Unblinking and just as dark and spellbinding as before, all the while being intensely overwhelming in every aspect physical. Chiaki’s heart bounced in her chest to her throat. 

His head lulls to the side.

 "Thats my name..” The young pro speaks softly, Dabi noticed the apprehension in her voice,"Oh are you nervous little Witch..?"  he didn't need her scurrying off or anything so he took to sauntering slowly around her, sizing her up like a hungry shark. She didn’t speak but caught his eyes through his black hair that curtained his eyes. “Just a bit but if i were any more scared i wouldn’t be here..” He looked upon her glowing green hands, it made her mildly conscious of the fact that they were shaking.

“Then my reputation precedes me even to fresh faces like you.” He says with a hoarse chuckle, he backs up with his arms spread open, she catches a glimpse of his long scarred arms, they flopped back down to his sides, She laughs gently in turn, her eyes fixed on his face, being this close she could see the gold sheen to the staples on his mouth and under his eyes. 

“If that nervous behavior is because you’re scared and having second thoughts about this.. And want to go back to playing around as a hero, i won't hesitate to fry you where you stand, but i'm hoping you're using that common sense of yours so i don't have to.” She listens intently, unwavering and dimming her hands back down, as to not allow her quirk to radiate outside the building.. Dabi’s mouth doesn’t even move beyond a normal straight line but his eyes say everything: He doesn’t see her as a stranger.. Despite this being their first time meeting amicably.

 “rest assured i won’t hurt you, from what I have seen already we need someone with a quirk like yours around, but when it comes to me bringing you back to the bar.. They won’t allow you in unless I check you for a wire, lift your arms.” He instructs and she lifts her arms just enough for him.

 His hands starting to traverse her arms and waist make her face swell with heat, a much more embarrassing position to be in… He was thorough and rough with the patdown, his face remained the same unchanging and stoic, her eyes trained on his face and the rough scars that covered the bottom portion of his face to the part directly under his tear ducts. Besides that he doesn't look bad.. The scars only add that intense look to him, the reason why people were scared of his looks. 

“I wanted to know something..” She caught his attention with a low hum, his brow raising and his lips curling upward. “What was the deal with you getting my father off of me..why didnt you attack me.” His hands finished patting down her body and he tuts her pulling the burner phone from her pocket.

 “You see.. That moment was televised and the moments leading up were not, and if they were, they didn't televise your abuse period or the reason behind it. It was pretty tragic, I heard your father's harsh words.. even more brutal pounding id say, he blocked all of your defences, your little friends didn't come for your rescue, they stood around." She stood stock still listening to him,

"Our Pro Hero lil Witch being ‘saved’ by me when i had enough of seeing someone who is more useful then her partners let on, being beaten to a pulp, and then when things seemed to be working in your favor and the fabled heroes would have gotten me, you in turn...stopped an entire highrise building from squishing me to death.” He leans forward and drops his voice an octave, dipping into a form of seductive and joking. 

“Kinda humiliating isn’t it? Being saved by a well known villain isn't really what the public wants to see.." he shrugs and steps back looks down at his palm, his long fingers moving around trying to catch her attention like he could light a flame at any moment,  with the other hand in his pocket. "I saw someone who needed help in more ways than one.” Her eyes widened as he stuffed the phone into his pocket “I saw someone who I had my eye on for a while being beaten for not doing something as useful as aiding her teammate… and for her own safety right?” He questions as he leans back against the wall adjacent to her.

 “Yeah.. that's right.. How do you know all that? I mean like, not alot of people know that about my quirk, i cant heal at a distance and provide backup unless i have backup...” He snaps his fingers and points at her. “Exactly my point. Your dear old dad didn't take his much more volatile daughter into account and only used you as a support to him, fueling his ego and making you look bad to the rest of the world.” his demeanor was so foreign to her, he spoke so eloquently and with conviction, a sadistic and perverse form of understanding that drew her in like a super magnet.

 She stood blanched, thunderstruck by how he's describing the situation to her, It's like he's in her head reading every emotion as plain on her face. “Yes. He never took me seriously… as a hero.. No one really ever did.” Dabi's eyes softened as their eyes remained locked in a stare of...mutual understanding on his part… she knew little of his past or who he was, but the weight of not being good enough or a lost cause caused his fists to clench.. he not dare ask anything personal yet.. he has a job to do and earn her trust and read her and her situation like a book. Foreshadowing the type of person she was made to be over years of unfair treatment and situations outside of their control.

 “Getting closer.. Go on, Witch.” She swallowed air and kept spilling her guts..  “I use my quirk to even help anyone or… do something for the good of others and its never highlighted in the slightest, no job well done or whatever. No sort of fanfare or recognition, i come home and.. get judged and told I'm not as good as… as him, from him.” SHe clasps her hands together and opens them up again, Dabi’s eyes watching the little light show from her fingertips and then fade away again. The more his eyes looked to her hands the more he wanted to see the beautiful little auras again, it was then Dabi realized her quirk is easy to be triggered, or atleast constantly active. “But when… i do one thing thats out of character for a… normal pro hero… all eyes are on you..and I was treated like a...pariah” 

Dabi nods his head and his smooth voice lulled her ears “Understand now? They only want you when you're useful to them, you're treated as backup, but in the right hands you could be so much more..” Her head hung low, like she just discovered it, that despite her power and the fact shes equally as dangerous maybe even more so she's treated as lesser than everyone else. 

Dabi mentally kicked himself, making such a pretty face sulk and look dour, he couldn't just stand there and allow her to beat herself up over how others treat her. Dabi took a step forward to her and found himself raising his hand to her chin and made her look right up at him, her chin betwixt the pads of his forefinger and thumb. “Come on now… don't be so down on yourself, they might see you as only an asset and a tool to use and expand upon themselves, as nothing more then a battery that never quits, but with us, you can reach a version of yourself you have never seen before.. And we can help you with that. We will make sure you surpass your expectations'' She caught herself staring. 

Eyes glazed over in tears that threatened to fall, and with a blink they were gone. “Excuse my ignorance but… you're serious like you can do that?” She asked with trepidation and abit of excitement that she had to cage off to not seem too eager. 

“It's not a promise, Nakamura. Its a fact that is going to be a reality. Now..” He turned on his heel and gave them some distance in the lobby, he was almost shrouded in darkness. “Give me a demonstration on what you can do.” He instructs. 

Chiaki blinks and becomes blanched. A demonstration. In here? She clasps her hands together and pulls them apart that green glow emanating from her hands to her elbows, pretty gold and green eyes enveloped in pure green with irises, her hands splayed out fingers slowly dancing and expanding outward, like licks of fire.

 “Brace yourself.” She curled in her fingers to drain the energy from surrounding lights and power, making the environment for everyone else but her heavy and sluggish. Dabi had a bead of sweat roll down his face and a headache grow slowly. “And just as it was pulled away I can give it back on my own terms.” She points a manicured finger at Dabi. The headache vanishes without a trace and his energy restored , almost knocking him on his ass from the dizzying feeling of having the wind knocked into you.

 The lights and the power entirely shut down for a full block and the bulbs bust outside. She holds a ball of concentrated energy in her palm and absorbs it into her skin, a content smile spreading across her delicate features and bowing forward and standing back up straight.

 “Oh yeah, they're going to thank me for insisting you be our new recruit... Warn me before you use your quirk on me again, will you?” She snorts and cocks a brow up at him. “So.. do it again later and knock you on your ass?” Chiaki giggled, Dabi quizzically tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, as if he's breaking down her words in his head, he flipped his black hair from his face as chuckles amused.

 “I knew I liked you for a reason, sarcastic little thing. ” she blushes and covers her mouth embarrassed. “I think it would be smart if we left.. I don't know if my friends are out looking for me or not..and honestly i would rather not face them head on yet.. And i don't want you to be hurt.” Chiaki looks back at him and blushes not realizing how worried she was for his safety, "What already thinking of me? Don't get so soft on me now, Nakamura.." Dabi chuckles and his hands return to his pockets and with a half turn he nods his head in the opposite direction of her, signalling her to follow him towards the exit of the building, he stops before the door. 

"Wait..you mean those UA kids..? trust me, Nakamura.. they arent your friends.. i don't need to know what you went through today after our little scene, you know as well as i that they're already plotting against you from what you did.." his words rang true along with his velveteen voice, the tall and slender Villain seemed to know more than he let on.

Chiaki became quiet and more confident with her decision. She made this choice, and she really didn't regret a damn thing. "And that very thing you have done today, Chiaki.." he slammed his hand into the wall, anchored his hand beside her head, making her damn near jump out of her skin. Lightning cracked outside illuminating the scars that adorned his features.

  The trench coat splaying open and just a bit of his shirt collar dipping down to reveal the purple scar stretches to his chest, gold tint staples fixed secure into what skin he had left to him that remained unscarred.

 Her eyes wandered from his chest back to his brilliant blue eyes. "Made me realize that you were worth contacting. Trust me, Nakamura.. we will bring out the best in you, UA would have easily tainted your view on the world and how ‘justice’ is delivered; but it seems like you know the world for what it really is." he gave her cheek a pat and a pinch, his gaze remained on her and a sickly grin twisted on his features when he notices her eyes wandering to the purple skin and his pronounced collar dipping further down his chest.. His hand engulfed her chin, capturing it and making her look him in the eyes. 

"Yknow, staring at people in the League will getcha in trouble or hurt, Not me though.. just don't get too used to it, anyone who stares  that long at me i consider mice…but honestly i don't see you scurrying off anytime soon." He backs off when she blushes brighter and gives him a shove. 

"Ah quit! Its kinda hard to not stare if you haven't noticed, Dabi." He pulled his phone out of his pocket and started texting someone facing the heavy door, when he received a reply he put it back into his pocket, and sighed opening the heavy metal door with a creak, rain poured down into the street as he spoke up so she could hear him. "its what we ugly folk are used to i'm afraid." Chiaki merely scoffs and pulls back up the hood and opened her palm flat and above his and her head together she created a translucent green umbrella like barrier protecting them from the downpour,  "Ugly is abit of a stretch, Dabi..." she mutters and follows him into the alley where the rain continued ro shower down bouncing off the barrier, a singular street lamp illuminating the barren street leaving the only city she had ever known, Dabi replayed that phrase in his head and he momentarily closed his eyes.

 Its been years since he got compliments.. it was strange but not unwelcome. "Ohhhh little mouse, your gonna get along very well with me.. stick by my side and everyone will like you… eventually.. Your about to meet one of them anyway." As he said this casually as the street became a black and purple haze, a portal opened up and swirled as a literal exit from the city.. to wherever the hell she was going next. 

Chiaki gasped and took an apprehensive step forward.

 "Scared?" Dabi asked, with a little smirk on his lips. "Just a bit…" Dabi extended his hand for her, inviting her with him "Cmon. Trust me. Trust a burnt man with nothing to lose." He chides playfully. Chiaki accepts his invitation, his hand warm and textured with the staples.. Dabis heart skipped a beat at the contact.

 Soft and small hands engulfed by his own as he guided her through the portal, stunning blue eyes never deviating from her gold and green ones.. like they were captivated by one another.. before she knew it, she was in a completely different location. She blinked and looked around, thunderstruck almost by the environment.

A bar that reeked of booze and smoke of different varieties. "Welcome home, for now." He says in a flat tone, she pulled off her hood and looked around.

 Dabi still had his back to her and looked at his palm for a moment that felt like an eternity, the ghost of her hand remaining in his own, strange emotions bubbled up from nowhere, he shoved them back down and spoke up. 

"Everyone seems to be out by now, usually the bar is never empty. The person who summoned that portal is here...Kurogiri, which means our leader Shigaraki is here. He’ll meet you at some point..when he's not on his damn video games." he nudged her shoulder with his elbow and shook his wet hair out. Turning to look down at her, "Nice place...you guys bounce from place to place often?" She asks in what felt like a shy whisper, the resounding echo from the hall made her feel like she was shouting. 

"Haven't in a while.. hoping we won't have too again. Wont say where because it doesn't matter. Anyway, wanna come up to my room? There's an old couch up there you can crash on. Unless you want my bed, heh.. Wouldn't mind you in bed with me.” He breathily chuckles and pinches her chin starting to lead the way, “Don't get any ideas! I'm just tired.. I haven't had any sleep and its like.. Almost 2:30 in the morning.” She yawned and dragged her feet behind him.

Chiaki follows him up the stairs and down the long corridor to the last door on the left, he opened it to find a bedroom with a king sized mattress pushed to the wall and the windows covered in blackout curtains, an old couch directly under it and  a flat screen across the room as well as his own computer and cans of empty energy drinks by it, as well as an ashtray that looked like it was used normally. 

“This room is mine, go ‘head.” He invites her in, noting the tired look on her face, he found it almost innocent if it weren't for the remnants of blush still ghosted on the apples of her cheeks.

Dabi had booted the door closed behind him as she kicked off her boots, he spoke up again, watching her movements, as they seemed to have gotten lazier. “Not much of an interior decorator but it works for me, sprucing the room up would be too much effort.” 

Making himself comfortable he sheds the trench coat and shuffles through a cabinet in the desk where his computer is located,”I'm getting pretty tired and by the looks of it you are too, so im afraid im gonna have to restrain you. Cmere.” He says, pulling out a pair of handcuffs that catches Chiaki’s attention, her brow instantly rising in confusion and a hint of worry. Dabis eyes flicker up to her when she whips around at the chain jingling as he approaches her, twirling the cuffs around his finger 

 “W-wait why do you need to restrain me?” She asks a little wary, “Its so you dont pull anything while I'm sleeping… can't be too careful, little mouse.” He states clasping the cuffs around her wrists in the front, they clicked almost to the point where he could get two fingers under them. Chiaki looked at him with big innocent eyes and then down to the cuffs on her wrists. “Tsk..you do this to all the new recruits or am i just that special.” He chuckles and turns his back to her. “You’re a first, to both be cuffed and able to sleep in my bed. Consider yourself ‘special’”

She looks back up to find Dabi stripping his white shirt off and tossing it to the couch, a blush forming on her face and a pang in her heart as she looks at him closely, hes much better looking up close… fit and lean, along with the added look of his scars that dressed his torso into his pants only made him 2 times more appealing and more her type. “Holy shit..” She says out loud with her jaw slacked abit. “Checking me out, little mouse? Remember what I said about staring.” He chuckled and laid back in bed exhausted, pulling the sheets up her body comfortably. “Sorry was just admiring the view, Dabi.” She teased rolling her eyes and settling into bed, Dabi’s eyes widened briefly and felt that sweet warm feeling creeping up his chest again, this time he let it simmer there.

“im going to sleep.. Too tired to think, that energy drink i had acouple hours ago finally wore off." Chiaki yawned and stretched, facing away from him to ease the situation, that situation being she wanted to face him and find comfort from him. 

A sort of comfort she longed for for years, acceptance and safety.. Funny she found safety with a villain.. With villains alike. This caused her to giggle to herself, he raises a brow and looked over to her with his arms tucked behind his head 

Instead as Dabi turned off the light and the distant thunder rolled she spoke up “Dabi..” “Hm?” She turned back over and some light from the opened part of the black out curtains illuminated her eyes, Dabi once again caught himself peering into them wistfully finding himself looking her over. 

 A genuine glow in her eye, appreciation and a connection the two have never felt before, “Thank you, for bringing me in.. you wont regret it,” She brings her bound hands up to pull the pillow further up under her head, and licked her lips, swallowing her fear and letting a wall down, even just alittle bit to him. Dabi mused and observed her closely, finally seeing the opposite end of what its like to have someone in need go to him of all people. “i haven't felt anything beyond disappointment for a long long time, so to say i feel comfortable with someone i was fighting not even a day ago says anything, i hope you understand and i'm not stepping over any boundaries.” He grinned, and responded with an amused chuckle. “Getting soft on me again, better not make that a habit with anyone else here, I just might get jealous.” Dabi grazed his finger against her cheek, she leaned against his hand and smiled angelically.

“I'm starting to like that fire in your eye. ” He ghosts his knuckles down her cheek as her eyes closed slowly, blinking exausted as the cold air kicked on from the ac unit above them, she shivered and threw all caution to the wind, Dabi stiffened as she moved closer to his end of the bed, she ducked her head abit beneath the blanket to snuggle against his warm chest, his heart hammered with nerves he still couldnt place a name too, the same hand that stroked her cheek rested on her shoulder, his thumb rubbing slow circles into the sweatshirts fabric. 

Comforting and confusing thoughts swirled through the villains mind as he soon came to realize he remained awake for all but another 20 minutes, the soft rise and fall of her chest and side indicated she had long fallen asleep in his arms. 

Dabi rested his chin against her head and attempted to find the sleep he had long since forgotten in his past life. Acceptance and comfort from someone. 

He sighed and whispered in a husky tone of voice.

“Glad we had that talk, Little Mouse…”

XXX~

Hey yall its my first MHA fic. You might see more of her and Dabi in the future cuz honestly this was fun!

[ye4gerz]

reflections; baekhyun

you knew better than to give permission to a demon.

++ genre: supernatural au! angst; smut[teasing, fingering, oral, degradation, choking and bondage.]

++ word count: 5k

++ pairs: demon!baekhyun x fem reader [mentions of jongdae & sehun.]

++ song: jekyll – exo

++ warnings: mentions of ghosts, demons, possession, ouija boards.

You were freezing. The tips of your fingers were almost numb, nearly shaking in fear. You couldn’t figure out exactly why you were scared, but you knew you were somewhere bad. It was pitch black and not a person in sight. You can hear your own breath, footsteps and gulps.

“Where am I? How did I get here?” You asked yourself, trying to look for any source of light.

Before you knew it, your body was trembling. The freezing cold was no longer and instead the burning sensation of heat became apparent. Within a second, you felt your body go into flames; only there weren’t any. Burns so bad, so hot, you couldn’t control yourself from the bloody screams exiting your mouth.

“Somebody! Please help me! Please!” You yell out for help, only to get your echo in response.

You fall to your knees, hugging your burning body. Tears streaming down your face. How did you manage to get here? Was this possibly a nightmare? Sleep paralysis? Anything but reality.

“Give me permission,” you heard a faint whisper.

It was an unfamiliar voice. A voice that left your mind in a frenzy. It was smooth, practically mesmerizing. It was angelic.

“W-What?” You thought to yourself, only screams still leaving your body, in utter agony.

“If you want it to stop, give me permission. Give me your permission. I can stop it,” the whisper spoke, but very slowly. “Would you like me to stop it? Only I can save you. I want to help you,” it continued.

“YES!” You managed to scream.

You want it to stop. You want to wake up. You want to be able to feel your body again. This couldn’t be real, it was too much of a fantasy. It was almost out of a really bad horror movie. If this was a dream, it was possibly the worst dream you have ever had.

“Your wish is my command, princess,” it speaks, much more confident than before. You can almost hear the smirk behind it.

Then you woke up.

Nearly bolting out of your bed, you rapidly bring your hands up to your face. You were alive, you were finally okay. Your chest was uncontrollably rising from the fear you just experienced.

After taking a few minutes to catch your breath, you turn your head to your clock.

“Shit, I’m late!” You hop out your bed, getting ready for work, your nightmare suddenly slipping out of your memory.

Being at work was a drag. It wasn’t the best job, but it paid the bills. An office job is what it was, a very long and boring office job. A mutual friend of yours offered you the secretary position, knowing you were in need of something.

“Wow, someone looks dead,” Jongdae hovers over your desk, handing over your daily coffee. “Couldn’t sleep?” He asked, pushing up his glasses.

“Barely. I keep having weird dreams. I think I’m stressing myself out too much,” you sigh, taking a sip of your coffee.

“No way, it’s because of your haunted apartment. Seriously it’s been four months since you’ve moved in and nothing but weird things have been happening to you,” he turns around, grabbing a nearby chair and sitting right next to you.

“Goodness Dae, when are you going to give it up with the whole ghost thing? They aren’t even real,” you roll your eyes.

“Ever since you settled in, weird stuff has been happening to you. How can you explain all of your random bruises? The headaches? The fact you’re always dizzy now. You lost all energy within the same four months,” he continues.

“I’m no doctor, but I’m sure anyone can tell you that’s called iron deficiency, my friend,” you sarcastically say. “Not to mention I’ve been working more hours and still trying to adjust from the move.”

“It’s sketchy is what it is,” he raises his brow.

“Whatever, I’m tired of this conversation. I have calls to make, so if you could excuse me before we both get in trouble, thank youuu,” you say, pushing his chair as he rolls away to the following desk.

Haunted, pft, you laugh at the mere thought. Ghosts and ghouls just aren’t a thing, pure fiction is what it was in your mind. Besides, no records show of anyone ever dying in your apartment. There’s no evidence at all.

So why has it been eating you up all day.

Lunch came around and you couldn’t help but head over to Jongdae’s cubicle. This time accompanied him was your coworker, Sehun.

“Hey guys,” you side smile, giving them a little wave.

“Hey, I was just telling Sehun about your nightmares and guess what?!” He jumps in excitement.

Rolling your eyes, you sigh, “what?”

“Ghosts,” Sehun snaps his fingers at you.

“Even he agrees!” Jongdae exclaims, relieved someone finally sees eye to eye with him.

“Okay okay, so what if it is a ghost? How the hell do I get rid of it?” You fold your arms.

The men look at each other, clueless. They probably didn’t think they would get this far in convincing you of the paranormal, but Sehun knew what to say, as so he thought.

“Talk to it, tell it to leave you alone,” he says.

“Are you crazy?! You want me to talk to a possible angry spirit and tell it to leave me alone? Yeah, no, I’m not ready to get dragged by my feet tonight,” you scoff.

He rolls his eyes, “well do you have any better ideas?”

“I’ve got one,” Jongdae chimes in. “There’s this game that people use to talk to spirits. Some type of board game, uh, ouija board, I believe. You see, you talk to the spirit and it spells out words on the board, but there’s rules to it. You need to follow by the rules accordingly or else bad things can happen, very bad things.”

“And you want me to go buy this scary board?” Raising your brows, eyeing him as if he’s the craziest man on earth.

“You can borrow mine. My cousins and I used it once as a party gag and nothing bad happened to us. It’s still in my car, I can go get it and leave it on your desk before you clock out. Like I said, if you follow the rules, you’ll be completely safe, I swear,” Your friend promises.

“You sure about this one? My idea seemed a lot less intense than that, geez,” Sehun gives a concerned look at Jongdae.

“Well, what else do you wanna do? We aren’t professionals at this,” Jongdae sighs, helpless.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” you say.

Their heads turn at you, gawking at your answer. You? Of all people? They couldn’t believe you were completely giving into their ideas, especially Jongdae.

Jongdae has been your best friend since your freshman year in college. You guys knew everything about each other and have irreplaceable memories. He knew your weaknesses, what made you tick and your turn offs. It’s a given, you’re a stubborn person. He always knew you as one. Never in his life would he expect you to agree to something so fast.

“You said as long as I follow the instructions I’ll be safe, correct? Unlike you fools, I follow by the book. If nothing happens then I was right and there’s no such thing as ghosts,” you comply.

“And if we’re right? If you do talk to this ghost?” Sehun twists the cap of his pen out of nervousness, leaning against your friends cubicle.

“Then I’ll kindly ask it to leave and let you guys know you were right. Fair enough?” Without letting them continue a word, you nod and turn your back, ready to walk away.

“Remember to have it by my desk before we leave,” is the last thing you say to them before you exit the floor.

Night comes and you’re all alone. You had finally left work and as promised, it was there. You were having second thoughts, as you looked up more about the board. Jongdae said it was harmless if you were responsible yet your research says else wise. It’s bad enough the car ride back home was eerie. It was hard trying to get rid of the knot in your stomach while the board sat right next to you, mocking you.

You’re desperate. You had enough of these occurrences. You had enough of the screams, the fear… the torture. Although you didn’t want to admit it, deep down you wanted to hear the voice you once heard.

It was so intoxicating, all day you tried your best to remember it. Playing it’s words over and over again in your head. You were certainly drawn to it and itched a thought about his intentions. Surely with a voice as sweet as his you would be safe, right?

“Just one night with him,” you told yourself.

One night to figure out what was going on in this apartment. One night to meet him, talk to him. What were these feelings? Your sudden need to be near him? You missed him more than ever. It’s as if he left a curse on you. If he had marked his spot on you.

Your fear grew into excitement, realizing it was just after midnight. You got comfortable in your place, setting up the candles and board in your room. You begged with each second that he would appear tonight. You want to see him. You want to touch him and confirm if he’s real.

The closer it gets to three am, the more you ache for him. Tingles on the tips of your fingers, they remind you of the burning sensation, only pleasurable.

When you were finally ready, you settle down the planchette, picking up the instructions.

RULE ONE: Do Not Play Alone.

Well great, here you are already breaking the first rule.

RULE TWO: Do Not Play During Devils Hour (Three AM).

Check. It was only a few minutes after midnight.

RULE THREE: Do Not Take Your Hands Off The Planchette Without Saying Goodbye First.

RULE FOUR: Be respectful

After going through more rules, you were a bit annoyed over how much time it took. You knew there were a few rules, but not this many. You predicted most of them, but the warning left you uneasy.

WARNING: Do NOT Accept A Demons Invitation. This Can Easily Cause A Possession. Demons Will Try To Convince You To Give Up Your Soul. If Met With A Demon, End The Game Immediately And Call Your Local Church.

Your throat suddenly went dry. Demonic possessions? That’s a thing?! You presumed those were only in the movies and books. The knot in your stomach makes a reappearance, causing your mind to fog up.

You don’t have a demon in your apartment. It’s just a silly ghost who’s trapped and somehow attached to you. It’s a friendly spirit who’s still mourning over their death. You kept telling yourself these things until the knot subsided. You knew you needed to get this over and done with.

Taking a deep breath you put your fingers on the planchette. You eyed the board closely, making sure nothing could interfere in the way.

“I invite the spirit who haunts me to communicate,” you start speaking out loud.

“You’ve been haunting me for quite some time now. I welcome you to come talk to me, are you here right now?” You ask, a shaky breath escaping your lips.

Everything was silent. Nothing was moving. No one was in sight.

Being frustrated you cleared your throat and asked again, “I said, are you here with me? Are you listening?”

Before a blink of an eye your fingers move the planchette to yes.

You couldn’t believe your eyes. Could it have been nerves? There must be a scientific explanation to this. Your body must be nervous. You’re only trying to feed yourself the answers you want.

Moving your hands back to the center of the board, you clear your throat. “Thank you for responding to me. I’m sure you know my name by now, could you spell out your name for me?” you ask.

It took a while but a few seconds later your hands were moving up to ‘yes’. This time the movements were slower, it was losing energy. It came back down to the middle and started slowly but surely spelling out its name.

You read along with it, “B-A-E-K…”

“Baek..?” you whisper to yourself.

“H-Y-U-N,” it spells.

“Baekhyun. Your name is Baekhyun? That’s a nice name for a spirit,” you anxiously chuckle, trying your best not to upset the paranormal force in your home.

“Why are you haunting me, Baekhyun? Did I upset you when I moved in?” You question.

This time it moves to no. You raise a brow in confusion but it continues to spell out a word. A word you were not expecting.

Lonely.

“You’re a lonely ghost? Oh, so my company brings you comfort,” you nod along to yourself, trying to make of the current situation.

“You see, Baekhyun, I don’t know if it’s because you’re sad or perhaps upset, but you’ve been causing me these nightmares. I’ve woken up with bruises and have seen visions so graphic, were these all you?” you bravely ask.

This time you didn’t get an answer. You waited a while and even asked again, but nothing. You decide to skip the question and continue with a different one.

“Baekhyun, how old are you?” you managed to choke out in fear.

As said in the rules, never ask a spirit for its age. It was another rule you decided to break. You wanted to break the tension and had forgotten what was forbidden versus what wasn’t.

You hoped for anything, a young man, even an old man. Anything but zero, for zero indicates a demon.

RULE SEVEN: Do Not Ask For The Spirits Age. If Said Spirit Gives You Information Of Their Age, Beware. If A Spirit Says They Are Zero Years Old, End The Game Immediately. Demons Are Unborn Creatures, Never Made With A Human Body, Therefore They Are Zero.

Frustrated you repeat yourself, “I’ll ask again, how old are you, Baekhyun?”

Suddenly your planchette landed where you prayed it wouldn’t.

Zero.

You gasped, accidentally pushing away the board and everything along with it.

“No! No!” You gather everything, frantically placing the planchette back on the board.

Tears were trickling down your face as you repeated and screamed, “Goodbye! Goodbye! Thank you and goodb–”

All your candles go out. Yelling in fear you make your way to your lamp, being able to give you the light you need.

You closed the portal, why is this happening?

“I said goodbye!” you yell, looking around, making sure you were safe.

“I thought you missed me?” The voice announces, finally making itself present again.

“I’m here to protect you. If you let me, I can guard you,” it says.

“Someone.. Please help me…” You weep.

The lightbulb in your room bursts, the darkness clouding your vision. You felt like you were in your nightmare all over again and you couldn’t take it.

“Just say the word and I’ll be there to protect you. Give me access, princess.”

“YES! YES! YES!” You screamed, hands covering your ears and your eyes shut tight from anything that could possibly be around you.

Within less than a second, your light goes back on. It flickers as if it never popped. Your home is silent, and the candles seem to be lit again, as if nothing ever happened.

You step back from the board, not wanting to touch it. You continued backwards, as far as you can, until you bumped into something– someone.

Turning around, you face a man who had suddenly appeared. You wanted to scream, you really did. You wanted to cry for help and run out your apartment without a doubt. However, looking at this man, embracing all his beauties, made you want to stay.

He was tall and slightly built. His hair was white and his skin was pale. His eyes were a warm shade of brown and his lips were plumped and pink. His cheeks were slightly flushed and he was dressed in a white button up, tucked into some black pants. His dress shoes completed the look, giving him an extra bit of height.

He was perfect.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long…” The man who belongs to the beautiful face, speaks. “For years I have guarded over you. For years I’ve watched you grow and become stronger. Your soul, it’s so pure, so beautiful. It’s all I’ve ever wanted,” his plushed lips pout.

“W-What are you? What do you want?” you ask under your breath, not even sure if he could hear you.

“I’m your angel. You’ve been hurt by a demon, haven’t you, beautiful? I’m Baekhyun, a guardian angel,” he smiles at you, his eyes sparkling.

Confused, you shake your head, “No, you told me you were a demon.”

“They’re trying to confuse you. Demons are known to lie as much as they can to try to take a humans soul. They knew I was looking after you and tried to use my name to manipulate you. It’s okay now, they shouldn’t be back anytime soon, I’ve got you,” he reassures.

He was charming yet sort of nerdy, innocent almost. He made you feel safe. You can't bring yourself to fully trust him though, but you knew you were falling for his mask.

“Why should I trust you? How do I know you aren’t lying to me?” You question the man in front of you.

“If an angel lies, they turn to dust. It is taught in heaven, if an angel goes against their word of god, they perish,” he licks his lips, bringing himself closer to you.

His mouth was slowly approaching your ear, You could feel his breath tickling your neck sending goosebumps all over your body. He was daringly close to you.

“And I’m still here, baby. Waiting for you… Wanting you…” he whispers, leaving you slightly gasping.

“Why me?” you mumble.

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted. Watching you for so long, I fell in love with you. You’re everything I’ve ever needed…” his mouth got closer and slowly aimed for your neck.

Softly, he kissed your neck. Placing sweet little kisses on all your weak spots. Something in you didn��t want to move. Something in you liked it, you wanted more.

His tongue lapped over your sensitive spot, a soft moan escaping your mouth.

“You sound so beautiful. I can’t believe you can finally see me. I just want to make you feel good,” he removes his lips from your neck and looks into your eyes.

His eyes twinkle. They’re soft and warm. The most calming shade of brown. He looks at you with passion, care and love.

“May I? May I have the honors and make you feel good tonight?” He asks, this time almost anxiously.

It could’ve been his eyes, it could’ve been his beauty, it could’ve been his pure talent at kissing, but you without a doubt caved in and agreed.

“Yes, please,” you beg.

He smiles, holding you closer to him. Your chests were pressed up against each other as he leaned down slowly, his lips meeting with yours.

You froze, still adjusting to the situation. Your tension starting to fade as his hands roamed your body. Your lips were moving perfectly together. His lips were soft and he tasted sweet like candy. His tongue slightly pokes at yours, wanting for more. You were stubborn, as always, but eventually gave in and gave him access.

He was such a great kisser.

He knew what he was doing and the effect it had on you. He continued until he needed more, bringing his knee in between your legs, earning a moan from you. The friction felt so euphoric.

Here you are, in the middle of your room, about to have sex with an angel. It was impossible to process, especially with how well he was making you feel. A wet patch forming at the center of your underwear.

“Baekhyun…” you moan, wishing for more.

“Is this what you want? You want me, don’t you?” He snickers.

“Y-Yes,” You lean your head back as he starts marking your neck again.

“Say it,” he demands.

It was quiet. Too shy and too occupied in the pleasure, you completely tune him out.

He moves his knee away, leaving you begging.

“I want you to say it,” he repeats.

“I want you, Baekhyun. Please, I want you to fuck me. I want you right now,” you plea.

His fingers trailing up against your thighs, teasing slowly. His slender fingers nearly poking the center of your pajama shorts.

“Where do you want me, baby? Be more detailed for me, will you love?” He focuses his eyes on yours, enjoying the view of you completely helpless.

“Baekhyun… Please.. I need you, I need you inside me now or else I’ll go crazy. Can you please just–” he interrupts you.

He makes out with you again, this time rough. He picks you up and throws you on the bed. He unbuttons his top, chuckling to himself. He had you right where he wanted you.

You were in the middle of taking off your shirt when he completely undressed his top half. Your eyes ate up every single detail of him. His body was beautiful, not a mark in sight. He was toned, strong and perfect. He really is a gift from god, practically a sculpture.

“Like what you see, huh?” He smirks, helping undress the rest of you.

“You’re perfect,” you say, staring at him in awe.

“You’re even more perfect,” he responds, leaving kisses from your legs, working his way up in between your thighs.

“So fucking good,” he mumbles, his breath hitting against your weak spot, sending chills down your spine.

He felt your legs press against his head, you were needy for more. You wanted him more than anything else. For so long you felt you were missing something in your life. You questioned for so long why these things were happening, but now grateful for your savior. Whenever you needed him, he was there. Now this was his turn to erase all those scars from your memories. He wanted to heal you and appreciate your body.

When his tongue lightly licked your wetness you couldn’t help but hiss. Your hands tangled in his perfect silky hair as a reflex.

His tongue continues, this time adding pressure to your sensitive bud. He made sure to keep his eyes on you while his tongue fucked you, he never wanted to forget the look on your face as he ate you out. He was aware of his power, and he tried his best to keep his eyes pure.

“Baekhyun!” You screamed, grinding yourself against his mouth.

His lips were completely soaked of your essence and it turned you on even more. His tongue was entering your body in ways no other person has done. It definitely couldn’t compare, especially once he brought his two slender fingers back up, pushing them inside you, as his mouth was still at it.

Your other hand was clawing at the bedsheets. His movements were faster, harder. He groaned against you, needing you more than anything else. He can tell you were close from how messy your panting was getting, jumbling up all your words.

“So needy for me, you love having my fingers inside you, fucking you, huh baby?” He edges you almost in full bliss.

“Fuck yes, you feel so good, Baek,” You scream, almost reaching your high, until he completely stopped.

You look up at him; you were a mess. Your eyes gaze with confusion and want. His smirk never leaves, only his hands traveling down to his pants and removing the rest of his clothes.

“You want me? Well you’re gonna get me,” Baekhyun grabs his hardened length, entering you without a warning.

You arch your back in response, curses escaping under your breath. He laughed while he watched you struggle to adjust to his size, it turned him on even more. His pace was slow, allowing you to get used to the friction.

“You’re so tight me for me baby, just how I like them,” He grunts, picking up speed as he fucks you deep into your bed.

You were too focused on the pleasure to even choke out a response. He was hitting all your sensitive spots and areas you haven’t explored yet. For a moment his hands stopped holding you down, quickly reaching over for his tossed shirt, and tying up your hands to your headboard.

“Is this okay?” He asks.

“Fucking amazing,” you grind against his dick, receiving a moan out of him.

You were restricted, wanting to touch him and feel every part of him. Not wanting to admit it, the new position felt amazing. It made you crave him more, wanting him to meet your highs together. Your hips snapped up and moved along with his thrusts.

“You’re all mine, I’m gonna use you so well,” he says, hands reaching to your neck, choking you at a reasonable point. It wasn’t too hard nor too soft, still managing to breathe, but boy, did it feel good.

Unable to speak, whines left your parted lips as you were near reaching your limit. He knew you were close as he felt you tightening up against his dick, causing him to almost reach his high as well.

“I know you want to cum,” Baekhyun pants, grinning while his length continues to pound in you. “Do it, cum all over my dick, baby. Show me how good I fuck a weak little human like you,” he grits through his teeth.

With those words and a couple of more thrusts, he leaves you in a state of euphoria. You chant his name as loud as possible, the heels of your feet digging deep into his lower back, bringing him closer inside of you. Struggling with your hands tied up, your back arches one last time and he uses this opportunity to reach his release, spewing his remains inside of you.

“Fuck!” He curses under his breath, positive his hold on your waist will leave bruises later.

The two of you lay there, catching your breath and enjoying each other's embrace. He remains inside of your wetness, trying to keep his mess deep in you.

Reaching up to meet eye to eye, he smiles, “you’re wonderful.”

A sincere smile appears on your exhausted face, “you made me feel wonderful.”

An innocent giggle left his mouth, “is it okay if we stay like this for the night? I promise to clean you up and attend to your wrists in this morning. I just really like being this close to you, I’ve never been this close to a human before.”

Your eyes widen in shock; was this the first time he had done this? Clearly he would’ve disappeared if he was lying. Would he get in trouble in heaven? Would you get in trouble? Is this considered a threat to the demons now that Baekhyun is with you?

“Will everything be okay though? Won’t you get in trouble for this?” You ask.

He shakes his head, “even if it means having to spend the rest of my being in hell, I’ll do anything to be one with you.”

A sadden smile comes across your face. Who knew a lonely game with an ouija board would end up in angel sex? You certainly weren’t ever a believer, but this changed so much for you. This was the feeling you’ve been yearning for.

Suddenly you let out a yawn, and your eyes become heavy. You could barely keep your eyes open, closing them slightly and humming and when you felt Baekhyun kissing your cheek. His mouth near your ears once again, he chuckles, only this time it wasn’t innocently.

“Rest your eyes, you’ve had a very long day,” his chuckles turn into evil laughs; “you honestly should’ve known better than to give yourself to a lying no good demon like me, princess.”

Everything started to hit you. The smirks, chuckles and pet names. It was all a lie. It was him. It was the same creature who’s been taunting you, making your life a living hell. The same creature who scared you, leaving you marked up on multiple occasions. The same creature who got his way into your mind and controlled everything.

Your body went into complete shock, trying with all your might to open your eyes, but they’re practically glued shut. Your arms were still restricted and no matter how much you moved, they wouldn’t let go. You tried kicking the demonic creature hovering over you, only to realize he was no longer there. He was gone.

Where the hell could he have possibly went?

“HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!” You cry out, hoping someone would hear and come to your rescue.

“It’s too late,” he whispers, “you’re all mine.”

With that, your body came to a full stop. You were one hundred percent frozen. Your entire body started growing in pain. Your mind was going frantic. You tried to scream some more, but was unable to.

He was taking over your body as his own.

The burning sensation became present, tears sliding down your cheek, still unable to move any part of you. It was pitch black once again and you were utterly hopeless. You managed to let this happen, you fell for his tricks. You fell for him, so you gave up and let him.

The pain all came to a stop, your mind entirely blank. You can talk again, you can finally pull yourself out of your restraint. A smirk grows on your face, however you don’t want to smirk. You have no control over your expressions. You wanna scream, frown, jump up and get some help.

You sit up straight, all knowledge of your identity completely vanished. You are no longer apparent as your new soul sits up and opens its new black eyes.

Baekhyun’s new eyes.

[authorgirl0131]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Seven Realms Series - Cinda Williams Chima Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Han Alister/Raisa ana'Marianna Characters: Han Alister, Raisa ana'Marianna Additional Tags: Touch-Starved, Touching, But not in a sexual way - Freeform Summary:

Ever since Mari and his mam died, Han has had this ache in his chest that bursts into flames whenever he was touched.

@i-love-all-books

-

The burning started a month after Mari and his mam was killed.

At first, the burn was just a dull ache in his chest, barely there and not, in Han’s opinion, worthy of note. It didn’t hurt that much and was very easily shoved to the back of his mind, and he kind of just assumed it was part of grief and the fact that he’s gotten his family killed. Most of the time, he just ignored it.

Until Bayar’s murder attempt.

After his near-lethal fall down the stairs, one of the higher students had practically dragged him to the infirmary to make sure he hadn’t broken anything important. The nurse had checked his wrists, his ribs, his skull, her bare hands prodding his skin-

The dull ache in his chest turned into fire that burned so agonizingly that he had almost shouted.

The fire took a while, nearly two hours, to finally dull back down to an ache, and once he wasn’t immobilized by the agony he’d instantly gone into the amulet to ask Alger what the heck was going on. Alger hadn’t known, he’d never heard anything like it, but he swore up and down that Han hadn’t been cursed. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, but he would have known if Han had been cursed.

Meaning that, whatever this was, Han would just have to deal with it until he found out what was wrong.

The next month was spent actively avoiding touch, which wound up being pretty hard once the other students began to like having him around. He dodged what touch he could and, when someone did touch him, he retreated to his room as soon as possible and spent the next few hours curled up on his bed, his pillow held against his chest in an iron grip. The other students gathered that he didn’t like touch fairly quickly, thank Hanalea, and that made it easier. He avoided touch like the plague, and the ache in his chest stayed just that- an ache.

Then Rebecca came along.

He realized, a bit too late, that their lessons in all things court would soon mean dancing lessons, and he tried everything he could to stall it, but it couldn’t be avoided forever. Not wanting to reveal whatever was wrong with him, Han reluctantly agreed to her dance lessons. He grabbed her hand (the fire lit,) wrapped an arm around her slim waist (it seared.) Her hand went to his shoulder and she moved close, not so close that their bodies were flush, but close enough for her to occasionally brush against his burning chest.

He’d thrown himself back, moving away from her so quickly that he tripped over the table and hit the ground hard. She’d rushed over, hand reached out to help him up, and he’d cringed away.

Her mouth had dropped open. He was pretty sure she had gotten the wrong idea, but she didn’t try to touch him again.

Their dance lessons were different, her telling him what to do, him trying it (without a partner,) and her correcting what he did wrong, all while she never touched him. He was glad she was being so considerate, but the memory of her touch lingered, coming after him in the late hours of the evening, lighting him on fire and keeping him from sleeping.

Hanalea, he wanted to dance with her again. 

-

Months passed, a lot happened. Rebecca had revealed herself to be Raisa ana’Marianna, the princess. She was crowned, Fellsmarch was very nearly invaded, Han became High Wizard…

They began courting.

While he was happy, so incredibly happy, his problem came back. Unlike before, he couldn’t find a way to avoid touching her. He was her lover, they were supposed to hold hands and hug and kiss and all of that fun stuff, and he wanted to do that… But the one time she hugged him, the fire had become so bad that he’d nearly thrown himself across the room. She hadn’t said anything, but he could see her confusion. Worse, he could see just a bit of hurt.

He’d wanted to tell her, but what would he say? That he was cursed? That he was sick? He couldn’t explain what was going on when he didn’t even know! Han didn’t like not knowing.

Then, two weeks after the hug incident, he’d finally gotten an answer.

In a fit of desperation over not even being able to hold the hand of the woman he loved, he’d gone to the royal doctor. He’d explained everything. And she’d given him a diagnosis.

Touch starvation.

Somehow, hearing those two words made him feel even worse. He knew about starving for food, for water, for adventure and the like. But who had ever heard of being starved for touch? Hanalea’s bloody bones, that sounded pathetic.

According to the doctor, the only way to treat touch starvation was to get what you were starving for- touch (yeah, that was pretty obvious.) But if he were to do that, it would hurt. Only for a little bit, if the doctor was telling the truth, but still. 

At the risk of sounding pathetic, he was really bloody tired of pain.

Still, the problem would only get worse as time went on and, try as he might, he couldn’t avoid touching Raisa forever. So, after a few days of agonizing over his decision and changing his mind nearly twenty times, he forced himself to tell Raisa everything.

-

“Rai?” He took a deep breath, and then another, and sat on her bed. She glanced over from her desk. “Can I talk to you?”

If only his old gang could see him now. The infamous Cuffs Allister, silver-tongued sweet-talker, reduced to fidgeting and staring at the carpet. 

“Of course.” She walked over and sat next to him. Her hands twitched as if she wanted to take his, but she seemed to think better of it.

So he reached out and took them.

Her eyebrows raised and her eyes- her beautiful, beautiful eyes- widened. The fire exploded in his chest, burning so badly he clenched his teeth. “Han? What’s wrong?”

“I’mtouchstarved!” He blurted, trying to force it out before he could change his mind again. He expected a lot of things- for her to laugh, for her to judge him, for her to roll her eyes-

The one thing he didn’t expect was the relived smile that broke out across her face and her whisper of “Thank the gods.”

For once, Han Allister was completely thrown through a loop.

“Huh? He asked intelligently, eyebrows shooting up.

“I was afraid it was something bad.” She squeezed his hands tightly. “I thought that someone had hurt you.”

Oh… When he thought about it, it was pretty obvious she had come to that conclusion. If she had known he was touch-starved, he was pretty sure that she, Hanalea bless her, would instantly try to confront the problem. In a way, he was kind of glad she’d come to the wrong conclusion. It had given him the time he’d needed to accept that he’s had this problem. “I… I want it to get better, but I don’t know how.”

Yeah, that wasn’t entirely true, but he wasn’t sure how to ask for what he wanted- what he needed. Thankfully, she seemed to understand.

“We’ll start small if you want,” she said, squeezing his hands again.

“No… I… Can you…” Words, for once in his life, were failing him. He just couldn’t make himself ask for what he desperately needed.

Like always, Raisa understood. “Do you want me to hug you?”

“... Yes please.”

She let go of his hands and, moving slowly, wrapped her surprisingly strong arms around him. His body moved forward against his will, pressing against her as much as it could, and she responded by hugging him tighter.

To his surprise, the fire… well, it didn’t exactly disappear, but it dulled.

Hanalea, this felt incredible.

“Would you like to stay with me tonight?” She asked, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades.

He wasn’t sure he could make himself leave if he tried. “Gods, yes.”