#irs bland i finally found the word

[starzgaze]

LOOK ITS ITS NOT BAD??? BUT ITS NOT... GOOD EITHER??? IT LOOKS okay one thing he looks like his dad which is cute but everything else makes me feel so... eugh as much I'd love to be his hypeman but wtf is this

[campbluelake]

lost, found, and lost again || abbie || reaction

[♫♫♫]

As always, she can’t bring herself to turn around and watch the crime happen. This time, though, she doesn’t really need visuals to tell her what’s happening every step of the way, though. There’s dialogue this time around, and every moment of it is heart-wrenching in the way that Kyousuke promises Eri that he’ll take care of things to the final words Max says to Kyousuke before he finally dies. This is being considered a homicide, but is it a crime? No one went out of their way that night to commit a crime, no one intended to do something like this when the night was still young.

And yet, here they were, standing in the amphitheater, being told that this was all Kyousuke’s fault. He stabbed Max, yeah. He was the last one to injure an already-dying man. He struck the killing blow. It was his fault that Max was dead.

But it wasn’t his fault that Max was dying.

Some part of Abigail that she isn’t able to tamper down despises Eri. Despite the fact that she knows Kyousuke wouldn’t want for her to feel any ire towards the other woman, to recognize he chose to do what he did out of love for the other, she’s unable to keep a seed of resentment from blooming in her gut. 

This was her fault. And Abbie, even if she won’t voice it, hopes that someone does. She hopes that someone looks Eri in the eyes and tells her she’s done this.

Survivor’s guilt is a choking thing, something that settles on your shoulders and never stops whispering to you reminders that you’re alive while the unspecified “they” aren’t. Maybe no one needs to tell Eri this at all. Maybe, like Abigail, she’ll look in the mirror every single day for the rest of her empty life and remember that she’s alone because she couldn’t do anything but watch as the person she loves more than anything else on this planet dies.

She blinks slowly and looks away from where her gaze had, at some point, fallen on the other. Now, her eyes turn to Kyousuke--the man sentenced to death and who will soon be dragged to the fire and devoured. There’s no point anymore in asking “why” when it’s been made so obvious. Why? Because he loves Eri. Because he would do whatever it took to protect her.

“...Do you hate me?”

Abbie asks this without any sort of intonation in her voice. It’s bland, lacking the strength to coat it in anything but emptiness. This is a coat, a comfort, she has not worn since July 4th, fifteen years ago. Before she learned to bury it all in syrup and sweetness, it was stale, stagnant water--left in the bottle for so long that it became acrid. She feels that nothingness, and she hugs her stomach, hoping to quench the pains of the growling hunger for companionship. If she squeezes tightly enough, perhaps they’ll stop aching before they start.

“You lie to me, say you’re a bad person, and then, you go and kill someone for a reason I can understand, so I can’t even be mad at you for it. Not really. You say you’re selfish and then go and do something selfless like this. You say it’s ‘cuz of the people you’ve met here that you’re becoming the good person we all see in front of us; are we why you did this? If we’d left you alone, would you have fought harder for your own life?

It’s our faults, then, isn’t it?”

Perhaps without plans of visiting temples during New Years and planting gardens, Kyousuke would have hidden his own involvement more. Perhaps without baking lessons and a night spent drinking Zimas at the first birthday party she’d attended in fifteen years, Kyousuke could have looked them all in the eyes and lied. Perhaps without strongly-regretted movie nights and jokes about getting lost in the mirror maze, they could have been confounded by the actor in front of them.

Perhaps without “big sis Bee”, Kyousuke would be breathing tomorrow.

“...ehe…”

She reaches up underneath her glasses and wipes her eyes, but it doesn’t do anything. She’s well into the point of feeling where “everything” is more like “nothing”, and the tears fall effortlessly and without any shaking of her body, no sucking of breath into her lungs. Instead, a small puff escapes with a hint of laughter.

“Y’know, when you become an orphan, you kinda think you’re done losing your family, y’know? I guess I’m the first person to lose her family twice.”

Her smile is more like a shattered looking glass held together by sap, the tacky, sticky substance muddling the shine of the surface until only a blurred outline is comprehensible.

“I love you. I love you lots.”

A sharp stutter in her breath, and the smile gains a manic desperation.

“Please don’t go.”

Like her family before, though, there is no choice. Fire, as always, burns indiscriminately.

[curiosityunsated]

In Pursuit of the Scholarly

Triggers: Racism against elves. If there’s anything else you feel should be mentioned, please let me know. No violence included.

Not beta read, cross posted on AO3. Also, I have no idea of the Sindarin here is accurate- I used a translator I found on Google. Don’t @ me.

——

Prince Kíli, second in line for the throne of Erebor, was incandescently angry.

The Council sat and watched, though most did not really listen, as the Prince railed at them and yelled counter arguments and indignity. Most of the council, save for a very select few outside of the presence of the royal family, were not swayed by the show of temper. Some, in fact, looked rather smug (though those were typically not well liked in the Lonely Mountain).

The King, the King’s Consort, the Princess Royal, Prince Fíli, and Her Ladyship Tauriel sat in tense silence as their kinsman slowly ran out of steam. Tirade ended, he stared at the Council and waited.

Kern, who had held his seat on the Council even prior to the Desolation, was barely able to swallow his smirk before he responded.

“Be that as it may, Your Highness, Khuzdul is our sacred language, and it must be... protected. It is... understandable,” it looked as though the word hurt to say, “that you would wish to share it with your wife. But I’m afraid that we cannot agree with your insistence to allow Princess Thiliriel to take Khuzdul lessons.”

The young father bristled, and for a brief moment the Council braced for another round of ire. But it wasn’t the Prince Kíli who spoke, but Prince Fíli.

“Surely you see how difficult it would be to keep Thiliriel from learning Khuzdul completely, my Lords, as she lives in a Dwarven city. Some would say restricting her education in this way was born of ill will directed at the race of her forebears.” He pointed out, politely. Kern’s eyes narrowed.

“We can’t control the opinions of the uninformed, your highness,” he allowed, “and it is understood that there has been, and will be, some unfortunate transference. But perhaps this may be managed if the Royal Family would consider limiting their use of Khuzdul while in the company of the young Princess?” His polite tone matched Fíli’s syllable for syllable.

The Royal Family, save Lady Tauriel, stiffened as one. Prince Fíli’s eyes glinted at the response.

“We are approaching the Noonday bell. Perhaps this is a matter best settled another time.” Balin tried to intervene, and another dwarf would have accepted it for the diffusion that it was. The majority of the Council was prepared to do so, had Kern not spoken.

“I believe we’ve made our decision clear, Lord Balin, but thank you for the reminder. A pleasant day, my Lords.”

And an infuriated Prince Kíli was storming out of the chamber after Kern’s final words, gently tugging Lady Tauriel with him, even before the King had officially ended the meeting.

——

It started with Prince Fíli. This, perhaps, should not have surprised the Council as it had.

The Prince had been spotted, overheard really, in a training ring with the young Princess. That itself wasn’t unusual; the heir had made it routine to ‘train’ with his niece a few times a week, and nearly all the dwarrow who frequented the upper training halls had seen the two playing rambunctiously under guise of hand to hand combat. If this time usually came just before the Princess’ bedtime, well, no one could say Prince Fíli wasn’t efficient.

As far as the Council could gather, the incident happened just before the Royals had left for the evening. The Prince had been crouched on the ground, beckoning the little one forward and playfully taunting her. She had responded in kind, rushing at her uncle and jumping at him with a battle cry that, according to multiple reports, was very cute. He had taken her momentum and propelled himself backwards, landing flat on his back. And then, he had exclaimed:

“Cin got nin! Im’m dad!”

Apparently no one had clearly heard what the little one had said, but the Prince had smiled and kissed her forehead, replying:

“Cin did eithel, lend emel.”

Of course the Prince knew multiple dialects of elvish- the entire royal family did- but only so that they could interact with Elvish representatives without fear of coercion! It was unheard of for it to be spoken so- so- familiarly within an everyday setting! Especially in a Dwarven stronghold such as Erebor! Even Lady Tauriel chose to speak mostly Westron in the presence of the mountain’s public eye. It had left the Council feeling slightly wrong-footed, but perhaps it had been a one-time occurrence. A bit of practice, perhaps, so the Prince wouldn’t get rusty.

It was not a one-time occurrence. Only days later, King Consort Baggins was overheard in the library casually reading aloud to Princess Thiliriel in Sindarin... though the book itself was Westron! The Head Librarian hadn’t even asked him to lower his voice- though as the Head Librarian was the young Ori, son of Lori, that wasn’t surprising in the least. The former Company of Thorin Oakenshield was very close, even now.

Lord Ori had even pointed out a few words and asked for the translation in his own book, an act which garnered stares of its own.

The next day, Prince Kíli and Lady Tauriel gathered stares of their own as they strolled through the market, Princess Thiliriel between them, speaking exclusively in Sindarin! In the middle of the Marketplace! At one point, one scout reported, the Prince had swung his daughter around in his arms, exclaiming something in the lyrical language he hadn’t understood. It must have been humorous, though, because both Mother and Daughter had burst into giggles.

But the final straw, really, had happened in the Council’s very chambers during a meeting. Princess Dís, during a moment between agenda topics, had turned to her brother and quite clearly addressed him in Sindarin. And the King, with no hesitation, replied in Sindarin.

The entire room went silent, and many stared. Only Prince Fíli and Lord Balin continued perusing the paperwork for the next order of business as though nothing was amiss.

“Is everything alright, My Lords?” The King asked dryly, noticing the attention.

“It is just... well, you see...” Lord Tírn stumbled as the King turned his attention to him, and Kern interrupted.

“It isn’t like you to speak Elvish when there aren’t any Elves around, Your Majesty.” He interjected, and Thorin raised an eyebrow coldly.

“And you would know me well enough to make such an observation?” The Council watched as Kern blanched and then flushed.

“We’ve been hearing quite a lot of Elvish around the Mountain these days, Your Majesty.” He didn’t answer The King’s pointed question.

“Sindarin, Lord Kern. Not ‘Elvish’. There are multiple dialects. And since my granddaughter has been forbidden from learning her Father’s sacred tongue, we have decided to use her Mother’s instead.” Princess Dís replied, and if Thorin was cold then his sister’s tone was frozen solid. The Council felt a rush of fear run down their spines.

“Yes. In fact, I’ve been considering asking Prince Legolas to visit soon- Lady Tauriel is both a working ‘dam and a mother, and I don’t want to take more of her time but there are a few grammar questions I have that Lord Bilbo can’t seem to explain.” The Prince’s tone could be described as bland, even self-musing, but the flash of steel in his eye as he glanced at Kern.

“I- I suppose it would be good for our relations with Mirkwood for the Prince to visit-“ the Councillor tried, and was interrupted.

“Perhaps we should revisit the idea of an Elvish Ambassadorship, as a permanent position in the Court.” The King stated, and Kern turned an ugly puce color.

“Elves living in Erebor!?” He erupted, evidently at the end of his rope.

“My Brother’s Wife is an Elf. I would be very careful how you finish that thought, Lord Kern.” Prince Fíli said lowly, and unsheathed a knife to spin, point down, on the table with pointed intent.

“My granddaughter is part Elf. I will not hear any protest about her kin coming to stay, Councillor. Especially if you hope to keep your seat.” Princess Dís did not need to produce a weapon to aid her threat.

“I meant no disrespect, your Highnesses. I humbly apologize.”

“It seems to me, Lord Kern,” the King began, “that you have invited disrespect with your words and your conduct. Barring my grand niece from learning her Maker’s tongue- don’t look at me like that, I know who’s voice persuaded the rest of Council against it- and now making remarks of such disgust against the lineage of an heir of the line of Durin?” King Thorin trailed off, hard stare never wavering.

Kern, who had already been thrown off kilter by the Royal Family’s seemingly overnight adoption of Sindarin, floundered under such a direct accusal.

“I- Your Majesty, never-“

“In fact,” the King continued, and the Council watched the two with bated breath, “I have been in talks with some of our oldest, most practiced curates and they all agree. The right to learn Khuzdul is a matter of religion, not of politics.”

Kern turned that fetching shade of puce again.

“So while it remains a matter of courtesy for Prince Kíli and Lady Tauriel to inform the assembled Council of their plans for Princess Thiliriel’s education, they are in no way obliged to do more than consider the Council’s opinions on this particular aspect.” The King finished, and it was Princess Dís’ turn to smirk as she, and the rest of the Council, watched the pompous windbag known as Kern to puff up, process, deflate, and stiffly nod.

“Thank you, your Majesty, for reminding the Council of the boundaries of our reach. I am... sure this will not be forgotten.” The words came as easily as blood from a rock, and Kern ground his teeth as though trying to break ore from stone as he spoke.

“Oh, and Lord Kern?” King Thorin said, already looking at the papers for the next topic, and not sparing a glance for the Council.

“Yes, your Majesty?”

“I’d like for you to tell his Highness and Lady Tauriel the good news. Directly after the Council Meeting concludes. We wouldn’t want to delay the Princess’ education any longer.”

Fíli’s smile could only be described as wolfishly sharp, and he clearly inherited it from his mother.

——

Elvish translations:

Cin got nin! Im’m dad! : you got me! I’m down!

Cin did eithel, lend emel. : You did well, sweet heart.

[cavehags]

i realize this will probably bring up old drama so you might not want to answer it. but do you ever regret, however on purpose or on accident, bringing all that unnecesary hate towards Katara? i'm really sad and dissapointed tbh. i'm a woman of color and katara was so important to me growing up. my favorite animated woman ever. and then this resurgence comes and theres so, so much unnecesary hatred for her and everyone ignoring everything that makes her a good character.

(2/3) 2- and you know, i expected this from the male side of the fandom. they were misogynistic to her and the others even back then so i would expect it to be even worse with how internet culture is more mysogistic now that ever. and i wasnt wrong. male atla fans had some truly horrible takes and views that just came across as racism and misogyny. but, i expected these circles to be better. to be a safe space for us woc who love this character. but i found the same weird hatred for her.

(3/3) 3-i just, i cant believe i feel less welcome now that i did even back then. and back then i didnt even paricipate really. but at least i could enjoy fandom content without stumbling into misogyny and racism every other post. also sorry for sending this to your personal blog b i just wanted to let you know you controbuted to that too even if it wasnt your intention. at least you realized that and arent contributing to it anymore right? cause honestly the hate has only gotten worse not less.

hey anon. thanks for asking this question, because i hadn’t addressed this topic previously and this gave me an opportunity to do so. 

no, i don’t regret publicly interpreting a character whom i love through a nuanced and human lens. and i don’t regret combating the one-dimensional interpretation of this character, which posits that she’s merely an vaguely defined object of attraction for some boy or another, and a singularly gentle, mature, maternal figure whose sole purpose in life is to nurture others. those interpretations suck. they rob her of the humanity and complexity that make her character unique and they stem from misogynistic tropes that reduce women to the services they can provide to men. the thing in the world that matters most to me is fighting misogyny, and this trend to diminish a proud and powerful and angry teenage girl by exaggerating only her most socially acceptable traits is misogyny. 

unlike you, i did not grow up watching avatar: the last airbender. the shows i watched growing up did not have a lot of girls who felt real to me. the girls i saw on tv growing up were simple. they were the main characters’ crushes. they were simple, desirable, usually sweet and loving, and not much else. if they had a flaw, it was that they were, at best, “awkward.” whatever that means. or if they were the protagonists, which was rare, they were nice enough and tried to do the right thing, but they never had strong feelings like resentment and anger. they weren’t allowed to be unfeminine which meant they weren’t allowed to be bitter, angry or in any way flawed. they didn’t look like the version of girlhood i knew to be true for me personally, which included a lot of anger and frustration and powerlessness. 

that crappy representation left me with internalized misogyny that chased me for longer than i’d like to admit. i did not learn to think of girls as humans who could be as interesting and flawed and messy as the boys were. i did not value myself as a girl, and later a woman, because i thought the best thing a girl could be was... bland. boring. pretty, but empty. passionless.

it would have meant the world to me to see a character like katara. 

because katara is angry. she has every right to be: she’s had so much stolen from her, including her mother, her people, and her childhood. katara has a short fuse. she yells. she snaps. she fucks up. sometimes she makes mean jokes! i never saw a single one of those dreamily perfect cartoon love interests make mean jokes when i was a kid. she is extremely idealistic--it’s her defining character trait--but we see the bad side of that as well as the good. we see that her need to help others  leads her to act rashly, to get herself into danger, to put others in danger too. 

and she has her very own arc. it’s not about her love for another person, either (what a snooze of a storyline); it’s about growing up and learning to break down some of that stubborn black-and-white thinking that we all indulge in as children. it’s a true coming-of-age arc and it belongs to a fourteen-year-old girl. 

when i, to use a phrase i find crass, “entered the fandom,” i quickly realized that other fans’ perceptions of katara did not line up with the things i valued most about her. other fans seemed to valorize her most socially acceptable feminine qualities: her generosity, her kindness, her dedication to helping others. and of course i love those parts of her--i love everything about her--but what is really remarkable about avatar: the last airbender is that katara’s many important virtues are also counterbalanced by equally significant flaws. a good character has flaws. katara is a good character, and a deviation from the characters who made up my formative media landscape, because she has flaws. her temper, her idealism, her stubbornness--these are flaws. flaws make her seem real and human and challenge the mainstream sentiment that girls are not real or human.

it simply did not occur to me that celebrating these aspects of katara that make her a realistic and well-written teenage girl would spark ire from other adult fans. it absolutely did not occur to me that i would then be blamed for somehow causing misogynistic interpretations of this character, particularly given that misogynistic interpretations of this character are the very thing i sought to correct when i began to blog about this television show.

i’m told there are “fans” on instagram and tiktok who think katara is whiny, annoying, and overly preoccupied with her trauma. i do not use instagram or tiktok, so i wouldn’t know, but i’ll take your word for it. respectfully, however, they didn’t get that from me. misogynistic takes on katara have existed since before i came along. i have never, ever called katara whiny. and seeing as i have been treating my own PTSD in therapy for nine years, you can safely conclude that i don’t think anyone, katara included, is overly preoccupied with their trauma. that’s not a thing. do i think she’s annoying? of course not! as a character, she’s a delight. does she sometimes find real joy in aggravating her brother and her friends? yes, because she’s 14. i, an adult, am not annoyed by her. sokka and toph often are, because that is katara’s goal and katara always succeeds in her goals. she’s not “annoying.” 

if there are “fans” who are indeed following lesbians4sokka and somehow misreading every single post and interpreting them to mean that we hate katara and they should too, i don’t really know what you want me to do about that. l4s has over ten thousand followers and we have already posted so many essays disavowing katara hate. our feminist and antiracist objectives in running the blog are literally pinned with the headline “please read.”

furthermore, you cannot reasonably expect my co-blogger and me to control the way our words will be received. we should not have to, and are not going to, add a disclaimer to every post saying that when we critique or make jokes about a teenage girl we are doing so through a feminist lens. our url is lesbians4sokka, and we are clearly women. if that alone doesn’t make it obvious, then refer back to that pinned post. 

it is indescribably frustrating, and really goddamn depressing as well, that people are so comfortable with the misogynistic binary of Perfect Good Women and Flawed Wicked Bitches that they perceive any discussion of a woman’s flaws to be necessarily relegating her to the latter camp. if that is how you (a generic you) perceive women, then i’m sorry, but you’ve internalized sexism that i cannot cure you of. and it’s unjust to expect my friend and me to write for the lowest common denominator of readers who have not yet had their own feminist awakenings. we do not write picture books for babies. we write for ourselves, and with the expectation that our readers can think critically. reading media through a feminist lens is my primary interest; i have no intention of excising that angle from my writing.

as i go through my life, i am going to embrace the flaws of girls and women because not enough people do. as long as the dominant narratives surrounding women are “good and perfect” and “unlovable wh*re,” you’ll find me highlighting flawed, realistic, righteously angry women in the margins. and for what it’s worth, it’s not just katara. i champion depictions of angry girls in all sorts of media. that’s sort of my whole thing. my favorite movies are part of the angry girl cinematic universe: thoroughbreds, jennifer’s body, hard candy, jojo rabbit, et cetera. on tv, in addition to katara, you’ll find me celebrating tuca and bertie, poppy from mythic quest, tulip and lake from infinity train, korra, and more. i adore all these women and see myself in them. i hope you find this suitably persuasive to establish that i have sufficient Feminist Cred, according to your standards, to observe and write about these very flawed and human fictional women. 

what i’m saying is this: i decline to take responsibility for the misogynistic discourse orbiting a children’s cartoon. as someone who writes about that series from a perspective that seeks to add humanity and nuance to the reductive, one-dimensional, overwhelmingly sexist writing that already exists, i am pretty taken aback that i am the one being blamed for the very problem i sought to address. except not that taken aback because i am a woman online, haha! and this is always how it goes for us. 

finally, i think it sucks that you’ve chosen to blame me for a problem that begins and ends with the patriarchy. i can’t control the way this response will be perceived, just like how i can’t control the way anything will be perceived because i am just one human woman, but i do hope you choose to be reflective, and consider why you’ve chosen this avenue to assign blame. 

[lorelylantana]

Unconventional Observation Chapter 2; Gamble

Chapter Rating: M Overall Rating: E

First-Next

The first step of any reputable scientific inquiry was to establish a control group. This proved a tad difficult, as there was only one Link. But such a small setback didn’t deter Zelda for long, as she resolved to begin with recording the everyday behaviors of her knight. After all, you can’t identify deviations without first knowing the standard.

It was largely uneventful, in all honesty. Her knight’s trademark stoicism meant that any visual mannerisms were hard to come by, harder still to record with the consistency required for scientific revelation. The flip side of this bland undertaking was its simplicity. His countenance was so stable, so predictable, that she didn’t need nearly as much time putting it to paper as she anticipated.That wasn’t to say there weren’t roadblocks. One such aggravation came from the realization that Link reacted to her differently. Granted, this should be obvious, as she was his charge. What she didn’t expect was a discrepancy in how he reacted to her gaze.

Zelda had spent a lot more time staring at her knight than she had in the past, and he had noticed. He couldn’t meet her stare all the time, having to focus on their surroundings as her guard. Yet there was an undeniable tension in him, he stood straighter, and she noticed a light pink on the tips of his ears. 

Zelda had a list of potential causes, though, narrowing them down should be simple enough. The first possibility was the obvious. Zelda thought that this was how he reacted to being looked at in general. It made sense, if his lack of spoken word was an indication of bashfulness. This conclusion was shattered with the discovery that he endured the brazen stares of smitten maids giggling as they passed with barely a blink. She knew they weren’t unnoticed, as the giggles started after he made eye contact with them, which sent her back to the drawing board.

Her second guess was Link’s reaction being a byproduct of her rank. He may be the Hero of Hyrule, but Zelda was still his princess, and he was still a soldier. Even the freshest recruit knew any special attention from a superior while on duty was negative. Certain instincts were tough to crack, even after his ascension to Champion.

 In the end, all she needed was a week to get feel confident that she could effectively identify any differences he might exhibit during trials, where she knew her questions would be answered.

Then it was time for a gamble. Confident in her baseline recordings, Zelda set out to craft her experiment. Detestable as he was, he was still a person, and experimenting on him without his knowledge or consent was unethical. Thus, she approached him on a trek to the Dueling Peaks. Her studies suggested that his favorite meal was a prime meat and rice bowl, so she had some packed for their journey. 

“I have a proposition, sir knight,” she said as they made camp. He didn’t answer, only stared. She felt a thrill flick at the bottom of her stomach at the look in his eye. A gambler’s high, perhaps. He gave no reply save for the tilt of his head, which she took as a sign to continue.

“I would like to ask for your assistance in a new line of scientific study,” she began, voice quivering slightly. He raised a brow but said nothing, so she continued,  “I’m sure you know of my father’s insistence that my research is fruitless, however I firmly believe that my current subject of study could add to my efforts to gain Hylia’s power. If I can map out how energy flows through the body the knowledge might help me find the sealing power,” she said

“It’s not a waste of time,” he insisted, quietly but with conviction. It took only those few words to fill Zelda with optimism.

“You’ll help me then?”

He nodded. She clapped her hands in triumph. 

“Excellent! Let’s get started right away,” she said, reaching for her notes and a measuring tape, “I have some experiments in mind, but for now I’d like to get some baseline measurements down so any changes will be apparent immediately.”

Link nodded, though he didn’t say anything, Zelda felt her cheeks flush a bit. She was no stranger to her knight’s gaze, but this interaction was foriegn to her. Unlike the obligated glance he threw her way as her guard, now Link was engaging in conversation. Undoubtedly one sided, but existent nonetheless. She continued, blush burning even brighter at her next request, “In order to have a comprehensive foundation to build off of, I’ll have to take a close examination of your physique, and how it reacts to certain stimuli.” 

Link tilted his head again, only instead of a silent question, Zelda swore she saw a smirk grow on his face. Zelda needed a breath before she continued, the fluttering in her stomach knocking her off her stroke.

“Before we begin, I would like to remind you that you may bow out at any time without fear of repercussions,” she said, “I wouldn’t want my knight to break.”

Now that was most certainly a smirk. He looked her in the eye again, a rarity quickly becoming common, challenge burning in his eye.

Well, Zelda was never one to back down, and certainly not from the likes of him.

He sat on the desk in her study a few days later, pliant beneath her gaze. She’d emptied one of the tables to use as a makeshift examination table and dragged it out so he could sit on it without hitting his head. He’d shed his tunic and she’d locked the door, having no desire to explain this to any passing maid.

She put a hand on Link’s chest, gently pushing him down until he lay still beneath her on the wood. Zelda sucked in a breath, drunk on the quiet power of his compliance. She ran her hands over his stomach, blushing when the muscles clenched under her fingertips. She felt her face heat, but then her eyes flicked to his face. His jaw was set, and he stared at the ceiling.

She withdrew her hand, cursing herself for already making him uncomfortable.

“Sir knight,” she said, he looked at her, “I meant what I said, you can leave if you’re uncomfortable.”

“That’s not-” his voice broke, unprepared to be used so forcefully after his time he spent silent. He paused, trying to word his thoughts. Zelda waited, half in shock to have heard his voice at all. He took a breath, “I don’t get touched very often. When I do, it’s because I broke something, and fixing it’s going to hurt.”

Zelda felt sick. She’d imagined time and time again what his first words to her might be, if they ever happened. She’d imagined his patience snapping, his ire finally been let loose as he spewed a toxic deluge of hate and contempt.

Somehow, this was worse. It shattered her because it was the antithesis of the concept of him Zelda had crafted. She had wasted so much time focusing on how high his pedestal was. She spared no thought to how much it hurt him when he fell down.

She brought out a set of paints and a thin brush and brought it over to him. He’d stated his intent to stay, and she didn’t want to betray his vulnerability by shying away now. She ran the brush along his bicep. To her relief, although one that was painful, he didn’t flinch.

“How does that feel?”

He nodded, “Fine.”

“Okay.” Zelda dipped her brush into the jar of paint. “I found this recipe in the library. Apparently it’s supposed to augment your combative capabilities.” She rattled off the ingredients, anxious now that the man in front of her was made of flesh and bone instead of myth and steel. 

She dipped the brush into her jar, tapping it out before dragging the brush down his arm. She had a chart of standard Hylian muscleclature that she used as a reference, tracing each major muscle with her paint. It started off strangely tranquil, as she worked, Zelda noticed him relax. His breathing slowed, and another glance at his face revealed him dozing off. Zelda’s heart fluttered, an unfamiliar, affectionate warmth growing in her stomach. 

Things changed when Zelda finished with his arms and shoulders and moved to his chest.  When she drew the brush under his collarbone and down towards his sternum he jumped. She looked at him, worried that he was uncomfortable, but his eyes were still closed and she continued. She began to circle each of his abs individually, going lower and lower.

Then she noticed that the bulge in his pants had shifted. Not that she’d spent much time looking. Link must have realized why she stopped, because he really did tense up, his abdomen crunching as he sat up.

“I’ll- uh- go down and do some drills,” he said, swinging down to stand on the floor. “I’ll let you know if the paint does anything.”

And then he was gone, leaving the door open behind him and Zelda standing flustered and confused.

[kelyon]

Golden Rings 8: A Mayor

The Storybrooke Sequel to Golden Cuffs

Rumple has a chat with Regina

Read on AO3

After that disaster of a meal, the walk to City Hall gave Rumpelstiltskin time to cool his head. It was one thing to lose control in front of Mrs. Gold, the poor woman would just blame herself for any change in his behavior. But now he was strolling into enemy territory. Going eye-to-eye with the Evil Queen. He knew better than to blink. 

In the old world, there was no question that he was more powerful than Regina. She had learned her magic from him. Even then, the girl had a long list of grievances against a world that had, admittedly, treated her poorly. Rumpelstiltskin had trained her in the ways of dark magic, and that gave her the means to forge her anger into a weapon. Over the years, the queen had refined her rage, hammering her many resentments again and again until her pain was a folded blade, sharp enough to cut the world asunder.   

The most important lesson the Dark One had ever taught his protégé was that true power was the ability to cause pain. If hurting people didn’t make her happy, clearly the solution was to hurt more people. As Regina’s abilities had grown, so did her list of enemies and potential victims. Her wrath had expanded from targeting one little girl, to a small rebellion, to the whole realm.

Storybrooke was Regina’s ultimate victory, even over him. It was not enough for her to simply end the lives of her enemies. She had to torture those who had wronged her, prolong their suffering. For twenty-eight years, she had trapped them all in a world without time. A world where every day seemed exactly the same as the day before--except, somehow, worse. 

She had separated all of them from the people they had loved. She had forced them all to be the worst versions of themselves. She had destroyed their happiness in the hope that she would finally have some for herself.

Had it worked? 

Rumpelstiltskin had reached Main Street, the unofficial border between the old part of  town and the new. Regina lived in New Town, along with the rest of the Storybrooke elite. The castles of this world were made of drywall and stucco, and Mayor Mills lived in the grandest of them all. Did that satisfy her? Was it enough for her to be richer and more powerful than anyone else in town? Did she still feel like a Queen?

City Hall was in New Town as well, only a few blocks away from 108 Mifflin Street. That wasn’t the official residence for every mayor, but it was convenient that the only person who ever ran for the office lived within walking distance. 

Main Street was deserted at this late hour. Even Granny’s had only a few stragglers inside, lonely people lingering over cups of coffee before heading back to empty houses. The loudest noise on the street was the opening of the door from the offices of Dr. Archibald Hopper.

A little boy ran out onto the sidewalk, jabbering excitedly to a blonde young woman.

“I’m telling you, the first step is to figure out who people are. Once we know, then we can help them remember on their own. Then they can find their happy endings!”

“Okay, kid. Sure. We’re gonna suss out people’s secret identities from fairytale land. How?”     

“Don’t worry. It’s all in the book!”

The animated conspirators walked off. Neither one noticed the figure limping in the shadows behind them.

Well, Rumpelstiltskin thought. That was interesting. 

Gold recognized the boy as Henry Mills. Ten years ago--though to a cursed mind it couldn’t possibly have been ten years, my how time flies--Regina Mills had come to Gold and asked him to arrange for an adoption. She had demanded a newborn with no family, preferably from far away. She had wanted a closed adoption, with a birth mother who would never interfere with the life she had planned for the baby. 

It had been a tall order, but Gold had contacted a juvenile detention facility in Phoenix, Arizona. By some happy chance, one of their charges--herself an orphan who had spent her life in the foster care system and inevitably fell to a life of petty theft--had found herself pregnant. Gold had never gotten the name of Henry’s birth mother, but Rumpelstiltskin knew it well.

Emma Swan.

So that was why the Savior had come to town. 

And, apparently, the boy Henry had some idea of the true nature of the people around him. Was it because of this book he had mentioned? Or was reality obvious to anyone who  wasn’t blinded by the curse? Either way, the boy was trying to get Emma to help him make people remember who they were.

How very interesting.

The rest of the walk was easy. Rumpelstiltskin walked with a light step to City Hall. The lights were on in the Mayor’s office, but there was some activity in the garden around the back.

Rumpelstiltskin found the Queen on her knees, picking apples up off the ground. The sedate little garden had become a place of horticultural carnage. An entire branch of Regina’s prized apple tree was on the ground, with a fresh wound on the trunk. The grass was littered with sawdust and leaves and fallen fruit.

“What a mess.” Rumpelstiltskin announced his presence, walking into the enclosed space.  

Regina finished what she was doing before she stood up. “Not for long.”

There was a smile on her face, and a sharp gleam in her eyes. Rumpelstiltskin could read his pupil like a book. Despite the chaos around her, she was celebrating a victory. So far, she was happy. How fragile was that mood?

“This will all be cleaned up in the morning,” Regina said. “And the menace responsible is probably halfway back to Boston by now.”

“You don’t mean Emma Swan, do you?” Rumpelstiltskin circled the tree as he spoke. “I just saw her walking down the main street with your boy. Two of them looked thick as thieves.”

It was always a pleasure to see Regina’s smile vanish, and her satisfaction sour into spite. But now there was an extra thrill in watching her ire. She hadn’t changed at all. Twenty-eight years of getting everything she wanted, and Regina was just as insecure and petty as she had ever been.

Marvelous.  

“I told that woman to get out of my town.”

“Apparently, she didn’t follow your orders.” Reaching up into the tree, Rumpelstiltskin grabbed a low-hanging fruit and twisted the stem until it broke off in his hand. “That makes her rather a special person around here, don’t you think?”   

Regina ground her back teeth, an ugly habit she’d had for years. “I spent all day trying to get rid of her.”

“And you didn’t come to me?” Rumpelstiltskin tossed the apple in the air and caught it in one hand. A whole day? No wonder the Queen was frustrated! Normally her will was worked much more quickly than that. Of course, she normally had help. “I thought you knew where to go when you needed something done.” 

She turned her back on him to examine her tree. “I don’t make deals with you anymore.”

“And what a shame that is for us both,” Rumpelstiltskin lied. “After all, we have such a grand history of working together for our mutual benefit.”

“Your ‘benefits’ aren’t always what they seem, Mr. Gold.” Regina smirked, like she was pointing out some undiscovered fact. “Even when you got Henry for me, now I find out that there’s this woman.”

He held the apple in the palm of his hand. “Children are known to have mothers--”

“I’m his mother!” She cut him off sharply, and he knew that look. If this was a world with magic, the Evil Queen would be throwing fireballs right now. Her anger was always so close to the surface. She had never learned how to hold back, how to sneak and plot and keep your enemies close. 

“Be that as it may.” He kept his voice friendly, the same tone Gold would use. “Next time you need something, I hope you’ll remember to call on me.”

She smirked again, that regal expression of amusement and disdain. It was one of her better masks. “Nice to see you so accommodating, Mr. Gold. I’m glad that woman hasn’t ruined everything in Storybrooke.”

He shook his head, all businesslike courtesy. “No matter what strangers may do, everyone needs a friend in low places.”

“And you are certainly the lowest,” Regina chuckled. The smallest show of deference was enough to restore her good humor. The slightest reminder of the power she thought she had. “By the way, how is Mrs. Gold?”

“Quite well, thanks for asking.” He looked her in the eye and lied to her face. His masks were better than hers and always would be. “She’s a little, ah, tied up, at the moment. But I’ll give her your regards once she’s free.”

“Please do. I always like seeing the two of you around town.”

Rumpelstiltskin polished the apple on the sleeve of his suit jacket. This type was called a Red Delicious, though Mayor Mills would tell people it was a Honeycrisp. She could tell people anything and they wouldn’t question her. 

He began to saunter out of the garden. He had seen everything he needed to see.

 “I wouldn’t worry about Emma Swan.” He left Regina with a reassurance that would only remind her of her real problem. “How could she possibly be a threat to you?”

He didn’t let Regina respond. He had asked her a question that would haunt her waking hours. Whatever happiness she had accumulated with her curse had popped like a balloon the moment the Savior had entered Storybrooke. 

All he had to do was watch the show. 

On his way out of the garden, he took one bite out of the apple. Red through it was, the fruit was far from delicious. It was bland and bitter, just like her. Rumpelstiltskin tossed the apple over his shoulder and left the Queen to the destruction that had once been her sanctuary. 

****

Heading back to the house, Rumpelstiltskin’s mind went to another dark sorceress: Maleficent, the self-styled Mistress of All Evil. She had certainly been the mistress of Regina. Once Regina’s husband was dead and Snow White had fled for her life, Regina had taken Maleficent as her lover publicly. No one in the kingdom had dared speak a word against it. For a time, the two of them were inseparable, their mutual adoration a force that would move mountains. And they liked nothing more than to exercise their power on anyone who was weaker than they were.

They had done it to Belle. Rumpelstiltskin’s heart burned at the memory. Long before he married her, he had let them take her. When Belle had trusted him completely, he had been too much of a coward to defend her. Because he couldn’t have let the queens of darkness know that he had feelings for the pretty girl whose body he had bought and paid for. He couldn’t have exerted any force to protect her from them. He couldn’t have even said that she belonged to him and he didn’t want to share. That would have been a sign of weakness, tantamount to admitting that he loved her.

And he couldn’t have allowed them to know the truth. His reputation, his pride, could not endure it. At the time, he couldn’t even admit it to himself. 

Belle had come back to him naked and bleeding, with a testimony of the worst kinds of torture. Every wound on her body screamed out his guilt. Every word of what she told him as an indictment of his failure. For weeks after she had suffered nightmares and attacks of fear--things he only learned about later, because he hadn’t wanted to hear it, and Belle hadn’t wanted to tell him. The selfless girl had stifled her own trauma for the sake of his ego.

On Rumpelstiltskin’s mountain of regrets, refusing to protect Belle from Regina and Maleficent was a towering peak. 

Of course, Belle wasn’t the only one. Reports and rumors kept circulating about that kingdom, of the horrors inflicted on anyone who stood up to the Queen, or got in her way or even attracted her attention. Fair maidens with dark hair began to stay out in the sunshine to tan their skin and lighten their tresses. They wanted to bear no resemblance to the truest target of Regina’s rage, the girl who always evaded her grasp.

Eventually it had become too much, even for Maleficent. She had left, returning to her own castle. When Rumpelstiltskin had paid a visit to her, the witch had seemed more disappointed than heartbroken.

“It just got boring, Rumple. The same things to the same people, over and over! And Regina was never satisfied, not with me or anyone else. Evil is evil, but a person’s got to feel appreciated for the work she puts in!”

Maleficent would have taken Regina back, he knew. If there was even the slightest hint that things could change, that Regina was capable of growing up. Maleficent would have offered Regina a twisted version of happiness, if only Regina had really wanted to take it. 

Sometimes, late at night while Belle was sleeping safely beside him, Rumpelstiltskin liked to imagine the reconciliation between the two queens. It was an inevitable moment. One way or another, destiny would bring them back together, at least one more time.

Regina would come to Maleficent. Perhaps she would say she was sorry, that she wanted a new start. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to say anything. Maleficent’s eyes would glow with her green fire. And her smile would be of genuine joy. She would lower her defenses and welcome her lover with open arms.

Welcome Regina into her heart.

That image had comforted him through many nights when his mind was tormented by how the queens had tortured Belle. They would pay for all they had done to her. Even now, the thought filled him with vengeful contentment.

****

When he got back to the pink house in Old Town, Rumpelstiltskin found the place dark and quiet. The lights in the entryway were shut off, the candles in the dining room extinguished. The cold, fluorescent light in the kitchen was the only illumination on the first floor.

Plates and cookware were stacked on the counter by the sink. They were rinsed off, but not scrubbed. Gold didn’t trust his wife to wash his precious antiques. 

“Right,” Rumpelstiltskin said. 

In preparation to wash the dishes, he took off his suit coat and draped it over a kitchen chair. Then he removed the cuff links at his wrists and carefully folded up his sleeves. There were black rubber gloves inside the cupboard door underneath the sink. A green canvas apron hung from a hook by the stove. Gold was very fond of protection, of layers and separation. At last, there was something about him that Rumpelstiltskin could understand.

He took off Gold’s moonstone ring and put it in his trouser pockets with the cuff links. Now the only thing on his hands was his wedding ring, the golden band that had once been a shackle around Belle’s wrist.

Before he put on the rubber gloves, Rumpelstiltskin brought his knuckles up to his lips and kissed his ring. He had never removed it in the old world. It was as much a part of him as his own hand. He wouldn’t take it off here, either. The ring was proof that he was Belle’s husband. 

Belle’s husband, and Bae’s father. That was enough. When the world was right, that would be all he would need to be. 

Once the dishes were cleaned, dried, and put away, Rumpelstiltskin gathered his things and went upstairs. Mrs. Gold had said something about taking a bath. She was surely done by now. If he was lucky, she would already be asleep and he wouldn’t have to talk to her again.

It was the end of Rumpelstiltskin’s first full day in Storybrooke. He was already tired, already heartsick, already waiting for the Savior to do her job and free them all.     

The red lamp was burning in the parlor of the bedroom suite, just as it had been the night before. Mrs. Gold had turned it on to welcome her husband. The bedroom was dark, save for a beam of light that shone from the half-open bathroom door.

“Is that you, Mr. Gold?” Belle’s voice came from the bathroom, as well as the faint sound of sloshing water. The whole bedroom smelled like some kind of artificial perfume--the expensive bath oils that Mrs. Gold liked to buy.

“Do a lot of visitors come into this bedroom?” Rumpelstiltskin stayed on the other side of the door and began to undress. 

Mrs. Gold chuckled, the way Belle did when she was relaxed and comfortable. “I never know when you might send someone over to surprise me.”

He winced at that, at the casual way she suggested the possibility. Gold had never allowed another man or woman to touch his wife, but it always seemed to be on the horizon. That was the next barrier to cross, the next thrill for Gold to seek. He had prepared Mrs. Gold to expect it. At any moment, he might invite some stranger into their home--into their bed, into her body--and her task would be to be a welcoming hostess. 

Regina had made it that way. Everything about this marriage was her design, a reflection of what she had seen of him and Belle. It was possible that the torment was supposed to come from how much Gold and his wife both wanted to sleep with more people, but couldn’t find anyone in Storybrooke willing to indulge them.

“I’m almost done shaving,” Mrs. Gold called from the bathroom. “Then I think I could use some lotion. It’s getting colder now. I gotta keep soft and moisturized.”

She was inviting him to rub her down, to put his hands all over her silky skin and cover her body with a slick, sweet-smelling substance. They had done this so many times, in this world as well as the old one. He had made her soft and smooth and warm. He had found her wet and willing and open. His wife wanted him. She was offering herself to him. She loved him and he loved her and joining their bodies together was the most natural thing in any world…

“Fuck,” Rumpelstiltskin whispered as he pulled his pajama pants up over his hardening cock. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then, more loudly, he said to Mrs. Gold, “Actually, I think I’m going to go to sleep. You take as much time as you need.”

For a moment, the silence from the other room threatened to swallow the whole of reality. 

“Oh,” she said at last. “O-okay, Mr. Gold. What--whatever you say.”

It hurt to hear the disappointment in her voice. But this was what he had to do. He couldn’t indulge in Mrs. Gold’s appetites--or his own. She wasn’t Belle. Doing anything more than sleeping next to her would be an unconscionable violation of Belle’s trust. 

And besides, that woman had no say over what she thought she wanted. Between the cursed personality Regina had devised and the cruel training Gold had inflicted, nothing inside of Mrs. Gold was real. She wasn’t a person, any more than Gold had been.

Rumpelstiltskin sighed, and got into bed. Maybe he could fall asleep before Mrs. Gold joined him. Or he could feign slumber until she went away to do something else. Would tomorrow be another day like this? And the day after that? Was he going to have to make excuses to this woman until the curse was broken? Coward that he was, he would run and hide from someone who thought she loved him.

He was still awake when Mrs. Gold came out of the bathroom. To her credit, she didn’t try to attract his attention. He had told her that nothing would happen tonight and she respected his decision--far more than Gold had ever respected any of hers. But she still strode across the bedroom to get to the armoire in the parlor. Gold had never made room in his closet for her clothes. 

The light from the bathroom illuminated her body. Her hair was wrapped up in the microfiber towel she had bought specifically for that purpose. Aside from that, she was completely naked. 

He should have looked away. He should have turned his face to the wall and closed his eyes until she put on a nightgown. But he hadn’t seen Belle in twenty-eight years. His wife, his beauty, his light in the darkness.

For a moment, he filled his eyes with her. Hiding in the darkness, he didn’t conceal his interest. He saw it all. Belle’s neck, her shoulders, her slim arms and round breasts. She was so pale and smooth, a statue carved from alabaster. The gentle slope of her belly and the soft curves of her waist and hips. Her long, lovely legs. And between her legs…

Rumpelstiltskin blinked. 

Bile rose in his throat.  

He clenched his jaw, and rolled over in bed. He couldn’t look at her for another second. 

Between her legs, Mrs. Gold was bare and hairless. Like a child. Gone were the wiry curls that used to hide Belle’s treasures. He used to enjoy running his fingers through them, to tease his wife before he began to play with her properly.

It was a style in this world, for a woman to shave or wax her pubic hair. Men thought any hair on a woman’s body was unfeminine or even unhygienic. Apparently Gold was one of those fools. 

But even worse for Rumpelstiltskin was the memory of when Belle came back from her time with the queens. She had been bare then as well. It had taken weeks for her hair to grow back. She said that Maleficent and Regina had shaved her with broken glass. That they had pulled out any stubble by the roots.

Belle had not described the pain, but he could imagine it.

He didn’t know if Mrs. Gold had put on a nightgown before she got into bed. She didn’t touch him or try to speak to him. She probably thought he was angry with her. And while Rumpelstiltskin did seethe with fury, Mrs. Gold had very little to do with it.

Regina. The name pounded through his mind, until the very instant he succumbed to sleep. Regina will pay for all of this. 

****

He is in a cell, in the deepest dungeons of Snow White’s castle. The cell is enchanted, so his magic is useless. It is a dripping cave, carved from solid rock. There are no other prisoners nearby. The guards are stationed at the other end of a long corridor. The only time he ever sees a living soul is when people come to him for help.

He is exactly where he wants to be. 

“I tried your curse,” the Evil Queen rants from the other side of the pointed bars. “It didn’t work!”

“Considering we’re all still here, I should think that’s rather obvious, dearie!”

The Queen snarls at him. Her dark jewels glint in the torchlight. “You know why it didn’t work.”

“Well, I can make an educated guess...”

“Then tell me!”

Leaning back against the rough stone wall, he chuckles at the Queen’s demands. 

“There’s a price to that, dearie.”

She sneers. “Name it.”

“When--” He stops. He makes a show of changing the word. “If you can cast this curse, you will be creating a whole new world. Everything will be as you want it to be, Your Majesty.”

“I know that!” she snaps. “That’s the whole point! This world is stacked against me. This curse is the only chance I have to get my revenge!”

“Yes.” He grins at the Queen, and runs his tongue over his teeth. “You will control everything. All of our fates will be in your regal hands.”

“So what do you want?”

“Oh nothing much,” he waves his hand. “Only what I already have.”

“It’s a world without magic.”

“But not a world without power, yes? Not a world without wealth, or a world without comfort? Not a world without any pleasures at all?”

“Tell me what you want, imp.”

“It truly is a simple request,” he lies. “What is mine, stays mine. Everything I had before I came to this…” He gestures to indicate his captivity. “So the power, the wealth--”

“The woman?” The Queen smirks. “Is that what this is? You want to make sure you keep your little plaything!” Now she laughs. “Are you sure you still want her? She is a little worse for wear.”

“You made sure of that, Your Majesty.” His voice is low, but she doesn’t hear the threat.

“I could make you a lothario instead. Give you a new girl every night? That would be a punishment for quite a lot of people.” 

He moves so fast she cannot see him until he climbs the bars and grabs her by the throat, pulling her toward him. He growls at the Queen. He almost roars: “I. Want. My. Wife!”

The Queen jerks from his clutches, stumbles backwards to get away from him. Quickly, she allows haughtiness to mask her fear. 

“Fine,” she says stiffly. “She will be your wife in the new world, though that will not save you from the curse. Neither of you will remember a second of this place.”

“That’s not as cruel a fate as you might think, dearie.”

“Nevertheless.” She acts like that’s the end of an argument she has won. “Now: how do I cast this curse?”

“You need a heart, dearie.”

“Yes, I know that!” she snaps. “The heart of the thing you love most. I killed my own father and it didn’t work!”

“Poor Prince Henry.” He shakes his head. “He died as he lived: being betrayed by women who never loved him enough.”

“I did love him!” The Queen seems on the verge of tears. “Daddy was the only person who stood by me through everything!”

“Oh!” He widens his eyes and purses his lip in a mockery of her sorrow. “While it is true that the love between father and child can destroy worlds, that doesn’t seem to be enough. The curse doesn’t demand the thing you love much. You must give up the thing you love most.”

“Snow White killed the only other thing I ever loved.”

“Oh, then you’re in trouble, aren’t you, dearie?”  He giggles. “You don’t understand what you’re trying to do!”

“I’m trying to get revenge!”

“You’re trying to make yourself happy!” He grabs the bars of his cage. “You said it yourself, there’s nothing for you in this world. You think you have no choice but to destroy everything here and start over. Do that, and you’ll lose things, dearie. What you love most is just the first step.”

“But I have nothing to love!”

“And nothing loves you? No one loves you, Your Majesty? No one in this world wants to make you happy? No one would embrace you, if only they thought you might embrace them back?”

She begins to speak, then stops. Her royal countenance freezes. He can see the thought blossom in her mind.

“There it is!” he cackles. “You know what you love, dearie. Now… Go kill her!” 

[ansgar-martinsson]

Fair Winds and a Following Sky - Part 9

Ansgar Martinsson’s Flat. 21 July. 0315 hours

Anna wasn’t entirely sure what woke her. 

But when she did wake, she felt an odd, jumbled up sensation, a strange thump in her chest - a powerful knowledge of safety and comfort mixed in with a crippling panic that, for a few seconds, she had no idea where she was. 

She stretched and moaned, her joints protesting, her mind muzzy after hours and hours of sleep. Where her skin touched the bedsheets she found them soft and warm, luxuriously so, and the duvets above her were a solid, cloud-like weight, their scent something like jasmine. Rolling over on to her back, she finally allowed herself to open her eyes. 

The room was dark, save for a glow from the open door. She turned her head toward the other side of the room, eyes widening at the tapestry of twinkling lights that stretched from one side of the wall to the other, top to bottom. “Holy shit,” she muttered as she sat slowly up, stretched once again, and, dropping her hands to her crossed legs, gazed out the immense set of windows.

She was drawn to it. Not really knowing how, she found herself standing before it, her palms flat on the glass, peering like a child at the world below. She’d never seen anything quite like it, Stockholm. It was nothing like the view of Dallas she’d seen from the Travidge Property offices on one of the top floors of the Bank of America Building, nothing like the view from the hayloft of her barn... or, what had been her barn. 

This was something entirely different. The buildings were shadowed, but lit at the same time. Smaller brick and stucco edifices, reaching spires, bridges, ships, trains, thousands of tiny windows outlined the shape of winding streets and glowing, almost flaming rivers. No, not rivers, she reminded herself. Not rivers. What was the word? Fjords. 

This, she remembered, was not home. She was not home. She was somewhere else altogether. Somewhere strange. Somewhere... she was not entirely prepared for.

She’d just pressed her forehead to the pane to follow the path of a cyclist on the road below when she heard it. She stiffened, pushed back from the window and turned her head, her ear toward the open bedroom door. Again, the sound, and in quick succession two, three... four more times. 

“What the....” she held her hands out before her, feeling her way back across the foot of the expansive bed to the door. She pushed it open the rest of the way and stepped into the dimly lit hallway. The punctuated, percussive, irregular noise drew her to the right, and she continued past four more doors, around a corner and finally to a room situated at the end. 

The door was partway open, the light coming from the room was an incandescent gold, and there was music, then - not loud, but the definite chest-deep thrum and screaming wail and speed-crash of some sort of heavy metal band. There were words, but either they were too muffled for her to hear or growl-shouted in a language she couldn’t understand.

Probably the latter.

She crept along the wall, not wanting the occupant of the room to discover her there, and arriving at the edge of the door, she bent her head to peer in. Upon seeing the source of the strange noises, she turned and stood against the door jamb, her hands clutching the wood as she stared at what she found inside. 

It was him. Alan... no, Ansgar. His back was to her, and Heaven help her, his upper body was bare. He wore only a pair of black and silver boxing shorts; padded black fingerless gloves on his hands. The noise she’d heard was the dense and heavy thwap! of his fists, and an occasional thump! of a barefooted kick against a massive heavy bag, punctuated by harsh breaths and feral grunts. Over and over, he threw his entire weight through his fists or through the top of his feet, making the bag recoil - almost murdering the thing with each blow. 

She watched him -- studied his lithe, graceful, yet viciously barbaric movements as he went through his pugilistic paces -- and a small smile played on the corners of her lips. He was heavier than she’d remembered him. Broader shoulders, narrower waist, albeit with a minuscule amount of pudge, but that was okay. At least, she thought, he wasn’t so thin she could see his ribs like before. 

Now, in place of the visible cage of bone, the thick muscle of his writhing, twisting back seemed to span eternity. Even his tattoos loomed larger - the scar-ruined crest on his upper arm was darker, wider; and the branches on his back were longer, reedier, more apt to schuss in the wind like she imagined they were doing right then.

Fighting a wash of giddiness, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to wonder what the flesh of that back would feel like under her hands. She reveled in how she would entwine herself within his arms, bury her face in his chest, curl her fingers and create striped runnels in the thin sheen of sweat that coated his skin. How she would taste him - trace her tongue along the lines of distinct definition on his arms, his abdomen, along the back of his neck, would cup her hand beneath his tight little....

“The hell are you doing here?”

Her eyes flew open. “I... uh....”

He panted, his lungs making use of his whole body to siphon gouts of air. He stood hunched and beast-like, shoulders rounded, hands clenched and dangling at his sides. “Close your... your mouth,” he grunted. “You look like... a moron... standing there gawping... at me.”

She obeyed. Her teeth clacked shut and her eyebrows shot nearly to her hairline. “I’m sorry to butt in and all, I just... heard... noises, and....”

He quirked a small grin, and the tension in his body and his aspect quickly softened, humanized. “Relax. Its okay.” He picked up a towel and mopped at his face, pushing the terry cloth back through his dripping hair. “I apologize for waking you. I thought, actually,” he lifted a water bottle and took a long, deep draw, letting go with a loud ah!, “thought you’d sleep at least until morning... either that or,” another pull from the bottle, “mmm.. or I’d have to wake you with a kiss or something.”

She blinked. “A... kiss?”

He chuckled, gesturing to her with the open mouth of the Hydroflask. “Sleeping Beauty, you know? Sleep of the dead, prince’s kiss, and all that shit.”

“Oh, no,” she giggled nervously. “You didn’t wake me up, I... wait. Until morning, you said? What time’s it now?”

Ansgar peered up at the circular analog clock on the gym wall. “Half three, from the looks of it.”

She cocked her head and ventured a step into the gym. “Why’re you up? Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

He shook his head. “Don’t for that long usually.” He straddled a bench and proceeded to towel sweat from the rest of his body. Anna sighed quietly, regretting the lost opportunity to fulfill her girlish fantasy. “Besides, I had some things... some work to take care of.”

“At three in the morning?”

“Nah,” he breathed. “I finished at about half one. Been in here ever since.”

“Okay, so, let me ask it this way. Do you always beat the shit out of your heavy bag at three in the morning?”

“I take the opportunities when they arise.” He shrugged, leaned his elbows on his knees, pulled off his gloves, and began unwrapping his hands and wrists. “One has to find a way to divest oneself of one’s pent up aggression. Better than beating the shit out of another person in the daylight, eh?”

“Or under a halogen lamp,” she bowed her head, hiding her sly grin behind the curtain of her long bed-mussed hair, “just after sunset.” 

“I suppose,” he sniffed, his lips curving into a wry smile. “Bring back some long lost memories, did it? Seeing me fight? Standing back and watching me pummel things?”

“I never lost those memories,” she murmured. “I remember everything about you. Everything.”

***

Nowhere, Oklahoma. Two Years Prior. Two Weeks Earlier

He was, in Anna’s vocabulary, plumb ornery. 

It had been a long, sweltering hot day of work on the barn. Progress, yes, but progress wrought with frustration. Wrought with a table saw that decided to fucking die in the middle of a rip cut. Wrought with a twenty-foot extension ladder that was nearly shoved over - with him on top of it - by a pair of horny goats. Wrought with the throbbing, stinging reminder of the consequences failing to wear long sleeves, a hat, or to reapply sunscreen to his unaccustomed Nordic skin.

In a word, he was angry, shaken, exhausted, and quite sunburnt. 

Not to mention hungry.

Anna was away in Oklahoma City. Steak dinner taken with a prospective client, the owner of a newborn Arabian. He, in contrast, choked down a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich on bland American bread followed by the next course - a disgustingly sweet half can of Mountain Dew garnished with two Advil. The dissatisfaction with his paltry meal only added to his ire. 

He threw himself onto the sofa, hissing as his reddened neck rubbed against the rough horse blanket. He lifted his legs gingerly, groaned, and rest his stockinged feet on the coffee table, where retrieved his book. This, he opened - preparing to delve into the mysterious world of Nero Wolfe, to forget the troubles of the day, of the world... of his life....

He’d barely managed to read two paragraphs of Archie Goodwin’s biting commentary before he succumbed to his toilworn body’s insistent demands for sleep. 

He didn’t hear the wail of screeching brakes and a crunching skid of tires on gravel, or the other set of the same sounds that followed. He didn’t hear the  heavy, hollow thunk! thunk! of one truck door slamming shut, then another. He didn’t hear Anna’s angry “Go home, Brian. Not now,” or the furied scuffle of bootsteps moving at a rapid pace through the grit. The pace quickly halted, replaced by a shuffling struggle, kicks and scuffs....

... and a scream.

“Brian, let... go! Aah! Fucking... get off me!”

That scream, that is what he heard; and what drew him immediately up, off the sofa, pelting across the living room and out the front door. The door banged on its hinges as he yanked it open, his still unshod feet all but carrying him in flight down the front porch. 

He didn’t think; he simply acted. Acted in response to her continued screams, to her frightened cries and huffing struggles. He didn’t really see what Brian Travidge was doing to Anna, not really. All he knew was that the hulk of a man was on her, was somehow molesting her, was... hurting her.

“Get the fuck off!” he bellowed. He dug his fingers into the meat of the man’s shoulders like eagle talons and yanked, catching him off guard and tossing his bulk to the ground. “Stay down!” he commanded, and turned his attention, albeit briefly to Anna. “Get inside and lock the door.”

“I can handle this, Alan. I -- ”

“No!” he barked. “Just go!”

“Alan --”

“Go!”

Anna nodded, clutched her handbag around her like a protective shield and ran to the house. She did as he ordered and locked the door behind her; but she couldn’t help it. She knelt, child-like, upon the window seat, pressed her hands to the pane, and watched.

She watched as he hovered over Brian, yelling, screaming, spit spraying like fire from his lips. She watched as Brian shot to his feet, shoved his shoulder into Alan’s middle and slammed him into the gravel. Alan rolled, pushed up on his hands and knees and managed to get to his feet even with Brian’s weight on his back. The men continued to scuffle and skirmish, the advantage slipped back and forth between them; a jab to the gut here, a hook to the kidney there, a headbutt, a kick to the knee, a flip over the shoulder....

.... until Brian was once again on the ground, and Alan bent viciously, yet slightly wobbly, over him. “Stay down!” he yelled once again; but Brian, once again, disobeyed. Her brother in law got slowly to his feet, his eyes blazing, boring into Alan’s as he rose. 

And before Brian could move, before Brian could speak, Alan twisted back and shot his fist into the side of Brian’s head. Brian reeled, shook himself like a wet dog, and sat down hard in the dirt.

She watched as Alan lifted Brian from beneath his armpits and shoved him against the side of the man’s F-450. She didn’t hear what Alan said to him, but it was clear from the tight clutch of Alan’s left hand around the collar of Brian’s t-shirt, from the raised finger of the right hand, from the wide stance and the almost serpent-like movements of his head that it was a threat, and a quite malevolent one at that. 

And finally, she watched as Brian turned, wrenched his truck door open and scampered inside. Alan stepped back, arms out to his sides in mock invitation. Brian cranked the engine to life and the truck’s tires spun in the gravel. Before she knew it, the truck was out of sight, leaving Alan, arms still open, silhouetted against a white-lit cloud of driveway dust.

She sighed, “Oh, God,” and covered her face, bellowing her pent up anger into her hands. She felt sick - the medium-rare filet with bleu cheese felt like a wodge in her gut. She curled up against the wave of nausea and and rest her forehead on the edge of the window seat. She remained there, breathing, trying desperately to sluice away the fear and confusion of the past half hour, trying to rid herself of the image of Brian’s twisted, cruel face, of the echoes of his terrible words... Whore. Fucking slut. Injun bitch.

She expected to hear Alan’s footsteps on the porch, expected to hear the door open, maybe even expected... wished.... to feel his arms around her, to reassure her, for her to comfort him. But no sound came. The door didn’t open, and no matter how devoutly she wanted it, she did not feel his touch.

“Alan?” She sat up, shoved her hair from her face and peered out the window. She gasped at the sight of him, unmoving, unconscious and spread-eagle on the ground. “Oh my God! Alan!” Her legs carried her, just like his had earlier, out the front door, down the porch steps, and out into the stark-white pool of street light....

[fallen029]

Tricky

The kitchen counter was littered with a concoction of assorted ingredients and cooking utensils, enough so that just looking at it gave the Slayer a headache. It was as he stood there, staring in a bit of disbelief at the mess that had befallen his poor kitchen in what felt like no time at all, that a frown began to tug at his features. He growled then, just a bit, as he finally found the exact word he wanted to fall from his mouth.

"Demon," he whispered hotly, but it was loud enough, apparently, for the woman to hear over her own humming.

It was her, of course, the demon Mirajane, who saw it fit to destroy his kitchen in such a way. She stood there, in one of her standard dresses, happily bent over the stove only moments before, but did look back at him then with one of those bright grins of hers.

"Dragon," she tried to growl back, but to came out as a laugh and, just as quickly, she was turning back to the pot she was stirring. "Finally decide to get up, sleepyhead?"

"What are you doing, woman?" he questioned in the most unwelcoming of ways. "Huh? A man shouldn't have to worry about waking up to a disaster zone just because... Why are you here, exactly?"

"Well," she began with something of a sigh, "as you know, there's gonna be a big party at the hall tonight. You know, to celebrate the start of spring?"

"Since when is that a thing?"

"Since I made it one."

Of course.

"And," the woman was going on as, abandoning the pot, she went over to start chopping some vegetables on the counter top, "there's not really enough space in the guildhall kitchen for me to get the beginning preparations ready because, well, you know, Kinana is already so busy making breakfast and lunch orders, so I needed to get the early prep stuff started somewhere else."

"You ever try your own damn house?"

"I did," she offered with a nod."But my kitchen is just so small and, well, my house is really, especially with Elf and Lisanna lurking around too, so-"

"So," the Slayer finished for her, "you decided to break into my place and wreck my kitchen instead."

"It's not breaking if you have a key."

"Tell it to the constable."

"Awe, dragon, I know you've been laid up recently, but it's super cute that you have to rely on the city patrol for protection."

This finally seemed to draw real ire out of the man as, instead of making an off-handed remark, he literally turned away from her, a sour look replacing his put on annoyance. It hadn't been a good time for him, was all, recently. He'd gotten hurt out on a job and, well, he was taking some time to recuperate and train up before going back out again. The Thunder Legion, the best publicists a guy could ask for, played this up for the man to others, claiming his hiatus and seclusion just showed how clearly superior he was to the rest of them. Yes. Obviously. He had enough jewels to take a few months away from work while their pathetic, lowly mage selves couldn't scrape together enough jewels to survive a rough week.

Still, Laxus knew, obviously, the real reason that he was hiding out in his apartment, wasting his days away. Before, in the earlier ones, it was to hardly get out of bed, far too laid up for much else, but as he was feeling a bit better now, he mostly brooded around the apartment. When she wasn't working, which wasn't often, he could expect the demon to drop by, ever the doting girlfriend, and he was usually welcoming of this.

Usually.

When he'd first noticed her presence, only a few minutes before, it had been with groggy recognition of not being alone. Rather than panic, however, as the woman's scent hit his nose, he was intrigued originally. He didn't know her to be off that day and, well, if she was showing up to spend time with him, that was a welcome surprise. But after shoving out of bed and stumbling into the kitchen, he hadn't found her scrambling him up some eggs or frying some bacon. Rather, he'd stumbled upon this nonsense and, well, he couldn't exactly say he was surprised, but he also wasn't too pleased.

That had more to do with the fact she was teasing him though.

"Oh, Lax," Mirajane sighed when she took in the man's sour expression. "I was just kidding. You know that if you need someone to protect you, I'm always available."

"No one," he told her crossly, "needs to protect me."

"You...have bodyguards though. I mean-"

"Shuddup." Sulking, he came further into the kitchen. "And we're going to be going over personal boundaries."

"If it's that big of a deal," she told him with a frown over her shoulder, "then I'll just leave. Is that what you want?"

"No." He slammed down into a chair at the kitchen table then, glaring at her as he said, "But you're going to make me breakfast."

"Oh, I am?"

"Yeah," he told her icily. "You are."

Laxus wasn't sure why he didn't realize this would result in cold, soggy, bland cereal, but then again, he never claimed to be omniscient.

Things felt rather tense, which was rare between the two of them. While he was prone to disgruntled rants, it was rare for her to respond with anything other than her typical pleasantries. When she was equally as angry at him, they could have a stalemate for hours.

But that was the thing. Mirajane, the demon, she could live with it. Him being upset with him. No matter what the duration. But Laxus didn't like for his girlfriend to be mad at him (even if he didn't feel like he was the one in the wrong to begin with) and eventually the tension seemed too much for him to take.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked after mostly pushing his cornflakes around in their bowl. Getting to his feet instead, he refused to apologize, in any situation, but did find himself asking while nodding at some still unchopped vegetables, "Demon?"

And she still had a bit of a glint of annoyance in her eyes, but did mutter something about him helping out and, well, Laxus might not know how to say sorry, but he definitely knew how to get back on the woman's good side. And, slowly, this came to fruition as Mirajane could never hold out for long, once he'd already broken, and soon enough she was back to singing, loudly now, rather than the low hums she'd had before, when he was sleeping, and Laxus just had to admire her, he always had to admire her. Imagine being worked like a dog and still finding it within yourself to be pleased by this fact.

His woman was something else.

She was though, his woman, which is why when the time came where she began bowling things up with the intent to transport it all back to the hall, where she'd finished food prep, Laxus had to let out a ragged sigh before offering his assistance.

"But Laxus," she asked with a sly smile, "you haven't been down to the guild in over a month."

And it all made sense now.

Glaring at her once more, he growled all the way to his bedroom, intending to get dressed regardless of his aggravation.

"You," he accused as he tugged on his clothes regardless, "planned this, didn't you? Huh?"

"I don't know what you're-"

"Just to make me go back there?" He looked at her in exasperation as the woman joined him in the bedroom. "Why, Mirajane? You dirty, lowdown-"

"Loving, thoughtful, caring-"

"You," he finished with a heavy finger of averment, "are tricky."

"I," she challenged, not used to getting a finger waved in her own face, "am helping you, dragon."

"Bullshit."

"You have to go back eventually." She dropped her shoulders some then, as well as her tone. Softly, she said, "Everyone fails sometimes, Lax."

He sneered and really thought about it then, just kicking the woman (and all her half finished dishes), out in the cold. But there was just something about her. There was always something about her. It sucked the most, honestly, when she began to smile only seconds later in response to the long, drawn out sighing groan he let out, releasing everything inside of him that could, honestly, probably murder the woman in that moment.

"I," he told her as, finally, he tugged on his coat and they went back into the kitchen to divvy up the pots and bowls to carry, "hate you."

"You love me," Mirajane challenged with a look. "And I love you. I wouldn't force you to go back if I didn't."

"Force. You heard that, right? What you just said? Do you listen to yourself? Force. Fucking force." Laxus could be led to water, he could even be made to drink it, but damn it if he wasn't going to bellyache about it during. "You're forcing me to do this. And that means that whatever psychological affects this has-"

"You're so dramatic."

"-are your fault." He even shook his head. "You're evil. Vindictive. A tricky-"

"Demon." She was headed to his front door then. "Now come on. Everyone will be waiting."

"Every- You told them I was coming?"

"What do you think the party is really for, Laxus?"

"Mirajane, I'm not a fucking child! I-"

"Then quit throwing a tantrum and hurry up." She grinned at him over her shoulder. "All your friends are waiting to pick you right back up."

"My friends," he told her sourly, "are going to get their heads slammed together. All three of them. For going along with this."

"Your other friends then."

"I don't have any other-"

"Most people keep that to themselves, Lax."

"Mirajane-"

"When I told everyone we were having a party to get you back out of your shell," she insisted, "they were all supportive."

"Yeah, because you said party," he challenged. "And they just all wanna go and drink and hear you play your guitar and eat and-"

"And remind you why you're so special to us."

"I'm special to you."

"Awe."

"No, I meant… No one's going to give a shit about me," he griped. "This party, it wont' have anything to do with me. This is one of your dumbest ideas-"

"Is it? Huh?" They were out on the street now, arms loaded up, but she was still all grins about their lengthy walk to the hall. "Everyone already knows you're coming out of hiding, so they won't gawk and gossip about it; they've already done that. And by the time we show up, most of them will already be too drunk to care about you. So you can just fade right back into the woodwork if you want. If you ask me-"

"I haven't. At all. In fact, I don't want to hear from you again all day."

"-this is the best idea I've ever had."

When this only got stony silence out of the man, Mirajane titled her head back to stare up at him for a moment before grinning quite openly. And damn it, fucking hell, he wanted to be so mad, so angry, so...so…

"You're a demon," he muttered softly, trying to fight a grin from spreading across his own mouth. "You know that?"

"Most people can just say thanks, you know, dragon."

Yeah.

As he kept completely silent, much to the giggles of the woman, he knew.

[crystalsexarch]

Living the Dream - G’raha Tia - E

It must have been early - but not so early that G’raha Tia was the only soul up and about Saint Coinach’s Find.

SUMMARY

G'raha Tia wakes up late at Saint Coinach's Find and tries to make himself a wholesome breakfast. Unfortunately, the Warrior of Light has some distinctly unwholesome ideas for what he could do instead...

More writing available here.

Feel free to leave requests bb.

The scholar was usually the first to bed and the first to rise, but this particular morning he had let himself sleep in a bit longer to compensate for the extra bell-and-a-half he’d spent perusing a new tome the group’s adventures had produced. By the time he slipped from his tent, Cid himself was hammering away at something, making it plain to the Miqo’te that it was late enough to bang away at sheet metal without attracting the ire of one of the Sons.

In other words - quite late.

The Garlean defector gave G’raha a wave as he passed by and then went back to his business. G’raha, starting to feel a bit ashamed of his lateness, made his way to the camp’s makeshift mess hall.

In truth, it wasn’t much of a hall. The tent looked the same as the others, just a bit larger. Perhaps a bit more worn. Inside, the team stored provisions: meats, fruits, starches best kept away from the elements and chilled accordingly by magic or magitek, as they were able. A while back, some of the Sons had also outfitted the tent with an unassuming table - most often covered in notes and tools - and a counter with a modest stove, so those calling the camp home could prepare meals together instead of sulking back to their humble quarters or relying on a campfire.

When G’raha stepped inside, he was alone. He scrunched his nose and pondered what that meant; had the others already come and gone? Or were they not yet up? His sense of time well-muddled, he knocked about the rations and selected a fresh loaf of bread and a bit of marmot meat.

The sight of those items sitting on the counter, waiting to be made into something worth eating, made him reconsider. With his hand on his chin, he thought perhaps he’d muck up the cooking of the meat, or find it too bland without the skills of a culinarian. Would it be too tough to cut into something suitable for a sandwich?

Ah, but a hand on his neck cut off his thought process.

“Finally, I catch you on your lonesome.” A second hand wrapped under his arm and clamped just beneath his collar bone.

He strained his chin up but didn’t turn. “B-beg pardon?”

“Don’t feign ignorance. I’ve seen the way you eye me.”

Naturally, G’raha sought to utilize the fool’s deflection strategy: laughing. “Er...I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about, f-friend.”

“'No idea.'” A scoff. “Well, perhaps your body does.”

G’raha’s heart was racing. He knew full well he’d spent many nights setting an embarrassingly lusty gaze upon the Warrior from across camp, but never had he thought his affection would go noticed - much less exploited.

But before he had time to process the implications, another thought made his hands tense up. He and the Warrior, with hands wrapped around his neck and chest, threatening to explore other regions, stood right in the middle of the most oft-visited tent in all of Saint Coinach’s Find.

G’raha flushed red and held his eyes shut, pressed his chin into his collar. “My friend...I pray you not tease me so…”

The Warrior’s hand drifted from his chest to his abdomen. “We both know you crave a bit more than teasing.”

“I - “

“Undo your trousers.”

Lips pressed into G’raha’s neck, and soon he felt the full breadth of body against his back. “W-what?”

A tiny, hot kiss landed just beneath his hairline. “Don’t be shy.”

Shy? He wish he could have willed that trait to his nether regions. To his chagrin, his cock had responded to the Warrior’s presence with enthusiasm. Looking down, he knew there was no hiding the want his clothes had failed to conceal...and as time went on, he wondered whether he had the will or wherewithal to keep himself from obeying. “We are in the middle of camp,” he said.

The Warrior laughed and sent a hand to his pelvic region, just above his base. The pressure made him grind his teeth. “Would you have me do it for you?”

Oh, how he wished he could have run away. He nearly managed to pant out an excuse, but when a single finger traced the outline of his arousal, he craned his head back in excitement and pushed the air out of his lungs. Wordlessly, he found himself working at his belt, his smallclothes until he stood in the middle of Saint Coinach’s Find with the Warrior of Light at his back and his cock mere ilms from the counter on which he was supposed to be preparing a late breakfast.

“That’s right,” the Warrior said. “You’re larger than I expected, G’raha.”

He blushed, knowing the right words would melt him completely. “What are you doing?”

“Put your hands on the counter.”

Wincing, he leaned forward and set both palms down, just a bit more than shoulder width apart. He hung his head in shame, but dared not open his eyes. It felt like a dream, like an accidental fantasy.

“Did you sleep well, G’raha Tia?” The Warrior leaned into him, embraced him around his waist.

“W-well enough, I suppose.”

“Did you dream?”

“No.” He had to bite his lip to keep himself from whining. To leave him exposed like that and make idle conversation - the audacity.

“Do you dream often?”

“No, I...I am a light sleeper.”

“I sleep very well, which I suppose is the reason I’ve not caught you like this before.”

Why not approach me elsewhere? He wanted to ask, but had no chance as the Warrior began toying with his tip.

“Ah!”

The tension had been more than enough to get him leaking precum - a shameful blessing, he had to admit. With it, the Warrior could easily wet his cock, letting two fingers glide down his shaft with maddeningly little pressure.

“Twelve have mercy,” he whispered, rearing his hips back to glean something harder.

“Hungry for more?”

“Can’t we - can’t we - somewhere more private?”

“I don’t think you’d find that half as fun.” The Warrior slipped a hand up G’raha’s vest and tested his nipples. The poor scholar could do little to hide his gasp, and soon he found himself being pinched, squeezed from behind, all with his warm cock stiff and largely neglected between the Warrior’s two fingers.

“P-please,” G’raha said. “Something more.”

“More?”

“I want more.”

“You’ll cease requesting a change of venue?” The Warrior’s fingers - all of them - curled around his base.

G’raha’s eyes rolled back, knowing it was only a matter of time before he heard footsteps, saw the lighting change as some poor soul flipped open the entrance of the tent. “Yes, I...I beg of you…”

The Warrior groaned. “G’raha…”

Once the stroking started, he knew restraining himself would take concentration. For a while, he clenched his hands, still set upon the counter, into white-knuckled fists. When that wasn’t enough, he locked his face into a debauched still of a scream, his mouth hanging open, his brows asymmetrical and tense. At first, he could hold his hips back, keep his knees from bending with each movement...but the more he strained his body, the more his voice broke free.

He called the Warrior’s name and knew anyone outside could have heard it. The shock kept him from coming then and there.

And then he felt that smile against his skin. “Ah, how could I forget,” the Warrior said. “You’re a singer, are you not?”

“I...I…”

“Pray, let me hear that private voice of yours. Nay, let the whole camp hear…” The Warrior kept slicking his length, but moved a hand from his chest to squeeze between his legs.

G’raha banged his fist on the table. “Gods damn you…” Soon, he had fallen to his elbows and bent over completely so his rear pressed harder into the Warrior. That gave him something to buck against. And buck he did. He was vaguely aware of his tail lashing about, but he had long been pleasure-blind, as anyone in his situation, he thought, must be.

With those determined, battle-hardened hands working him, he shifted an arm to sit before his mouth, knowing he’d need something to bite soon.

“Come for me, G’raha,” the Warrior said.

“I will.” His mouth was wet against the flesh of his forearm.

“Come with my name on your lips.”

“Ah...but…”

The Warrior squeezed harder and slowed until G’raha couldn’t keep himself from whimpering. “If you want to come, you know you must…”

Tongue lolling out the corner of his mouth, he parted his eyelids just slightly and eyed himself. Seeing those hands at his cock - the sight was enough to wobble his knees and push him to the final throes. And there he found no shame nor logic nor guilt to inhibit his desire to obey his inspiration - the one who had long haunted his pure and impure thoughts - the one whose visage fueled his aspirations and his nightly, sinful ministrations.

So he cried the Warrior’s name once, twice, thrice - until his seed spurted onto the cupboard in a row of quick bursts - and then dripped from his tip to the floor. His feet turned inward and once he’d finished singing, he clamped his teeth upon his own arm to finish riding out his orgasm. As clarity rode back into him, he realized he couldn’t recall feeling so embarrassed in his whole life.

Voices filled his ears.

“G’raha? Is everything all right?”

“What’s going on in there?”

“Has anyone seen - “

-

Ultimately, it was the very real orgasm he’d had that woke him from his cold-sweated sleep in the middle of the night. In his own tent, he was breathing heavily, staring at the roof, and wondering why now of all times he had managed to come from something that happened in a dream. He’d spent his entire adolescence high and dry, never finishing before waking and getting off with the help of his own hands.

A well-trained scholar, and now he sullied himself in slumber. What an accomplishment.

Once he had cleaned himself up, blushing even in private, he slipped outside to fetch some cold water from the selfsame tent he’d visited in his dreams. He couldn’t have been sleeping for very long, as the sky was yet heavy and dark above his head. The night air did little to help his fever.

Fate had it that once he found his way there, none but the Warrior greeted him.

“G’raha? What are you doing up?”

[dragonnan]

Avenger's Compound – 2019

His hands moved across the body of the young man – noting so much more than the skin and muscle and bone. Spirit, too, held an energy. But Peter's was...

Wanda shifted, several steps away, her companion close at her side. “It is odd. He is not here and yet I could feel... something... a sort of... doubling... when I entered his mind.”

Not looking up from his work, Stephen still managed enough frost that Wanda flinched. “You're lucky you didn't fry every synapse in your skull.” His ire didn't last, however, as it rapidly softened into a sigh. “However, it was a noble, if reckless, attempt at a level of magic even seasoned sorcerers would hesitate to employ and certainly not on their own.” He stepped back from Peter, then, and let his eyes travel across the gathering of people crowded in the room.

Tony, fidgeting the entire time, finally loosened the tight fold of his arms to tuck his thumbs in his belt loops – letting his fingers tap patterns at his waist. “So? Not to put any pressure on you, or anything, but you're the doc, Doc. What's the verdict?” Casual delivery ran aground of the stress pinched in the crease of his eyes – the bowstring taut length of his spine.

It was so like his days as a surgeon, delivering news to anxious family and friends, that Stephen found himself falling into old and familiar speech.

“I'll readily admit that I don't have Wanda's abilities for... interacting with the mind. I can sense that Peter's spirit is no longer attached to his body and yet he isn't dead, either.” The confusion on the faces around him added to his own frustration. He felt urged to pace but the closeness of the room and its occupants didn't exactly allow for such movements. He felt the cloak sway, slightly, at his back. “Okay, so as a sorcerer, I am able to leave my body in the form of an astral projection. My aura, or spirit, can leave my body and travel independent of my flesh. However I always remain connected to my body and the only way to sever that connection is through death.” At the rising alarm he raised a hand. “Peter isn't dead. His spirit is still tethered... though it's...” he shook his head. The inability to specify what he'd sensed was beyond vexing.

No surprise that Tony, again, was the first to reply. “Well that's completely unenlightening. So what do we need to do, ring up a priest? Cause I'm fresh out of Hail Mary's.”

Stephen frowned. “This is not something you can fix. Not with your tech and not with any medicine crafted on Earth. The only force which can possibly make any headway, in restoring Peter, is magic.” He crossed his arms. “And that means I need everyone, save for Wanda and Wong, to leave.”

Protest came, not from the large egos clustered together in a space too small to house them, but from a small woman whom Stephen had barely noted standing towards the back.

“Hey, I'm not leaving my kid.” She brushed off Tony's hand and stepped closer – glaring in a way that reminded Stephen, painfully, of Christine. “I don't know anything about magic or mind melds, or whatever it is you do but I can tell you that you don't know a thing about me if you think I'd let him face something like this without me here.”

Stephen lifted an eyebrow while, a few steps back, Tony gestured a hand. “Doctor Stephen Strange, meet May Parker. Peter's aunt.”

Stephen held the gaze currently attempting to fry its way through his left cheekbone. “Ms. Parker, I-”

“Mrs., actually, and I've been around Tony long enough to notice when someone is about to lay on some sorta placating smarm.” Her hand cut the air in half between them with a sharp waggle. “Sorry, buster, but I stopped being impressed by magicians when I was eight and so help me God, you try to kick me out of this room, we'll see how many appendages I can break before you can voodoo me into a frog...” she finally took a breath before following up in a whisper, “God, please don't turn me into a frog, I can't stand flies...”

Dire situation aside, Stephen had to draw casual fingers through his goatee to force down the smile. Tony, on the other hand, was less successful – though he controlled himself before May could spot him.

Bruce, shifting back and forth on his heels, looked on with a nigh permanent wrinkle across his eyebrows. “Is there any danger if, ah, if May were to remain in the room? Any, I don't know... magical backlash?” He looked nearly pained as the word “magical” crossed his lips.

Stephen opened his mouth but it was Wong who answered. “Not as such. We can erect a barrier of protection to ensure that any risk posed will be minimal.” The glare Stephen turned on his friend was absorbed in a bland gaze in return. Sighing, he gestured towards the bed.

“Since I rather need my appendages to help your nephew, Mrs. Parker, would you mind sitting over there? Out of the way?” And then he folded his arms, narrowing his eyes at the remaining group. “As for the rest of you, kindly get the hell out.”

[jcmorgenstern]

"#hey where's the fic where chaotic bisexuals jace and clary are in a relationship with clary's estranged brother's foster mom#literally lease my crops are DYING i NEED cougar lilith i NEED#(mundane AU 20k rated M or E) #im gonna have to write it myself arent i" // perhaps Lilith is beside herself over Jonathan leaving, and this is a chance to feel closer to him through people important to him. perhaps I love this idea.

tags from this post (thank you anon!!! i went a little fucking crazy and wrote this which is entirely unedited.....rip in pieces)

It had been a year and a half since she had seen Jonathan last. He had been hers in all the ways that mattered (but never flesh and blood) until he wasn’t, a stabilizing weight by her side cut loose. Sudden as that, she was in freefall. A prestigious editorship at a major fashion magazine turned to ball and chain, the envied life of a socialite the vanity of a mere woman, a luxurious New York loft to the dreaded empty nest. At her third strong drink in an evening, she could feel the thin coat of dust layering her womb, a mausoleum. Her son and one frivolous argument too many did what scores of small men had tried and failed to do.

On balance, she supposed she ought to proud it took her this long for the bland Promethean cycle of waking-working-talking-eating-sleeping-repeat to wear her down, and ashamed she gave in at all. A good mother, she knew, would never be caught where she is now--standing out in an ill-fitting tinsel dress she wouldn’t have been caught dead in two years ago, avoiding the eyes of men too young for her (beneath her) in favor of one in particular.

I only want to look, she’d told herself as she’d scrabbled at the bottom of her purse (Himalaya Birkin, years out of style, a metaphor dangling in crocodile skin off her arm) for her keys. Just to see. Get close. Watch.

It had been complete coincidence that she’d found out about the art exhibit in the first place. An invite to a wretched student affair from a once-great school grasping for relevance in the cynical age of the internet stuffed in with her morning mail delivery, ordinarily not worth a second more of her attention than it took to sweep it into the trash. The name was what caught her attention, an instinctive flash in the pan--Fairchild.

He didn’t go by Fairchild, of course. He was a man, and why would a man wear anything but the name of another man? At the threshold of adulthood, Jonathan shed the vile name of the woman who had given him up in favor of a ghost of a father. Her own, she realized now, had never been in the running. And so he called himself Morgenstern, an ugly name sealing him off from her like foreign territory. Morgenstern had a terrible finality to it.

She didn’t answer a single email or call the rest of the morning, snapping at any EA foolhardy enough to raise a word against her. By noon, she knew the girl and her boyfriend from smiling model pictures on Instagram, incomplete snippets of life from Facebook and Twitter. The wordless temptation finally had a face and a name and an achingly familiar mane of red hair. Fairchild was the name of his sister by blood, the girl for whom his birth mother had scraped together enough love to keep.

She picked the weaker link first--the blond. Men gave themselves away more easily than women, basking in every oozing ounce of attention. She took his measure in-between smiles and small conversations, observing him over the shoulders of conversational partners she took no interest in. Well-built, handsome, artfully disarranged hair, a James Dean sort of affable. The type girls wished for long after he’d moved on from her entirely. She could see him in the glossy pages of a fashion magazine and allowed herself to hate him, dip the fashionable one syllable of his white-hipster name in poison. Jace.

The second hour she allowed herself closer, indulged in scratching the surface. Uncomfortable in worn jeans and leather jacket surrounded by talk of Bosch, Mondrian, Xiaodong, he was here for his girlfriend, treading water in the art world to lend her a familiar face. He flirted with the girl at the bar more out of obligation than interest, reading off his come here often? lines stiff and atonal. By the time she drifted up beside him at the bar, she had given him enough nuance she could have convinced herself to like him.

“I don’t suppose you could get me one of those?”

It came out easy, like slipping into clothes from another life. Her first job as waitress faking pretty rouged smiles through propositions and comments and ass-pinches, or her first magazine internship weathering the same. He was drinking beer, and she couldn’t stand beer, but men had a peculiar weakness for women who drank their own kinds of drink.

He turned, bemusement turning to something else as she deliberately met his gaze. He was lovely up close, and all in a dizzying rush she felt the barest spark of that indescribable satisfaction she’d been chasing, found the ghost of Jonathan’s angular features in the broader contours of his face. His too-polite smile broke the spell. “I’d love to, but I don’t think my girlfriend would like that very much.”

The waitress smile slipped off. Put him in his place. “It just seems you’re the only one who can get any service around here.”

His smile turned instantly sheepish. “Oh, uh--sorry.” A quick word with the bartender, and soon she had her very own mug of alcoholic piss. He visibly cast about for a line of conversation, and it raised her ire that she couldn’t tell if he did it out of flirtation or pity. “Are you with the gallery?”

“Oh, no. I’m with Poise magazine. We like to browse local shows for rising talent. Keeps us fresh.” She gave a half-flicker of lash at fresh. The cover story was self-indulgent--the answer she gave only mattered to herself. She wasn’t searching for her son where she knew he wouldn’t be found. The flirtation was by rote. “Are you an artist? We’re always doing submission intake.”

It was an old and familiar lie. General licensure was the best any hopeful would get without prior connections.

“Me? No way.” He was warming up to her, rising to her charm like a snake from a basket. How old was he? He couldn’t even be half her age. “Clar--my girlfriend, she’s the artist. I’m here for her.”

For her, not with her. There was a distinction. She cued up the smile she used for interviews. “That’s lovely. What kind of artist?”

“A painter.” For a second, Jace’s expression was almost shy. “She landed the art school gig, but her mom taught her. It’s kind of her last connection to her, you know? Painting keeps her mom alive.”

The enormity of his statement quavered between them like a note from a tuning fork struck on an edge. She felt her expression flicker and melt like wax--Jocelyn was dead. Was it cancer, murder, a hit-and-run? Half-thoughts spooled out in her imagination, part vindictive and part lurid. Did he know? Did he think of her the day he learned she was dead, wish for her to put her arms around him and let him cry into her? She savored the imaginary heat of his short, hitched exhales on her neck, the precious hot droplets of salt falling on her skin.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m an ass,” Jace was babbling. “Did you--have you lost a parent too?”

For a moment, she could have laughed at him. Her father was buried, her mother entombed in a home somewhere conveniently out of mind. With a strange, electric jolt she realized he had assigned her fallen expression to the closest thing at hand, unbiased by that all-encompassing occupation: mother. A mother must have lost a child; a person could lose a parent a lover or a friend. It had been so very long since she’d been seen as anything but.

“Jace! JaceJaceJace--there you are!”

A mess of red-gold curls bounded by her to plant a messy wet kiss to Jace’s cheek. They kissed, young dewy-skinned and unabashed, and she watched with a feeling unlike Jonathan creeping on the edge of her thoughts. Jace broke away first, pulling her back into conversation. “This is, uh, Clary. Clary, this is--” he broke off, embarrassed.

Clary spluttered in the middle of knocking back the last of a sidecar, whipping around to stare at her with something wide-eyed and akin to wonder. “Don’t you--? Don’t you know who she is? Editor at Poise? The Lilith?”

“Not exactly,” Jace admitted.

Clary paid him no mind, cocktail glass immediately moored at the bar. She looked up at her and once she saw past the stars winking in the girl’s eyes, she could see they were the same soft hazel as her brother’s. Clary was drunk, and brimming with it from her ugly artistic blouse to her blunt art-student-lesbian bangs to the untamed curl of her hair. “It’s really you,” she gushed. “I’ve been following your blog forever, and your twitter--I’m being so embarrassing, aren’t I? Can I...can I have a picture?”

Lilith disliked her with a magnetism that pulled the girl in close, letting Clary slip an arm around her waist and hold up a phone too big for her small, delicate-boned hands. In the phone’s screen she could see herself frozen in real time, her red lips lifting in a waxen smile. Next to the peach-fuzz facewash-clean of Clary’s skin, her fashionable makeup and Oscar de la Renta dress looked old and severe, black and gold metals oozing out of her like a snake shedding skin.

“You were my first-ever crush,” Clary was saying with tipsy candor, and with a strange bump Lilith realized Clary was talking to her, not her boyfriend. Her words rushed out in a graceless rush, difficult to make out over the music and wordless chatter drowning her in a dull roar. “I’d spend hours cutting out your photoshoots from magazines, making collages--it drove mom crazy, all those internalized gender roles and whatever. She realized later I just thought you were really hot.”

The full blushing import of Clary’s words hit them all at once and Clary flushed a blotchy pink all the way to the roots of her hair and touched her free hand to her cheek. “Oh my god, I’m fucking drunk.”

Lilith became suddenly aware her hand was still on Clary’s warm waist, trapped under her arm. This was all unscripted, unrehearsed; she felt as flustered as Clary looked, thrown off by the noise and the heat and the alcohol she hadn’t even drank. She was wearing perfume, something cheap and cloying, and in a strange moment Lilith could imagine Clary spread out over a glossy page, slim peachy legs and delicate collarbones bold and daring out from under the heavy drape of a dark dress.

She reached for something cutting to take the girl down to size, but what came out instead was a genteel, “That’s very flattering.”

Clary gave her a pinched little smile in return, the very pink tip of her tongue darting over her bottom lip, and her blush did not abate. Lilith looked to Jace, who was looking between them with something uncertain in his eyes.

A strange, smouldering sensation had risen in her chest, thick and suffocating as a plume of smoke. Her hand did not so much as tremble when she raised a hand to tuck away a stray curl, the color so much lighter when it caught the light. Clary’s face swam before her eyes, raw and pink from crying over her dead mother.

“You’re very sweet,” she said, and there was a husky quality to her voice that only came on with one or two glasses of red wine. Her heart was pounding out a dull, insistent throb rising in time with a painful lump in her throat.

Her phone vibrated in her bag, breaking the spell with a start. She pulled away to relieve the sudden alcoholic flush and dug into her bag with utter disregard for her nails, feeling for the familiar cool rectangle of her phone. When at last she managed to disentangle herself citing creative emergencies needing her immediate attention and a whole host of familiar excuses, it was only then she realized on habit she’d given Clary her card.

The taxi ride back to her apartment was blissfully silent, dark except for the rising crests of light along the near-silent streets. Her own face hovered ghostly in the window, close enough to touch. Her fingertips met glass with a flash of red-gold and her eyes seared with a sudden heat, the ache in her sternum widening.

Her thoughts lingered on him as she greeted the front desk clerk, beside her in physical form in the elevator, hovering at the margins like a melancholy raincloud as she launched into her nighttime routine. Squalane cleanser to remove makeup, wash face before an exfoliant chemical blend, a layer of hydralaunic acid and then niacinamide to hydrate, an retinol under-eye cream to top it all off. The ritual grip of her thoughts relinquished only once she’d folded herself under the covers in her nightclothes, receding as she fell into the uneasy lull of sleep.

This time, the thought of him was mixed with traces of red and gold.

[rhysanoodle]

In My Blood

A/N: In which Cassian again participates in the Blood Rite and both he and Nesta must deal with the consequences, post-ACOFAS

Nessian angst

Word count: 2166

AO3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Part 9

Cassian arose late in the morning to a sharp pain in his abdomen and utter confusion. His first thought was at how unusually late he’d slept. It must’ve been the sleeping tonic because he hadn’t noticed the pain medication wearing off, but Nesta had always been punctual with administering it to him. Unless...

A strong, too-familiar scent hit him a moment later as he tried to lift his head, cringing at the pain as his core muscles tightened, and found her unconscious next to him. She was curled in a ball, as if she had tried her hardest throughout the night not to lie against him, failing due to the cramped amount of space she occupied on the edge of the mattress, but… She was holding his hand. And Cassian was surprised to realize that he had been holding hers back.

Shit. The nightmare. He hadn’t meant to wake her. At the beginning of their stay in Illyria, he’d done his best to keep them as quiet as possible, so as not to alert her to their presence. He didn’t want to have to explain to her that every time he closed his eyes, he saw her getting thrown into the Cauldron or shielding him with her body on the battlefield or sometimes even just drinking herself to death. But for the past few months, the nightly terrors had been fewer and farther between.

He tried to recall what had happened between them last night, but came up empty other than her startling him out of the nightmare and placing his hand on her chest. Then...nothing.

Cassian desperately needed to clear his head, but there was nowhere for him to go in this state. He gently untangled their fingers and placed his own hands on his chest, safely out of range of snatching that supple, tempting hand right back. As he laid his head back down, he craned his neck so he could still see her sleeping form out of the corner of his eye. She looked so peaceful — for Nesta.

Cassian hadn’t realized how unusual it was for Nesta to also sleep this late until now. When she wasn’t completely hungover, she usually got up and out of the house early to train or go on a walk — or avoid him probably.

As she began to stir next to him, Cassian quickly shut his eyes and attempted to feign sleep — hoping she wouldn’t realize the deception and would quickly remove herself.

Damn, this couch was so much softer than she remembered. And the back cushion was...moving. Up and down. And, oh gods, that was Cassian behind her, and she’d fallen asleep in his bed after the nightmare incident.

As carefully as she could, she scooted off the bed, trying her hardest not to disturb him, though she’d have to wake him soon to take more pain medication. When she glanced back behind her, as she tiptoed out, she noticed his breathing hitch a bit. Was he awake? She just needed some coffee to clear her head because she was probably just imagining things.

Today’s breakfast only came with a piece of plain toast, in addition to some broth, but Nesta couldn’t help but notice that Cassian almost smiled a bit as he saw it. He also completely devoured it, which was a first for him this week. Hopefully, she’d be able to veer from the bland staples soon and stop having to prepare two different meals.

Around what would be lunchtime, they got their next round of visitors. This time it was Rhysand and Mor, accompanied by another healer. Once again, Nesta didn’t give them much more than a nod of acknowledgment before slipping out the door. She had a mission today — and all the walking would help her shake off the after-effects of what had occurred between herself and Cassian last night. She couldn’t let herself focus on how comfortable she’d felt when she’d awoken right now.

True to Emerie’s word, it didn’t take Nesta long to track down the young Illyrian male whose name she learned was Petros. He had been frequenting the largest tavern in Windhaven every afternoon while he waited around for news of his friend.

Nesta sat down at the table and promptly ordered them a round of drinks, hers only a water though. No need to tempt herself, even if the ale here was piss-poor. She wasn’t sure she could stop once she’d started. Hoping the beverage would loosen up the boy, she began prying him with questions, soon learning that his own backstory was tragic like Cassian’s.

He was also bastard-born though he knew his father — which made his life even more of a living hell as his father had made sure Petros had no companions growing up, nobody to confide in. After the outcome of the Blood Rite though, he was being celebrated in Stormridge. His father’s eldest pure-blooded son had perished in the Rite, and Petros had come out looking like the logical choice to the rest of the village as his father’s heir.

Despite the traditional mourning period they were observing, his father had been practically forced to recognize him as a legitimate son, especially considering his connection to the now-King. The entire experience still seemed surreal to the boy.

“So that’s it? You’re a lordling now?” she inquired after hearing his story.

“Seems that way. Still can’t believe it, but I’m eager to start making some changes and having some power for once in my miserable life,” he replied. There wasn’t a hint of any malice on his face, just pure ambition, as if he couldn’t wait to prove himself.

“Would you be desiring a little assistance perhaps? Right now I’m looking to get away from this place. I need a little change of scenery, and from what I’ve heard, Stormridge might be the best camp for me to start over in,” she admitted.

“I thought you were helping lead the reform here in Windhaven. Wouldn’t you be more useful being in the same city as King Cassian?”

“Not likely. I’m officially stepping down at the end of the week and need to go clear my head.” Nesta stared at the table, wishing she’d opted for the mug of ale now. This was more difficult to talk about than she’d thought, and after last night she had her doubts about leaving. But she really needed to make other arrangements. She wasn’t eager to stay any longer than she had to or gods-forbid move back to Velaris.

“Well, I’d be honored. I’m sure we could use a strong female presence in Stormridge, even if you decide you don’t want to be involved in political matters,” Petros smiled at her.

That was all she needed to hear from him. Finally, she had made a decision for herself, had taken control of her own future.

“Do you want to see him?” Nesta asked, and the kid’s face lit up. “Come on. He’s probably still awake right now.”

Nesta led the way back to the Cabin, Petros in tow. As they approached, she could tell Rhys and Mor were still inside, but she strode in as if she owned the place, or at least as if it were just as much her home.

She had barely even had a chance to make introductions before Petros had rushed into Cassian’s room, and the two were chatting like they were old friends, not like they’d spent one day on the brink of death together. Cassian’s ability to be so personable with others right off the bat still astounded Nesta. She’d never been good at it herself, though she had been fairly sure he’d appreciated the challenge of trying to win her over back when they’d first met.

Rhysand and Mor exited the room to give the two some privacy, and the three of them sat in an awkward silence before the others decided that maybe they’d spent enough time here for the day and should get going.

Nesta watched them walk toward the door before Rhysand came back to her and said softly enough that it wouldn’t be detectable in the other room, “Thank you. For bringing the kid today. I got the impression that Cassian is bored out of his damn mind in there, and as much as I know he loves my fabulous company, that made him grin wider than I’d seen in a long time.”

Nesta just nodded, any words she could’ve formed stuck in her throat. Rhysand’s gratitude had sounded a little forced. They had never had a comfortable relationship, but she could tell the words were genuine.

After they left, Petros stuck around chatting and joking with Cassian until the sun began to set before leaving, promising to be back in touch with Nesta by the end of the week.

As she entered the room to hand Cassian his dinner and the next dosage of his pain medication, she noticed that he did in fact seem in better spirits than she’d seen in months. She felt around for the words to say to him, but came up short and was about to leave when he gently grabbed her wrist.

“Petros mentioned that you’re moving to Stormridge at the end of the week.” Nesta couldn’t place the emotion she saw in his eyes.

Shrugging off his grip, she simply replied, “I’ll stay around for as long as you need — until you’re back on your feet, but I think we both agree that it’s best if I’m gone by the time this blows over. I didn’t want to go back to Velaris so I made my own arrangements.” She shrugged.

His gaze turned stony as he murmured, “Yeah. Good. That’s great.”

If Nesta hadn’t overheard with her own ears the fact that he was sick of having her around just yesterday, she might’ve mistaken it for some sort of ire at the news of her departure, but she still had her own issues to work out and couldn’t linger on what might be going through Cassian’s head. She needed to process the fact that her life was no longer this endless pit of numbness and try to figure out her place in the world again. And that didn’t involve being weighed down by her past, especially if her past didn’t want to be weighed down by her.

“I’ll be back in a bit to help you get ready for bed,” she said as steadily as she could before retreating to her own room where she flopped onto the bed.

She was making the correct decision, right? The past year had been insufferable, but today had been...tolerable to say the least. Maybe he could help her heal her wounds and sort through the myriad issues she knew she still had, but she knew that’d be asking too much of him right now.

Frustratedly, she grabbed a fresh book off the pile next to her bed and tore through it for the next few hours, letting the story take her away to a place where her own problems no longer mattered.

Nesta yawned as she closed the book. She probably should’ve put it down earlier, but she’d been so absorbed in the story that she hadn’t noticed the time passing and how late it had gotten.

She tiptoed over to Cassian’s room only to find him completely passed out. He seemed to have scooted over in his bed, uncentering himself, so that he could set the empty tray next to him and still have enough room to sprawl out closer to the far wall. Nesta took the tray back to the kitchen to do the dishes before getting ready for bed herself.

As she crept back into the room, she noticed him stirring somewhat. It didn’t look like it was anything on par with the nightmare she’d awoken him from last night, but he was still restless. She sighed and sat on the edge of the bed unsure whether to just leave him to whatever dream it was or try to awaken him like last night.

Nesta settled for placing her hand on his chest, making sure it was still clear of the bandage around his abdomen. Almost instantly the stirring stopped, and she sat frozen like she had the previous night, trying to figure out her next move before resigning herself to just staying for awhile.

She’d get better sleep anyway if he wasn’t tossing and turning and making noise all night, so she carefully slipped under the covers and turned to face him, laying her hand on his heart again. The steadying rhythm calmed her, and it was only as she lay in the dark, trying to match the rhythm with her own that she realized that she actually had room to spread out tonight — as if the tray weren’t the only thing Cassian had been making room in the bed for this evening.

Tags: @porcelainart @theartfuldodgcr @tswaney17 @lordof-bloodshed @aelinashgalathynius @aedionashryver-wolfofthenorth @anyone-anything-canbetrayanyone @refreshtoexpress @mikaylamee @wolffrising @tiredbutstillreading @velarxs

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[adelmortescryche]

YOI Cloud Mari AU (Evil Author’s Day I)

AN: Heya, here’s my first post for EAD, if a day late! For those who aren’t familiar with EAD, Evil Author’s Day gives authors the opportunity to post WIPs guiltfree, with no promises attached. Meaning there’s no set date on when I plan to fully post or complete these fics, though they are WIPs.

This is the 1st of three. And the shortest one: 1, 2, 3

Warnings/Tags: Victuuri, Crossover between KHR (Katekyo Hitman Reborn) and YOI (Yuri!!! On Ice), Tsuna and Yuuri are snarky bros, Mari is a Queen and Glorious, All Bow Down Before Her, Tsuna’s mild smiles are liable to incite homicide, Massive Canon Divergence for KHR, Minor Canon Divergence for YOI

Summary: That one in which Katsuki Mari is Tsuna’s Cloud Guardian. This... Changes things.

Yuuri’s in the middle of fending off a rather enthusiastic kiss from his fiancé, laughing all the while, when he hears his name being called out. The call makes him attempt to straighten himself out immediately - it might be nearing the end of the banquet, but that didn’t give him justifiable cause to be rude to any prospective sponsors, right? He didn’t make any move to back away from Victor, though. Because they’d both decided that any sponsors who found their relationship distasteful were safer vetted out right from the beginning.

When he actually turns around to see who, exactly, had called out to him, though, the face is enough of a shock that he goes still for a moment long enough that Victor gets alarmed.

“Yuuri?” He asked, while giving the brunet who’d approached them a cool glance.

Yuuri shook himself, and gave Victor a strained smile.

“It’s fine, just-”

“Unexpected.” the other man said, and gave a tiny smile when it earned him a harder look from Victor.

It made a laugh erupt from the back of Yuuri’s throat, harsh enough to hurt. Much to Victor’s alarm.

“That’s one way of putting it. What exactly are you doing here, Tsuna?”

Tsuna, for his part, continued to give that tiny, gentle smile. It made Yuuri want to catch him by the shoulders and shake him till it disappeared, because the other man was a lying liar who lied - and lied especially well when he had soft smiles on his face.

“I did say I’d come by sometime. Are you still that much against me sponsoring you?”

“Yes,” Yuuri replied, his voice rising over the confused sound that Victor made. “And don’t even try to act hurt, it’s not like you didn’t know the answer to that question well before you asked it.”

“Wow, savage, Yuuri,” Phichit murmured, having drawn closer to where Yuuri and Tsuna’s altercation was taking place. When Yuuri looked up to shoot him an exasperated loo, it was to find that he’d drawn a lot more attention that he’d expected to the corner he and Victor had been hiding in. Or, at least, had been attempting to hide in, before Tsuna interrupted them.

Yuuri wasn’t even all that surprised, when he saw how curious both Phichit and Chris looked. Yuri might have looked curious, too, if it weren’t for how his face was screwed up in it’s usual expression of social discomfort and distaste.

“I would never,” Tsuna said, sounding unnervingly coy, and bringing Yuuri’s attention back to him.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Yuuri countered snidely, startling a laugh out of Victor, who seemed to have traded his confusion in for something far more inquisitive. It drew Tsuna’s gaze to him, and Yuuri could only watch with discomfort as the brunet’s eyes lit up with delight.

“Oh, where are my manners, I’m-”

“He doesn’t need to be introduced to you, Tsuna, turn around and walk away,” Yuuri cut in, irate, his ire only worsening when it drew more laughter from the other man.

“Okay, clearly you’re someone I should already know, if you make my best bud this irritable. Spill. Who are you?” Phichit said cheerfully, grin sharp and eyes bright. The words made Yuuri stiffen, because he knew how Phichit could get if he thought he needed to defend a friend. Or Yuuri in particular.

The words also made Victor perk up, though, a charming smile spilling across his face.

“I have to agree. I haven’t seen my Yuuri speak out against anyone so vehemently before. I have to assume that you’re acquainted, at the very least?”

The possessive in his words made Yuuri feel like his heart was fluttering inside his chest, but he sobered up uncomfortably quickly when he noticed just how amused the same words made Tsuna.

“Well,” the brunet began, before Yuuri cut him off with a snort.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Why, Yuu-kun, that almost sounds like you don’t like me. I’m hurt.” He threw back, raising a hand up to his chest in affront, tone believable enough if one weren’t to see the impish grin on his face. Yuuri rolled his eyes, and made himself step away from Victor’s side, no matter how much he’d prefer not to.

“You’re not convincing anyone, Tsu-kun. Get over yourself.”

Obviously that got him another one of Tsuna’s irrepressible smiles. It made him sigh, just that bit more irritated, but he forced himself to sweep his gaze across the room behind the other man. He’d let their jousting run for long enough without taking care of certain measures. His shift in attitude must have been obvious enough to Tsuna, because he lost his teasing edge rather abruptly.

Not the soft smiles, though. Because he was a lying liar who lied.

“There’s no way you’re here alone. Where are they?” Yuuri had to ask, finally, once he’d lost neay 30 seconds to his sweep. There was no way he could have missed any of Tsuna’s guardians for that long. Possibly the pair of pineapple twins, but the rest…

“Not here,” Tsuna responded immediately, though not without throwing him a mildly amused glance. He could always tell when Yuuri had been thinking nasty thoughts, even when they’d been kids and Yuuri was a lot less inclined to be mean. “I managed to convince them that I’d be safe enough with you here.”

“…I knew you were a maniac, but this is pushing it. Really, Tsuna-”

Victor cleared his throat pointedly, making both of them blink and look back at him. The serious look on his face made Yuuri stiffen, while Tsuna gave a low whistle. Yuuri ignored the other man’s reaction, instead staring his fiance down for a long moment. Before sighing, again, and turning back to Tsuna.

“It might make sense if leave, if you’re actually here for a reason. If you’re just here to play at offering me a sponsorship, though…”

“I’m not playing at anything, Yuuri, I just wish you’d believe me when I say that.” Tsuna muttered, looking away from Victor and back at him, but Yuuri’s eyes only narrowed at his words. Because he hadn’t actually denied that he was in Barcelona on some other business.

“…do you need me to accompany you somewhere? You do remember what Mari told Reborn about stuff like that, right?”

“I remember, I remember,” Tsuna said hurriedly, wincing a little, and making Yuuri smile, amused in spite of himself. “No, I don’t need you to accompany me anywhere. I just needed to talk to you.”

“Okay. Talk.”

“Yuu-kun.”

The exasperation in his voice made Yuuri snort with laughter, glancing back at Victor, and stiffening when he noticed the way Victor was looking at the two of them. Tsuna apparently noticed it, too, because he made a soft, cooing noice that made Tsuna want to strangle him. Just a little. Phichit didn’t look any better than Victor did, to be honest, and it made Yuuri want to sigh, possibly sag into the ground, because this was why he didn’t want Tsuna to get involved with his life.

The young Don of the Vongola Family somehow made things more complicated just by the sheer power of his existence. Life had been so much easier when he moved back to Hasetsu with his sister after finishing school.

And then he’d moved away and left Hasetsu behind to train, and that just made life easier. Because Tsuna had cheerfully ignored him for the next few years without any real issue. Outside of getting a text message every once in a while, warning him that Tsuna wanted to sponsor his skating, he’d had no real reason to think back to the sheer insanity of his middle school years at any point.

Until now, at any rate.

“…fine. Lead on, Macduff.” He said, bland, making Chris and Phichit both choke back surprised snickers.

Victor didn’t react at all, and that was what hurt the most.

*

 “I met someone.”

 Yuuri glanced up from his notes, surprised. Mari-nee rubbed the back of her neck, looking awkward.

“Is this a good met someone or a bad met someone where I need to find some way to hide a body because that someone was dumb enough to try and hurt you?” He asked dubiously, because he knew his sister.

Predictably, she gave a snort of laughter, setting her school bag down by the battered floor couch they managed to get a hold of when they’d first moved into the apartment Mari had found for them. And then proceeding to throw herself on to it, making Yuuri grunt, lifting his pen away from paper to ensure his assignment didn’t get messed up.

"Probably a good met someone, little bro. I’m not sure."

“…well, as long as it’s not a dating good met someone, because that’d just mean I’d have to find some way to bleach my brain. Pronto.” Yuuri said, making her shoulders shake with ill hidden laughter.

"Why’re you always so defensive, Yuuri. I just said I met someone. Can I finish explaining before you jump down my throat?"

“Sure. Be my guest. But I’m not the one telling Mom and Minako-sensei anything if you castrated someone for knocking you up,” he said leerily, which just made her laugh harder, biting out a choked gross  at some point, and making him lot less suspicious about the direction the conversation was going to take.

“He reminds me a bit of you, actually. And before you screech, he isn’t a potential boyfriend. Just… He’s really sweet, and he’s going through a bit of a rough patch, and I think I can help him out. Just a bit.”

“…Mari-nee, this is how scams start, you know that right.”

Yuuri yelped when she got the crook of her elbow around his throat, dragging him back into her and grinding her knuckles into the top of his head violently.

“At least meet him before you come to any conclusions, brat. He got me out of some trouble, too, so he can’t be all bad, right?”

*

And that was how he’d met Sawada Tsunayoshi for the first time. In a café the next day, with his older sister, expecting to walk into a meeting with a stereotypical  Yankee or someone from a biker gang. With leather, piercings and either bleached hair or a pompadour.

He knew Mari very, very well, after all.

What he found instead was a short, stuttering kid who was probably the same age he was, with enough hair piled on his head to make it look like a big rat’s nest or a tiny hill, and a smile that somehow managed to light up the entire room and every dark corner of Yuuri’s black, shrivelled heart.

“Mari-nee was really kind to me,” he said earnestly, over the shakes and food they’d both ordered, while Mari stepped out to grab a smoke outside the café. “I was getting chased by these scary guys, and she stepped in and whacked them over the heads with a pipe.”

“Mari-nee does that a lot.” Yuuri agreed, bemused.

“She was so cool!” The other guy said, eyes glittering, hands coming up in little fists in front of him, and Yuuri choked on his next bite of waffles and cream, only snickering harder when Tsuna got confused.

Only a little confused, clearly, because Yuuri could see the flush high on his cheeks. Yeah, the guy clearly knew just how much of a fanboy he was being. Not that Yuuri could blame him, Mari-nee was awesome. Yuuri’d been where Tsuna was right now enough times that he could get exactly where he was coming from. The sight of Mari, with her pinned up and freshly bleached hair, dead pan expression on her face, swinging a pipe at some idiot hell-bent on bullying him, was still one of the sweetest memories Yuuri had of elementary school.

It had gotten her kicked out of the the escalator school she’d been in in Hasetsu, but she’d just shrugged, said it was worth it, and said she had friends out towards Tokyo who could get her into a school there. Much to their parents bemusement, though both their mom and dad had vocally been on her side all the way. Not about the pipe, no, but when Kenji’s dad had tried to get Mari arrested, their dad had shut him up because Kenji’d been Mari’s classmate and had come after Yuuri just because he was her younger brother. Looking back on it, Yuuri had no idea how the heck his dad had won that argument, but he had.

That said, Yuuri barely remembers how he managed to convince his parents to let him join Mari in Tokyo. Mari might have had more of a part in successfully convincing them, by the end of it, but however they’d done it, Yuuri had found himself enrolled in a school in a much bigger town far enough away from Hasetsu that it felt like he’d left home for another country. And for all that he understood the language, the absence of the easy cadence of Saga- ben in the background was unnerving. About the only good thing about the move was that Mari had managed to connect him to a good coach in the city, meaning his training hadn’t been stunted. If anything, a well experienced and more professional coach meant his training was going a whole lot better than it ever had been in Hasetsu.

“Mari-nee,” he said, cutting Tsuna off in the middle of his gushing, “said that you’re in some kind of trouble. And that she wants to help you. What exactly was she talking about?”

…there are very few things he’s openly grateful for in his life, but, honestly? Mari was definitely one of them. And for all that this guy seemed a whole lot nicer than what he’d been steeling himself to face, it didn’t mean that he was willing to blindly entrust his sister to him.

Mari could kick his ass and tell him to butt out of her business, but she was his sister damnit. And even if she  could take care of herself a lot better than Yuuri could ever take care of her…

…okay. The kid’s eyes had gone orange in his head. Yuuri blinked once, twice, then shoved back hard enough that he nearly knocked himself out on the head rest of his seat in the booth.

[gottaorganizemycanonsomehow]

VI – Rachel

Rachel is sitting in the backseat of the car next to Tom, pouting miserably. She hears her father chatting amiably with their driver as if everything wasn’t completely wretched. Tom wasn’t even looking at her. Instead, he was staring out the window, staring at the disgusting shambles they were driving through with a distant, unfocused look. She gives considerable thought into throwing a fit and making him pay attention to her. He couldn’t ignore her for much longer, though; it’s best to sit in somber silence until he takes notice of her again and is overwhelmed with guilt. Rachel continues looking up to him, ensuring that she is the picture of quiet devastation, resolving to wait patiently. Her resolve burns to ash when she sees his lips twist slightly to the side in a smug smirk. She’s very well acquainted with that smile, it’s the same one he gives her when she’s flushed and trembling beneath him. Possessive ire surges in her immediately. There is no reason he should be smiling today, especially not like that.

Rachel clutches Tom’s arm, nails digging in desperately. “Do you really have to leave me here Tom? Won’t you miss me at all,” she cries.

Tom looks down at her frowning. “Of course, I will sweetheart. I dread being apart from you. I’m afraid this is unavoidable.”

Tears swell in her eyes and Rachel makes her lower lip quiver. “We only just had Will’s funeral Tom. Shouldn’t you stay with your family during this time?”

Tom turns towards her fully and away from the window to cup her face with his free hand. Wiping away her tears with his wide, calloused thumb, he says, “I am so sorry sweetheart but I’ve delayed this trip for as many weeks as I can.”

Rachel sniffles delicately, “I’ll be so miserable Tom.”

Her fiancée finally pulls her towards him and runs a gentle hand through her hair as he should. Rachel buries her face into his shirt and he rests his chin on top of her head. “It’s only for a few weeks, I’ll be back before you know it. I’m sure you won’t even miss me.”

Rachel says nothing but keeps herself close to him and Tom doesn’t let go himself. In the rear-view mirror, she catches her father smiling at the two of them. The rest of the car ride passes in silence just like this and Rachel settles; everything is as it should be.

When they come to a stop near Tom’s ships, Rachel ensures that her makeup hasn’t smeared before climbing out of the car with Tom’s help. He kisses her cheek quickly before going off to put down his suitcases and oversee any last minute preparations for the business trip. Rachel stands next to her father, smoothing out the skirt of her pale pink summer dress, quietly waiting for Tom to come back to say his last goodbyes. She looks out at the sea, avoiding eye contact with the poor milling around. The harbour is the only place where the lower classes weren’t separated from the them; the slums crowd the shoreline while any of the respectable houses and manors remain a good distance away. This is a part of the city that Rachel has seldom seen. She didn’t have much purpose to come this way before and she is glad for it. The stench of the sweat and grime from the locals blend with the briny sea acridly; Rachel holds her nose up and clears her throat so that she doesn’t gag. With her, Tom has always carried a pleasant, spicy scent. He will continue to do so as long as she is at his side, she is sure.

Rachel catches something moving towards them at the corner of her eye and flinches. She turns towards the person, ready to call out for Tom, when she sees that it’s just Amaya, dressed in a navy-blue button up, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, tucked into a fitted pair of dark brown trousers and scuffed, leather boots. She is walking briskly towards them, loose curls escaping her braid and framing her expressionless face. Rachel squints at her, suspicious. Amaya is walking away from the slums, from a little cluster of what passed as houses here. She wonders why the other woman wasn’t already at the harbour helping Tom with the preparations. Amaya didn’t own any houses in the area. Tom told Rachel that she lived, slept, and ate on the ship and that, when she wasn’t commandeering the crew, she holed herself in her own cabin. But now, she was waltzing up to Tom’s fleet, late to work. Perhaps she found some local man who was willing to tumble into bed with her and is just returning. Rachel thinks that seems likely; the prevailing stench didn’t seem to bother Amaya in the slightest.

Rachel tracks Amaya, watching as she intercepts Tom as he exits out of the ship they’ll take on this trip. Tom says something to her briefly, jerking his chin in Rachel’s direction. Amaya doesn’t make a response, she hardly seems to blink at all, but follows him as he returns to Rachel. Tom gathers her into his arms as soon as he reaches her; Rachel stares Amaya down over his shoulder but she doesn’t give them even a cursory glance. Instead, Rachel sees her father engage Amaya in some conversation and is entirely stunned to see the other woman soften towards him, actually paying him mind and nodding along. Her attention is torn away from the odd sight by Tom’s mouth on hers as he gives her a lingering kiss.

When he parts from her, he says, cupping her face, “Take care of yourself while I’m gone, love. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Rachel begins to pout again and lets a slight whine colour her words. “Can’t you stay Tom? Isn’t Amaya capable of going on her own? You always say she is.”

The woman in question turns away from Rachel’s father at the mention of her name and raises an arrogant eyebrow as she swaggers towards them. “If Thomas misses another trip, we can’t be sharing equal status and earnings in the company fairly anymore. I doubt very much he’d like to be my employee or leave these trips with a smaller purse.”

Rachel keeps her dignity as a lady by fending off a scowl. She does allow her lips to purse as she says, flatly, “Tom owns this company.”

“My name is on the papers as well; we have an equal partnership. I know you don’t run numbers but I do trust you understand what half means.”

Rachel huffs and switches tactics. “I’m surprised, Amaya, that a lady such as yourself can stand to work so hard. Don’t you ever wish to take time off to relax? Earning money can only do you so much good, even in desperate times. Surely with free room and board for months at a time, you can afford to go on holiday.”

Amaya has the audacity to look Tom up and down in a side glance. She smiles lazily, looking amused and as close to laughing as Rachel has ever seen her. “You are quite right Miss Rachel; wealth is not the source of happiness.”

“I’m glad we agree but I’m yet to hear you go on a fun trip. The sea must get tiresome and difficult to deal with after so long. I’m not sure how you can stand the smell of it. Especially here.”

Amaya shrugs, indifferent once more, and already turning away. “I’ve been at home in the ocean for longer than I care to remember. I suppose I’m used to it like you’re used to an air that cloys and chokes.” She nods briefly at Rachel’s father and says, “Take care Mr. James, my best wishes and condolences to you and your family.” Amaya pauses for just a beat longer for him to thank her and wish her well in return before striding away. In an afterthought, she calls out over her shoulder, “On board in five Brown or I might have to consider firing you.”

Rachel scoffs and almost spits something vile in front of her fiancée and father. She catches herself at the last second, telling herself to mind her surroundings and to wait until she sees Amelia again. Rachel sees her father looking at the wooden boards at his feet, failing to hide the small quirk of his lips. She resolves to ignore him for at least a week. She looks at Tom instead, returning the quivering set of her lips. He squeezes her arms gently and tries to rub some comfort into them. “She’s a difficult person, I know sweetheart. I’ll need to talk to her about respecting my wife, no matter how shitty a mood she’s in.” Tom also seems to notice her father’s preoccupation with Amaya’s oh-so-clever wit because he pinches her bottom and whispers lowly into her ear, “Make sure you’re a good girl while I’m gone. I wouldn’t mind having to punish you but I’m sure you’d much rather a reward.”

With a final, chaste kiss Tom turns away from her. He shakes her father’s hand, smiling at him warmly and wishing him well as if he hadn’t just said something filthy to his daughter. Rachel stands next to her father, ignoring him for his betrayal, and waves her fiancée goodbye. She chose well with this man, she thinks, as she watches him board. He’s exciting, nothing like the bland men who’ve all failed to keep her interest. And yet still, he’s rich, can behave in society, and is utterly devoted to her. Yes, she thinks again, she chose very well.

[jinsoulsscalp]

selfpara;

short story adapted from fable ‘little red cap’ written for storytelling class. will be further adapted into a graphic novel. i think it’s semi-good so i figured i’d post it. keep in mind that (ir you read it) it’s a first draft, and also that it gets really gory (i didn’t mean for it to, but it did oops). 

the concept i had to start with was one of a role reversal, so i tried to stay somewhat true to the original plot while also adding a role reversal element. a lot of what is written will have to be cut and/or reformatted to fit a graphic novel format.

‘When you grow up wearing rose coloured glasses, all the red flags just look like flags’. It was a sentiment that Red wished she didn’t relate to as much as she did, but alas, it wasn’t like she could go back in time and change anything. It wasn’t as if any wallowing and brooding would bring back her innocence-- or her grandmother, for that matter. Those who knew her told her time and time again that there was nothing she could have done; that she didn’t know any better, and that she wasn’t at fault. The Wolves disguised themselves as men-- they could shift-- and they tricked her. But at the end of the day, Red had told them where to go. She had taken them for their word. She had shown kindness and vulnerability and it came to bite her in the ass.

And it wouldn’t ever again.

With a final grimace at the horizon, the woman sighed, heaving herself to her feet and slinging her bag over her back before making her way out of the forest and into the small, decrepit shack by the river; the one no one dared go inside. It looked condemned, like it would crumble on your head the moment you stepped foot through the door, but Red knew firsthand that looks could be deceiving. And, besides-- the outside looked a lot worse than the inside. She’d spent years reinforcing the walls and the roof to make sure it was safe enough. The best way to keep trespassers away was to make sure it kept looking disgusting.

The door creaked as she inched it open, stepping inside to find a large, hulking silhouette across the room. The Huntsman. “You’re late,” he growled, deep and guttural.

“Yeah, well. It’s not like you had anything better to do than to wait for me,” Red retorted, sarcasm dripping off her tone. “I’m here now. Let’s go hunting.”

--- SIX YEARS PRIOR ---

“You’re late!” a voice cried, worried and frantic, amidst the sounds of pots and pans hitting each other. Red’s eyes flew open as she scrambled out of bed, haphazardly making sure she looked presentable in the grimy little mirror she kept by her window before flying down the stairs. Red was typically quite punctual, but she’d been tossing and turning all night, unable to fall asleep due to pure excitement. Maybe they wouldn’t be seeing each other under the best of circumstances, but Red loved any opportunity she had to see her grandmother.

“Sorry, sorry! I’ll be sure to walk quickly to make up for it!” the girl replied, kissing her mother on her cheek as she began to lace up her shoes.

The haggard middle-aged woman’s brow furrowed sternly. “Now, don’t say that! If you jostle the basket too much, the bottle of wine will shatter!” she exclaimed. “You need to be careful, love; I know you mean well, but this is important.”

Red straightened her posture dutifully, composing herself with a nod. That was right-- her grandmother wasn’t young and spry anymore. She was getting old and had fallen ill. Red wasn’t going to visit just for a social call, either, but instead bringing wine and fresh baking and other supplies-- her grandmother didn’t have the energy to do as much cooking in the daytime, so this would have to tide her over until Red finished school for the year and could go and stay with her to take care of her. “I promise, you don’t have to worry,” she soothed her mother, standing up to take the basket. “I’ll get this to grandmother, and I’ll be back before sundown. You can count on me.”

--- PRESENT DAY ---

“You’re throwing off the whole schedule,” the Huntsman complained as the pair prepared their weapons. His face was contorted into a permanent scowl, years of hardships and discomfort making grumpy his default. “We can only hunt the Wolves at night, Red. Someone catches us killing a seemingly defenseless man in broad daylight, and we’ll hang for it. You know damn well that they have most of the town’s elite under their thumb.”

“The sun set less than an hour ago. And I’m efficient.” A bland reply, with no emotion behind it, no punch to her words. The silver blades in her palms felt like extensions of her own limbs at this point. She’d taken down plenty of the Wolves in the years since she’d lost her family to them, and she had no doubt she’d take down more tonight. She had a score to settle, and she wasn’t going to rest until all of them were dead.

When the pair was primed and ready, with their vital organs protected and extra weapons strapped to their limbs, Red and the Huntsman disappeared into the woods, exchanging whispered ‘good luck’s before they split up for the night. If they needed help from their companion, they could call and the other would come running, but they typically did their best work alone. Trauma was something one had to work through on their own, and both Red and her mentor had a great deal of weight on their shoulders. They had both lost so much to the Wolves, and dealing with their pain was a solitary activity.

Sometimes Red wondered what would happen when it was all over and done with. When the Wolves were dead, would they keep in touch? Or was their connection purely for convenience-- did they just share the same goals and that was all that kept them together? Red couldn’t say she had anyone else in her corner besides the man who had found her on the brink of death when she was fourteen, bloodied and haunted by the sights she had just seen. After watching the Wolves tear apart not only her grandmother, but her mother too, they had come for her. She wouldn’t even be alive if the Huntsman hadn’t heard her cries and come to her rescue. He had taken care of her until she was well enough to take care of herself; an orphaned teenager, living alone in the home she once shared with her mom, going through the motions to make it through another day. When she was older, and stronger, he’d offered her vengeance. He’d offered her training and guidance. And when she was old enough, he’d offered her a place at his side, hunting the Wolves that hid in the shadows, tearing into any sad sack who was stupid enough to travel alone.

Really, he had no use for her beyond helping him kill the Wolves. And she did best on her own anyway. If you didn’t care for anyone, you didn’t have anyone to lose, right?

Red let a little sigh go, taking her usual perch in a tree by the path. The Wolves frequented these parts-- visitors from other towns who didn’t know any better would pass through in the night, and they’d be ambushed by the men would could shift into beasts. Red just had to wait until someone came along.

--- SIX YEARS PRIOR ---

She was late. Red had always been absent-minded and easily distracted, and after a conversation with a neighbor that had gone on a little too long, she was running behind. If she was going to be home by that evening, she was going to have to take a short cut.

So that was what she had done, cutting through the forest instead of taking the well-travelled road that curved around it. There had always been rumors about people disappearing on this trail, but Red didn’t buy it. They were just tales told to children to keep them from running off into the woods. And if she went this way, she’d get to see her grandmother quicker.

She’d walked for hours without seeing another soul, protected from the sun by the large trees spreading their limbs across the path. She wished she’d brought some way of keeping track of the time with her-- by her approximation, based on the sun, it was nearly noon, but she had no way of telling for sure. Red was getting tired and hungry, though, so she sat on a log, opening her basket to indulge in the snacks her mom packed for her.

It was then that she saw him. Scrambling out of the trees and breathing heavy, face covered in gashes and sweat. He looked like he’d just seen a ghost, and his clothes were caked in mud. Red gasped as her eyes locked with his, hand coming to her mouth.

“Are…...Are you okay? What happened?” she asked, putting her basket aside so she could jump up and go to him.

“What is a nice girl like you doing out here all alone?” he wheezed out with a sly smile, scrawny, slimy hands coming to grip her forearm (for support, she assumed).

Red’s stomach sank. Her instincts were telling her to run. Telling her something was very wrong. But she associated that with the state of the man in front of her; surely she was just scared of what had done this to him. No matter how he looked, he was clearly in need, and what right did she have to ignore him just because he looked a little ragged? “I’m going to see my grandmother-- bring her some baking from my mother…..but, I-- you didn’t answer my question! What happened? Do you need help?”

She felt the man’s eyes study her face, dark pupils baring into her soul. “I need medical attention, my dear. I don’t imagine you have bandages in that little basket of yours.”

“No….No, I don’t but…..my grandmother surely has bandages in her home,” Red told him soothingly. He was shaking. Gently pulling her arms away from him, she went to get the rest of her sandwich, offering it to him. “Here-- please take this. I can’t go with you-- I have to be careful carrying the wine in my basket, but her cabin isn’t too far from here. The first house you come across. It’s blue, with a flower garden and a scarecrow out front. Hurry there, and just knock on her door and tell her that Red sent you. She’ll get you all the help you need.”

--- PRESENT DAY ---

It didn’t take much waiting for the first Wolf to show up. A homeless beggar came wandering across the path within minutes of Red taking her watch, and before she knew it, a scrawny, sick looking man began stalking behind him. He was without a doubt one of the Wolves-- torn clothes, covered in dirt, sickly skin. And they eyes. The beady, predatory eyes. No matter how they disguised themselves, you could tell by their eyes that they weren’t human.

Red jumped down from her perch, landing nimbly behind the beggar and the disguised wolf, dagger in her hand shimmering in the moonlight. “Run,” she advised the poor homeless man before lunging at his would-be attacker and pinning him to the ground. Before she could get him into a proper hold, he shifted, turning into a huge drooling carnivore, hungry for her blood, throwing her off of him.

Red rolled back onto her feet, eyes narrowing. With a skilled hand, she swiped at it, just nicking the creature, but that was enough. It’s reaction to the silver made it howl in pain, and she took that opportunity to jump forward, plunging her knife into the beast’s chest.

It was dead. She’d saved one more person from falling prey, but did it even matter anymore? It felt like she was fighting a hydra-- she took one wolf down, and two more sprung up in its place. She could kill all the wolves she wanted, but it wouldn’t bring her family back. It wouldn’t make her feel any more whole.

But at least this gave her purpose. Instead of drifting along, lost and alone, she was channelling her hurt and anger into something. And for now, that had to be enough.

--- SIX YEARS PRIOR ---

She’d been walking right into a trap. She was the world’s stupidest mouse, sauntering right in without a care in the world, and now she was going to pay.

When she’d finally gotten to her grandmother’s house, it had felt off. The front door was ajar. The curtains were drawn. And she could see blood on the doorstep.

She’d rationalized it all, though. Clearly the man she’d met on the path had arrived. He’d probably left the door open in his haste to get treatment, and the blood was likely his! And her grandmother was ill; perhaps the curtains had been drawn because the sunlight was bothersome. Red could explain everything away in her head. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was ever wrong, so why would that change now?

The sight she found once she was inside, however, wasn’t something she even knew how to process. The blood she’d seen on the doorstep had just been the beginning-- the whole cabin was covered in blood, cabinets and walls splattered in dark crimson like it was some sort of twisted Jackson Pollock painting for some sick fuck who thought himself edgy. The bed in the corner of the one-room home was empty, and there was a body on the ground. Face-down and unrecognizable; clearly it was the source of the blood. With a sinking feeling, Red had recognized the nightgown the corpse was wearing-- long, blue, and floral. It was her grandmother.

And sitting at the kitchen table, lounging with his feet up, was the man she’d met on the path.

She didn’t have time to scream or cry before he jumped at her, clapping a hand over her mouth, his other arm wrapping around her torso and keeping her from flailing her arms. A moment later, she’d been thrown across the room, blacking out when her head hit a wall.

When Red woke up, she was bound and gagged, sitting at her grandmother’s table. The man was still there, still watching her. He told her he was a wolf, and that the only reason she was still alive was because she was bait. “A sweet young girl like you?” he’d crooned. “Someone will come looking for you before long. I’ll have myself a feast when they come.”

He’d sat with her and waited as tears ran down her cheeks, sobs muffled by the gag. Evening turned into night, and while Red grew more and more tired, she couldn’t sleep. How could anyone sleep in a situation like the one she was in? She felt like if she fell asleep, she would never wake up again-- and considering her circumstances, that wasn’t necessarily an irrational feeling.

In the early hours of the morning, she heard the calls. Her mother’s worried voice, getting closer and closer. The man-- the Wolf-- grinned at Red, an evil grin, putting his finger against his lips mockingly. She couldn’t make any noise if she wanted to, and he knew that. This was just a game to him. The apex predator toying with his food. Having a little fun before his hunger was sated.

Red couldn’t look away. She couldn’t close her eyes. She was transfixed as the man shifted into his beastly form, digging his large, jagged teeth into her mother’s body as soon as she came into the cabin. Red thrashed around frantically. Desperately. She tried to scream or get free, ropes chafing against her wrists. She finally managed to get the gag loose, yelling and crying for help-- there were no houses nearby, but surely if she was loud enough someone would hear? The wolf turned his sights on her, the same beady eyes the man used to look her over on the path before, now being used by a wolf, appreciating its dessert.

The pain was unbearable. She’d gotten scrapes while playing outside before, and she’d broken an arm as a child when she’d fallen out of a tree, but this was so much different. Her entire body felt like it was on fire, and she could feel every spot where incisors punctured her skin.

And then, as quick as it had begun, it was over. The wolf slumped forward on top of her, making it all but impossible for her to breathe, but it had stopped. Opening her teary eyes, Red saw a man pulling the beast off of her. A real man this time-- eyes kind instead of dark and predatory. Before she blacked out again, she heard him whispering to her. Assuring her that she would be okay now. That he was there, and that the wolf was dead. That he would find her help. That was all she could remember before slipping unconscious once more.

--- PRESENT DAY ---

It was a successful night. By the time the sun began to rise, Red had killed four wolves, leaving their carcasses to rot by the side of the path. Anyone who knew what the Wolves were capable of would be grateful, even if the sight of the corpse was likely unbearable. Taking her time in the crisp early-morning air, Red walked back to the riverside shack. At first she assumed she was the first to get back (usually the Huntsman was in the common area waiting for her), but as she began to unstrap weapons from her thighs, she heard him. She heard low, muted sobs from the other room. No one else knew about this place. It could only be him.

Cautiously walking over to the back room, Red peeked her head in to see him, sitting on the ground, picture in his hand. It looked like a painting-- one of the ones families got commissioned, so that they’d have a portrait of their family. As Red came closer, she saw the people in the portrait; the man was obviously him (she could tell by the stature), but there was also a beautiful woman. And a little girl, no more than twelve.

Red had lost everything to the Wolves. And now she’d made the connection-- she wasn’t the only one.

Gently taking the portrait from the Huntsman’s hands, Red swallowed hard, giving her mentor a hug and rubbing his back comfortingly. For the first time in years, she let herself cry, and she whispered soothingly to him. “I’ve got you,” she murmured. “I’m here. It will all be okay.”

Maybe she didn’t believe everything she was saying. But, though she refused to admit it, this was her father figure. This was the man that had given her a future. And someday, she’d help him take his back.

[dawnstruck]

fiat lux

Sangwoo is used to the sight of blood but the way it is diluted by the water here makes it seem more, makes it worse. There is just so much of it, too much, and Yoonbum, with his head tilted back, his scarred chin pointing upwards, might just drown in his own misery.

[Read on AO3] Trigger warning for suicide attempt!

“The killing was the best part. It was the dying I couldn't take.”

Craig Volk, Northern Exposure, A-Hunting We Will Go, 1991

Sangwoo does not believe in fate or luck or destiny. He does believe in coincidences.

Coincidences are what decide over life and death. If that girl he killed two weeks ago had just picked a different bar to get drunk in, she would not have gone home with him, would not have ended up in pieces. If the police officers had not mentioned his non-existent cousin dropping by his house, Yoonbum might well have had the chance to call those very same police offers to inform them off of the chained up woman in the basement. If Sangwoo's professor had not canceled class because of a bad case of food poisoning, Sangwoo would have never returned in time to prevent a greater disaster.

As it is, he is standing at a red light on his way to university when his phone vibrates on the passenger seat. He throws a quick glance at the screen and clicks his tongue in displeasure.

Prof sick, class canceled, Seong-Ho's text reads simply so, instead of driving ahead and down the main street, Sangwoo takes a left and turns his car around.

It takes him a good ten minutes to make it back, to park the car in front of the house, slamming the door for good measure, just as a heads-up for Yoonbum, that small surge of anticipation. The annoyance from before has dissipated and he jiggles his key ring in his hand, contemplating what to do with the newly presented free time.

He steps into the hallway and sets his shoes aside at the entrance. The house is silent. He frowns.

“Bum,” he calls, first sticking his head into the bedroom where he had left Yoonbum, but he's not there. The kitchen is empty, too, as is the living room.

“Hey, Bum,” Sangwoo says, rapping his knuckles against the door of the bathroom. There is no answer, but when he tries the handle he finds it locked.

“Open the door, Bum,” he repeats, louder and with a spike of impatience in his voice. He doesn't care whether Bum is taking a shit or having a wank, but he does not like being ignored.

“Open the fucking door, Bum, or I'm fucking gonna break it down!” he threatens, kicking against the wood. His abused toes scream at him, but it only fuels his anger, so he slams his fist down as well.

No reaction, neither the click of the lock nor a nervous sound from inside.

With a frustrated grunt, Sangwoo swivels away and stomps back into the bedroom, into the wardrobe, throwing open the hatch in the floor and making his way down into the basement. He grabs the sledgehammer, the very same he had used months ago to break Yoonbum's spindly legs, and then he climbs back upstairs. The door doesn't stand a chance, the thin wood splintering pathetically under the heavy impact.

The sight that greets Sangwoo is not what he had expected. In his searing ire, he had not expected much of anything, really, apart from Yoonbum sitting crouched into a corner and whimpering in fear.

Instead, the scene is as taken from an abstract painting, single parts that make sense on their own, but not when put in put in context with each other.

The tiny window has been slipped open to let in the fresh morning air. The bathroom walls are stark white and cool, but the water in the tub is still hot, vague steam rising like mist from a meadow. Sangwoo is used to the sight of blood but the way it is diluted by the water here makes it seem more, makes it worse. There is just so much of it, too much, and Yoonbum, with his head tilted back, his scarred chin pointing upwards, might just drown in his own misery.

His eyes are closed, sunken in. A naked razor blade has slipped from his finger that dangle across the rim of the tub. Sangwoo himself uses an electric razor which means that Bum must has slipped a a package of blades into his pocket when they went to the convenience store four days ago. This was premeditated, this was planned.

That thought is what finally drives the reality of the situation home, jerks Sangwoo from his stupor.

Yoonbum tried to kill himself. He tried to kill himself and he did it when he thought Sangwoo would be gone for at least a couple of hours.

Sangwoo's body moves as though on autopilot. He dives forward, shoves his arms into the water and lifts Yoonbum out of the tub. Bum, on the best of days, is merely made of skin and bones, but now he is almost ephemeral. He's not dead weight, though, never dead weight, for there is a faint pulse still fluttering against his neck. And Sangwoo used to think Bum was pale but that was nothing in comparison to the way he is now. He seems ashen, burnt out, the fire gone out of him.

He sets him down on the cool floor and then pillages the shelf where he keeps the towels and wash cloths. Bum had just done laundry yesterday, had neatly folded the towels and put them away, and Sangwoo feels slightly hysteric at the irony of it all.

The towels are old and threadbare, leftovers from when his parents were still alive, so he makes quick work of ripping the fabric into narrow, uneven strips, before his shaking hands attempt to wrap them around Bum's arms.

This time, Bum had cut along the forearms instead of sideways across the wrists, following the teal line of his veins. The skin splits open like a glacier, a gaping wound where there should only be soft smoothness. And Sangwoo had wanted to slice him up, to peel the flesh from his bones, but not like this, never like this, Yoonbum was not allowed to make that decision on his own. This was not his body to mutilate, not his life to snuff out.

“Don't you fucking dare,” Sangwoo hisses through clenched teeth. His cheeks feel hot and his gaze unfocused. He has never felt so out of control. There is something wet on his face but he does not pay it any attention.

Yoonbum had tried to leave him and that is a worse betrayal than the incident with the rat poison, worse than his attempt at escape and his panicked pleas to strangers. This Sangwoo cannot forgive.

Once the makeshift bandages are tightly secured, though red is already seeping into the white, Sangwoo lifts Bum up again. He carries him into the hallway and then out of the house. He does not bother with his shoes, just manages to wrestle Bum onto the passenger seat, before getting behind the wheel himself.

Bum sits like a ragdoll, his body sunken together. He is wearing his skirt, the wet heavy fabric clinging to his emaciated frame, soaking the cover of the seat. Sangwoo reaches out to fasten his seatbelt and then, another thought occurring to him, he pulls his own leather belt from the loops in his jeans and ties Bum's arms to the headrest, hoping the elevated position will slow the blood flow.

Only then does he jam the key into the ignition and start the car.

Distantly, he is aware that he should not be driving right now, that he cannot concentrate on the traffic at all. Everything is very far away, the traffic lights, the other people.

Somehow, he makes it into the next district anyway and stops the car on the side of the road. They are still a couple of blocks away, but he is worried about security cameras catching his license plate. He kills the engine, gets out, rounds the car, opens the door, unties Yoonbum and then lifts him into his arms.

He's barely take a few steps when he can tell that people are already staring at him, him in his socks and his frantic grimace, Yoonbum clad in bloody bandages, unconsciousness and a dead girl's skirt. No one bothers to stop him, though, to offer help. People are like that. They'll gape and goggle but never say a word. It's just as well. Willful ignorance makes everything easier.

The hospital is an older one, its facade bland, bordering on ugly, but the sliding doors swish open before he can even catch his reflection in them.

Sangwoo steps up to the counter, towering over the pretty nurse typing away at a computer. Her gaze reluctantly crawls up to him and his fingers clench into Yoonbum's limbs.

“Save him,” he says.

They take Bum away and sit Sangwoo down with a clipboard, asking him to fill out the necessary paperwork.

For the first five minutes, Sangwoo just stares down at the tiny black letter, none of it making any sense to him. Then he begins to compose the lies.

He fills in fake names, both for Yoonbum and for himself. A fake address, too. No allergies known, no previous illnesses. History of self-harm, potential suicide attempts. Blood type unknown. History of depression and overall mental instability. Not on any medication.

Eventually, a nurse comes to take the clipboard from him again, asks him whether he would like to talk to a psychologist. He shakes his head. Does he know how his friend is insured? Another no.

“I just found him in his apartment when he wouldn't answer his phone,” he tells her, hands like claws on his knees, “I didn't think to grab his wallet.”

“Of course,” the nurse tells him kindly, “We'll get that all sorted out later. Don't you worry. Do you know how we could contact his family?”

“His parents are died when he was little,” Sangwoo says, “And then his grandparents, too. He doesn't have anyone left. There's only me.”

She gives him another understanding smile and then leaves him to wait in silence.

Eventually, a doctor comes out to see him.

“We've given him transfusions and properly bandaged him up,” the woman says, “He's still weak and unconscious, but he should be alright, physically. It seems you found him just in time.”

She pauses, allows him a moment to let the information sink in. Then she continues.

“What we are most worried about is his mental state.”

“Yes,” Sangwoo nods, “He's been depressed for a long time. I could never get him to see a specialist. I don't know what suddenly set him off.”

“Mental illnesses are unpredictable,” she hums, “An outside cause might not be needed. There is, of course, the matter of his injured legs. And, uh, potential gender dysphoria.”

Another moment as she waits to see whether that term means anything to him.

“The skirt,” he says and she nods.

“He was wearing women's clothing. There is also the fact that while men often a prefer more traumatic and therefore more... efficient approach when trying to commit suicide, women tend to use less invasive methods, such as poison or slitting their wrists.” “He's gay,” Sangwoo says, “He's gay and kind of conflicted, but I don't know about that other stuff.” “We can figure that out later,” she tells him calmly, “For now, we'd like to keep him overnight.” “Can I see him?” Sangwoo asks, “Just till he wakes up? I don't want him to be alone.”

“Of course,” she says, “I would probably be for the best.”

She leads him into the hospital room then. His socked feet shuffle across the tiled floor.

“When he wakes up or if there i any sort of emergency, please push this button,” the doctor explains, pointing to the device at the headboard, “A psychologist should talk to him right away.”

“Thank you,” Sangwoo says, sitting down on one of the plastic chairs.

“You are a good friend,” the woman tells him and leaves.

There are two beds in the room. One is occupied by an old woman, hooked up to a medical ventilator. The sound of it is too loud and grating, especially since the woman looks half-dead anyway. She still seems more alive than Bum.

Bum is whiter than the starched sheets, whiter than the blank walls, whiter than the disinfected floor. His still damp hair is a mess, plastered to his forehead and hiding half of his face. His lips are almost blue.

“If you die,” Sangwoo says, “I'm going to kill you.”

Yoonbum wakes up bleary-eyed and almost delirious. They must have giving him painkillers or tranquilizers or both. His eyes, when they find Sangwoo, are calm.

“Mmmm,” he hums, no words attached to it, just that single continuous sound. It's certainly better than the endless aria of the old woman's respirator.

“Fucking finally,” Sangwoo says and gets up.

He finds a wheelchair somewhere down the hallway and takes it back with him to Bum's room.

“Don't put up a fuzz,” he tells Bum and carefully removes the IV from Bum's arm.

Bum hums again. His head lolls back when Sangwoo heaves him out of the bed and into the wheelchair, but he does not resist.

Sangwoo does his best to look inconspicuous, has already rolled up his shirt sleeves that were tinged red.  A nurse had dropped by to deliver a plastic bag with the clothes Bum had worn. They were probably ruined now, but Sangwoo did not want any evidence to be left behind, so he grabs the bag as well, lets it dangle from one of the handlebars.

Then they leave. They make their way down the hallway, Sangwoo making one-sided conversation as though he were just taking Bum for a stroll. He smiles at the nice lady who holds the elevator for them.

The foyer is too busy, so he takes the side entrance out of the building. The sidewalk here is slightly uneven, so Bum jostles around a bit. Eventually, Sangwoo abandons the wheelchair in a side alley, making sure not to leave any fingerprints. He grabs Bum and the plastic bag and then treks back to the car.

He left the doors unlocked, but no one seems to have notice. He puts Bum onto the wet passenger seat, fastens the seat belt again. Then he drives them home.

By the the time they are there, the tranquilizers must have let up and Bum is more awake. He grunts and makes choked little sounds when Sangwoo carries him into the house.

“No,” he moans. His hand feebly pushes against Sangwoo's shoulder. “Please no.”

“Shh,” Sangwoo whispers, “It's alright.”

He goes to set Bum down in the bedroom, tucks him in under the blanket. Then he returns to the bathroom. The smashed door is a hopeless case, of course, and he'll have to get it replaced at some point. For now, he just drains the water, rinses out the tub to get rid of the red residue still clinging to the porcelain. He throws out the ripped towels and the razor blades, mops the floor, closes the window and sprays some air freshener until the room smells more like chemicals and apple blossoms instead of copper and slow decay.

He takes off his ruined shirt, throws that away, too, steps close to the sink and lathers his hands and forearms with soap and hot water until his skin is pink.

When he looks up, his face in the mirror is a mask made of too many cracks.

Yoonbum is fully awake and coherent now. He still looks like death warmed over, but he is alive and that is all that matters.

When he sees Sangwoo, he breaks.

“Don't,” he whispers, weakly scooting back on the mattress, “Please don't, just let me- let me-”

“Let you die?” Sangwoo asks, stepping farther into the room, “Is that what you are trying to say? You want me to let you die?”

Bum doesn't answer, just trembles, cowers behind his bandaged arms. Sangwoo sinks down to his knees in front of him, grabs his wrists till Bum whimpers in pain.

“I won't let you die, you hear me?!” he thunders, “You cannot die! You belong to me!”

“No,” Yoonbum shakes his head. There are tears spilling down his cheeks. “I don't. I don't wanna be here.”

“Do you want me to chain you up again?” Sangwoo demands, “Is that it? You wanna go back to the basement?”

Bum shakes his head harder now, cries harder.

“I've given you everything you need,” Sangwoo reminds him, “I feed you at my table. I let you sleep in my bed. I share everything with you. And this is how you repay me?”

Yoonbum's mint green hospital gown is slipping off his shoulder and it only takes a moment to wrestle it off of him. Underneath it, he is naked safe for the bandages, white on white, and his entire frame shakes under the hiccuping sobs.

Sangwoo pulls him into his arms, so that their skin is pressed close, nothing separating them, no lies, no pretenses.

“You won't leave me, Bum,” Sangwoo says, tightening his grip, “Promise you won't leave me.”

But Bum just keeps crying, hot tears Sangwoo's collarbone. Sangwoo digs his fingernails into Yoonbum's sides.

Bum stutters out a breath. “I promise,” he says, the words breaking apart at the end, “I promise, Sangwoo, I love you, I won't leave you.”

“That's right,” Sangwoo says, rocking him in his arms like a child, “I love you, too. You'll stay with me forever. I love you.”

For now, the chains can stay in the basement. For now, his words will do.