#never on purpose mind but........ a streak this long????? ......what's the harm in not watching his step here at the apex of everything..

[meistoshi]

one thing about satoshi is he is such a good loser.

[toms-cherry-trees]

First of all congrats on your 1500 followers! 🥳

I love your work so I’d like to send in a gif request for your milestone celebration. The type of blurb I’m thinking about is angst but on the other side I don’t really mind so do what feels best for you!

Thank you for your request! Honestly I feel like this gif makes the perfect scenario for some good ol angst so thank you for sending it! I did drift from the gif into an scenario of my own but you can sort of see where the gif could fit in this

'Mars 1.5K Celebration'

Portrait || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warnings: Death, mentions of infertility, Tommy cheating and then regretting it

Swirls of dust danced in the stale air. They piled in every corner, every surface, hung from the drapes in masses of dirt, and elevated into puffs every time something disturbed them with their step. But it had been a long time since someone disturbed the stillness.

Amidst all sat a man. The blue of his eyes had lost their spark, the overgrown and unkempt beard had obscured his sharp features. Streaks of grey crossed his one lustrous hair. A cigarette hung from his fingers, a cigarette he failed to bring to his mouth, letting it turn to ash and crumble down, repeating the process over and over again until the cigar case was empty. In his other hand hung a bottle of fine Scotch, but he would not have noticed the difference between it and the cheapest stout; everything in his mouth turned to dust. He himself was turning to dust.

Tommy sat before a painting of a woman. Her smile reminded anyone who looked at her of the famous Gioconda; the sweetness, the cheekiness. Her piercing eyes follow you across the room, watching you through thick eyelashes casting shadow in her cheekbones. Tommy had once been fortunate enough to have the real thing in his arms. And then he had been foolish enough to waste it.

Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her. Her hair blowing in the sea air, while they were en route to their honeymoon in New York. Smiling at him over her shoulder in a gala, wearing that red dress that brought Tommy to his knees. Tangled in his sheets, her legs intertwined with his own and cradling his hand in her bosom, the gentle whisper of her breathing lulled Tommy into dreamless sleep. 

He also remembered her tears. How they tracked down her cheeks every time she got her period, yet another failure to have a child of their own. The way they glossed over her eyes while they waited together in the doctor’s office, hands laced together and her leg bouncing nervously. The way they dampened the pillow for days after, while Tommy attempted futilely to soothe her woes and assure her that he would love her, baby or no baby

Oh, but nothing matched her fury. When red clouded her judgement, the ground trembled and the windows rattled with the power of her ferocity. Tommy had only once found himself in the receiving end of her tempestuousness, and not once in his life had he felt so diminished by a woman so sweet. The vase she had flung in his direction had never been meant to harm him, but had surely served the purpose to give him a taste of terror.

Yet nothing matched the calm, serene apathy in her features when she awaited for Tommy, sitting at the foot of the bed, her two suitcases neatly packed at her side. When Tommy jokingly asked her if she was planning a trip, she threw a bunch of papers in his face. When his eyes fell on the letter, all colour drained from his face. Saliva turned to cement in his mouth, keeping him from spilling any of the hundreds of excuses that had formed in his brain. But whatever train of thought he had was cut short by her dry words.

“I cannot tell what is worse, Thomas. That you got another woman pregnant and tried to get her to rid of the child, or the fact that you wrote the letter from your own fucking hand”

No amount of explaining, of begging, or excusing himself had been able to undo the damage. It had been a moment of weakness, just one, an impuissance of the flesh, it had meant nothing, it was just business, a transaction, a desperate moment of need. The excuses tied in his tongue and made him trip over his words, but they all came down to the same thing. He had failed her, he had failed the one person who had managed to love him past all his walls. This only added insult to injury at their fruitless attempts to start a family of their own. The fact he said it was ‘one time’ made it worse; one time it took for her to fall pregnant. One time unlike his wife

Tommy had actually fallen to his knees, albeit accidentally, in his haste to make her stay, promising everything that was his to promise and more in exchange for one more chance. But it was all in vain, and he was forced to watch her leave into the night, leaning into the threshold for support, for he did not trust his knees to hold his weight. A cold, heavy weight settled in the pit of his stomach, a sense of impending doom tightening his heart as her car became smaller and smaller into the road.

It did not take long for him to see her again. The very next day, in fact, when he received a call from the police to identify a body in the mortuary. A car had veered off the road and fallen into the water, probably trying to evade an animal. He did not need them to pull back the sheet; all he needed to see was the ring in her hand, the same ring he put in her finger five autumns prior. He had felt the cold of the jewel against his skin in bed, and his lips had touched the black stone when he kissed his wife’s hand. He asked them not to remove the sheet. He didn’t want to see her face. The same reason he demanded the casket be kept closed during the burial

If he did not see her face, he could pretend she was away, somewhere, anywhere in the world that could bring her happiness. He could pretend she had not spent her last hours heartbroken, betrayed by the one person who should have guarded her back. He could pretend she would one day come back, with her smiles and her tears and her groundbreaking fury, with the ring in her hand and his name on her lips. 

The moment he returned home, his gaze landed in the portrait. She had sat for that painting only for his pleasure, wasting hours and days in the library, her back stiff and her eyes watering from the effort not to blink as the canvas and the artist did their best to capture her beauty, dolled up in her wedding dress and her hands laced in her lap. The veil hanging from her hair and pooling around her in a sea of white gauze

Swiftly, Tommy had her portrait moved from the gallery and hung in his room. Spending his nights and days under her gaze, tracing with his finger the curve of her smile, the line of her chin. It became his obsession, his only reason to wake in the morning. To look into those eyes, to dream of her hands on his chest, to reminisce in the warmth of her lips. Long after her smell had faded from her pillows and her clothes, he still found comfort in the painting. He could not bear to be away from it, not for one second. Clinging onto the very last memory of what he had and had lost. Even as years passed and his life withered away, he sat there, in front of that image of his wife, the door always unlocked for the day she would return. 

And until then, he would wait.

[watevermelon]

Same Old Love | Kaeya (Genshin) x Traveler!Reader

✧ Summary: Kaeya was mysterious in every way that made you wary. From the gleam in his eye to how easy it was for him to flirt, it made you wonder how much he was presenting was truly real. Not wanting to get sucked in, you swore not to fall for the Cavalry Captain. At least, that was the plan, right? ➳ Notes: Angst with a happy ending ➳ A/N: Thank you so much for the ask!! This was fun to write ((I feel like I write so much angsty/jealousy fics haha)) I’m just getting into genshin and so please feel free to send in requests for these cuties <3 @breathings-of-the-heart​

Navigation 

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You had some worries about Kaeya, dubbed “The Handsome Mr. Kaeya” by Paimon.

There was no doubt that he was attractive, his ever present smirk and exposed chest was enough to signify to anyone that even Kaeya was well aware of his looks. But he tended to wield his words like a double edged sword - using his words for an express purpose.

It was admirable, in a way. He was the loyal Cavalry Captain who looked out for Mondstadt’s best interest. And while he had misled you on this pirate treasure adventure, there was no harm really done. In fact, from the way he prattled about haircuts and eyepatches inherited from his parents, you were already sure that it was simply a tale being spun for Paimon to latch onto.

At the end of the day, Kaeya still compensated you for your time and provided you with a higher-level weapon. The criminals were caught and the Knights were credited for another arrest of an infamous Treasure Hunter. It was a win-win situation that you very quickly put behind you as another job done.

The entire quest had not really bothered you - it was not like you had not withheld anything either. You ran from clue to clue without updating Kaeya on your progress, with the express intent of snagging some of this treasure yourself.

It was a really smart move on his part and, for whatever reason, it had the inverse effect on you - it made you want to get closer to Kaeya.

Paimon grumbled for all of a day before she prattled onto something new, complaining about the returning ruin guard by the temple or the way Venti sassed her. But you often found yourself hanging around Good Hunter or  Angel’s Share, wondering if you would be able to run into him again.

It was no surprise that Kaeya was always busy, Jean had mentioned before that Kaeya was the one who often wrapped up every physical incident that occurred in both the city and outer plains of Mondstadt.

And so it was easy to lose track of him, the image of Kaeya still present in your mind, just pushed back in the further recess as you continued in your struggle to find clues about your brother. When whispers on the street spoke of a Dark Knight hero, you were pleasantly surprised to see Diluc patrolling the streets from the shadows.

The last thing you had expected was to team-up with the very man who ran opposite to the Knights, but you learned how oddly sweet Diluc was in that short amount of time. His double life of fighting off the abyss army single-handedly to running the largest Winery on the continent - Diluc’s workload was no easy feat.

You were just out of the clear, Huffman gone to deal with the slimes when a resounding clap started from the dining area of the bar. Kaeya stood and approached you both, you turned to Diluc and he had the flattest, most unimpressed expression on.

You stood mostly silent in that conversation, Diluc with his arms and chin held high. Kaeya had reassured him that the secret was best kept that way, eyes glinting mischievously as they went from the winery owner to you.

You only stared right back, as if Kaeya’s face would give off exactly what he was looking for. Instead, he simply smiled at the both of you and left when Diluc said he was closing the bar. Diluc thanked you for your assistance, reassuring you that in case you need help, he was a willing hand.

When you walked out the bar then, Kaeya was still right outside, chatting casually with some of the late bar-goers that sat at the picnic table. Just as he made eye-contact with you, he bid himself goodbye from the group and fell into step with you.

“Paimon doesn’t trust blue-haired, eye-patched men anymore.” She started next to you.

“That’s good I’m a blue-haired, eye-patched handsome young man.” Kaeya shot back, to which she rolled her eyes. He then turned to you with the same open smirk as usual, “And here I was thinking I could make you my assistant.”

Was he flirting with you?

It took you a second to question this internally before Paimon scoffed, “Ugh, I’m going ahead to the inn. I don’t think I can stand watching you make kissy-faces at each other after the day we had.”

You waved a hand in her direction to smack her, but she was already flying away up and out of reach.

Turning back to the Captain, you were surprised to see that Kaeya was still looking at you, not even toward Paimon as she fled into the night.

Remembering his last statement, you shot back, “Think you could handle me?”

“Confidence, it looks very good on you.” Kaeya replied as his smile widened. He took a single step closer, lowering his voice next to your ear and continuing. “But the real question is if you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”

You stood your ground, ignoring the shiver that ran up your spine, “I always like to try new things.”

“I look forward to it.” Kaeya straightened, lightly grabbing your hand in one of his own and raising it to his lips. “Until then, traveler.”

To think that such a simple action, hardly anything scandalous, had lingered on your skin the entire night. You remembered the way his lips felt against your hand, how striking his blue eyes bore into your own. Kaeya was extremely dangerous, able to catch your attention and keep it for hours on end.

The next day you had a commission about dismantling a rising Hilichurl camp, a perfect distraction away from the eye-patched hunk that kept plaguing your thoughts. The last thing you expected was for Kaeya to see you.

“Looks like our honorary knight continues their do-good streak.”

“It’s the least I can do.” You replied back, a sassy hand on your waist.

“Why don’t I accompany you?”

You wanted to scream.

Paimon actually did groan before stating she was going to stay in the city.

And suddenly, your distraction was running exactly opposite to your intention. With Kaeya joining your party, the Cavalry Captain was making himself decidedly known you.

He led you around a cliff, showing you a higher area where you could survey the camp before bursting in guns blazing. There were six Hilichurls, some slimes scattered about and two towers already set-up in this enemy campsite.

You decided to stick together, coming in from the high ground and slamming your weapon into the ground at unsuspecting enemies. It felt nice to fight alongside someone again, oftentimes you were alone in your adventures. Paimon would yell words of encouragement, but never would she actually lift a finger to fight. But Kaeya was reliable, freezing enemies into place and shattering them where they stood.

Taking down some of the outer-rim electro Hilichurls equipped with bows, you were nearly finished with clearing the entire camp. You grabbed the pyro slimes and exploded them near the towers, taking down the camp with them. With the camp almost completely disassembled, you heard the tell-tale electronic power-up that only signified one enemy.

A ruin guard.

Hunched over, you watched as multiple missiles took aim on the nearby unsuspecting Cavalry Captain. Running the best you could, you threw decorum out the window as you all but tackled the poor man out of harm's way.

Rolling a few times, there was no surprised yelp from the man beneath you. He simply allowed you to take the wheel until you came to a stop, hovering over his body. Kaeya was undoubtedly taller than you, but you were face-to-face as he smirked beneath you.

“Wow, not that I’m against this.” Kaeya started, a quip ready. “But ask me out to dinner first.”

You flushed and stood up immediately, “I was saving you!”

“I’ll let you save me any day of the week.” Kaeya replied, earning a half-assed scowl on your behalf. He only laughed at you, calling your attempted look of intimidation only served to make a cute pout instead.

You huffed and considered leaving him with the ruin guard.

From then on there was no doubt about it - Kaeya was flirting with you.

And you were openly flirting back, if of course he decided a less obnoxious moment. In between commissions and nights at Angel’s Share, Kaeya flirtations were growing more and more brazen. It was one thing to kiss the top of your hand in greeting and another entirely for Kaeya to throw his hand across your hair, leaning in to openly bury his nose in your hair.

Diluc called you both disgusting.

Tonight, you entered Cat Tail’s semi-inconspicuously to get a drink. Paimon had long caught onto your game, saying that she surprisingly approved of Kaeya, since after all he was still a good guy in some ways.

But, she still was not exactly a fan of you too making “kissy-faces” at each other, her words. And so tonight you were flying solo, Paimon opting to annoy Amber instead tonight as they tracked down some abyss mage or other.

You tried your best to hang around the bar, looking around the tavern to see if the object of your desire was anywhere around. You meandered for a few minutes, saying greetings to other bargoers that had recognized you, before approaching the bartender if Kaeya has been around

The bartender recognized you immediately. It was hard not to place one of the few new people in Mondstadt, especially one that was crushing much of the country's enemies. Diona had mentioned before that you were a friend of Diluc’s, often more than just a customer at the rival tavern. No, you were seen running around the city with the red-head at random times.

She said the worst thing you could have ever suspected.

“I think Kaeya has a hot date tonight.”

You felt a lump in your throat form, but tried to keep your response guarded. “Oh?”

The bartender continued, “Yeah, I’m not sure if it was Paula? Or Maggie tonight? But you know the captain - always changing up his escapades.”

“Right, of course.” You replied back, words coming out before you could even register it. Instead, you kept on nursing your drink, spiteful words from the bartender marinating in your mind.

Kaeya was mysterious, yes. But was he leading you on?

… Was it right of you to trust him?

The first red flag should have been the fact that you knew nearly nothing about him personally. To think that you had spent all this time together talking and fighting alongside one another, but you could not even recall basic facts about him, let alone anything deep. You were unaware of his family history - Diluc was his brother, but it was the red-head who ended up confiding that fact to you.

Kaeya was so charming that you hadn’t even noticed he shut you out of his world.

And so there was no point in actively keeping a one-sided friendship like that. From then forth, you resolved to avoid the Cavalry Captain for the time being. You knew you had to free Dvalin together, but that did not mean you had to swoon for him in your free time.

It was almost expected of you to join him on Friday nights at Angel’s Share, but tonight you were missing. Neither Charles nor Diluc had seen you the entire day. There were probably a hundred different things you were doing - gathering resources, fighting slimes - and so Kaeya thought little of it.

But he was still disappointed not to see your face that night.

And so he thought nothing was wrong the next day when he saw you in the city square, talking to someone at the general store. He approached you and offered to join your party again, take down some enemies somewhere out in the country.

You didn’t even smile at him.

Not this time.

Just a curt no before you were leaving out the city gates.

The second time Kaeya already had enough and confronted you before you could even attempt to walk away.

He grabbed at your elbow, “Have you finally grown tired of me?”

You pulled it back, no real strength behind it as Kaeya still held you under his grip. “Kaeya, why is it that you keep reaching out to me? I have nothing of my own to offer - no money, no family - there is nothing left I can give you.”

He frowned in response but grabbed at your other hand, “I haven’t asked you for anything, have I?”

You looked away, “You don’t have to! It’s inherent, after all. Isn’t that why you asked me to team-up in the first place, to use me to find your criminals?”

Kaeya mentally recoiled, “Woah, back up. I may have guided you regarding the treasure but never have I maliciously led you on.”

You pulled at your hands to no avail, this time the captain actively trying to keep your attention on him. 

“I just! I thought I meant something more to you, Kaeya.”

He smiled and tried to pull you into his chest, but you shoved off his touch this time fully.

“No! You can’t just hug me and think everything is okay. You’re supposed to be one of the good guys, one of the handful of people I can trust in Mondstadt and I know nothing about you.”

Kaeya did not reach for your hands, instead moving to stand in front of you. “I’m sorry that I hold my secrets close to my chest, but that’s what I’m used to.”

Frustrated, you replied. “Don’t you get tired? Holding the people that love you at an arm's length?”

“I’m sorry.” He repeated, this time reaching for you. “I’m sorry that I made you feel like you weren’t special. Trust me, you’re the only one I’ve had eyes on ever since you landed here in Mondstadt.”

You shook your head, “But the bartender, she said -”

“Who cares what she said?” Kaeya interrupted, “They know village gossip, but they don’t know me or you.”

“I don’t really know you.” You replied.

Kaeya caressed the side of your cheek before lightly gently grabbing your hand again, “Then let’s start.”

With a hesitant smile, you closed your eyes and nodded.

“Okay.”

You had your doubts then and it’s not like an issue of trust was fixed overnight. But, to his credit, Kaeya tried as best he could. Instead of meeting randomly at the bar, he would approach you sometime during the day and set-up a date. How he knew where you were was a mystery, but a man with that many connections surely had a way.

He had no qualms about holding your hand or openly kissing your cheek in the presence of others - proclaiming loudly to one and all in Mondstadt that you were his and he was yours.

Taking your first argument to heart, Kaeya was very keen on communication. Anything you were unsure of, he expressed that he was by no means rushing you. And when you finally shared your first kiss, for once not a single soul in front of the Lord Barbatos statue, you leaned into his touch to get many more.

Kaeya made good on his promise, slowly letting you into his world in kind. You remembered one night as the both of you sat on the edge of Mondstadt, nothing but ocean for miles in front of you. You had your head on his shoulder, describing your adventures with your brother and how you missed having family.  

Kaeya had a gentle hand in your hair, rubbing soothing circles as you recalled a time long ago. Once your story finished, you two continued to stare out, wondering what the future could hold as your minds swam in an endless sea of thoughts.

He broke the silence.

“I miss my brother also.”

Diluc was not always his estranged brother, but once a friend, supporter, and sounding board. Some even mistook them as truly twins in heart and mind, defending Mondstadt and having each other’s backs for years. The Diluc you had come to know was a shell of his old self, close friends and past hidden behind years of repressed feelings.

There was no doubt wistfulness in Kaeya’s eyes as he recalled the past to you, but you continued to listen quietly. 

Your relationship with the Cavalry Captain was hardly easy. Often responsibilities called you both - Kaeya was highly stationed in Mondstadt while you still had seven other countries to visit. But that did not mean the end for you both. Even when you were thousands of miles away or sat atop the highest mountain without a clue to where he was, you cherished the thought that you still shared the same sky with the love of your life.

No matter where you were in Teyvat, you had Kaeya to return to.

[pndnj]

Cathartic- Yellow Metal Lyrics

Heres where I am with the lyrics, I referenced @25Goldenn on twitter for some of it that I couldn’t comprehend. 

*music*

0:23

Dark matter, like painted splatters, they fit better, the old saying, the way it goes, better the devil you do then you don’t know. I hit pedals and switch levers, my heart metal, I can't settle, im part trouble, they are not subtle. I fuck good so fuck cuddles, burst bubbles the thrist levels at new heights, i down doubles, and got baked til I felt high, my face puzzled, felt muddled, far strung and your floors woodent, the thought might but the fit wouldn’t. A fortnight

0:46 - 1:00

And I thought right, it’s all bark and no bite, I’m Tony Stark still embarking on a dream, took a bit of time to take darkness from the team. Seen what I saw. Heartless on the sleeve. Tried to burn my wings, so I put them in a piece on my chest , at peace no rest.

1:00-1:15

Flipped this on it’s head. Rip the script up now, flip it don’t pretend, slipping shit again, Fakers all around me, I’ve been living in pretense. Fake friends won’t make amends. There’s no need, these mean comments control the scenes. Attentionseekers, the spine is weakened

1:15-1:24

This family needs, what a family needs, and the planet bleeds, the damaged trees. It’s never leaving til we ascend so fuck the fence, and until they stop killing colour it’s fuck the feds.

1:22 - 1:44

You must be off it, I mean it, you know you ain’t never get with the judging and I used to dread growing my beard too long, never felt I belonged, but it's really long like a minute I ain’t looking to no mans for the limits, They’re feeling timid, I’m telling them who they mimic, why they don't look like a clinic …. Why they don't get no women, Still, we’re just fucking girls, Lost in the wrong world, Jurassic, now to this vermin

1:41-  1: 50

Kicking the game I’m serving, these losers are never learning, my fire is forever burning, adding it to my fuel, seems like I’m always focused on never becoming you, These locals that rob us feeling … was for a reason.

1:52-2:02

I’m seeing my new beginnings, watch out this loser’s winning, and no water is too deep to swim in Like I’m about to see a killing, I’m all the way that and living, flawless and feeling lawless, the prison now to the gimmicks, my vision is set to something,

2:03-:2:20

I’m watching you bitches plummet, no matches here for my cunning, you rappers are feeling done in, switching your genre, running and Running your jaw, stunting, pulling at straws, something  I think you’re a poor effort, deaf and tone deaf and I ain’t treat you separate. Living, I’m in my element, riding it like a … never lose me to fentanyl, scared when I take a benadryl. Keeping it green in general

2:20- 2:46

Think that you remain irrelevant. Look at yourself with reverence, hoping to always elevate. Celibate of these thoughts, killing themselves with sedatives. In comparison to eminem, you’re feeling feminine. Impolitically correct, still dropping on my dick. And I never gave a fuck about what they say abt my shit, I’ve been moving things in my mind like it’s this mountain dew Memories have made me wonder if one day I’m after you. What’s the purpose that you do, is what you're hoping that they learn, i’d like to say i’m done but it’s getting up on my nerves

2:46 -2:55

I’m looking at my life, saying what do I deserve. It’s hard to say I know when I’m walking through the dirt. Talking while you’re nothing I can see for what it’s worth. I’m tired of feeling hurt and I’ve tried enough but nothing works.

2:55-3:40

I’m racking up excuses while I’m slacking off on work. Chit chatting is the usual, talking to this clerk, i beg you don’t include me. I might write it on my shirt so everytime they see me, the oldest know to swerve. SWERVE Life is potent, bits of fucked shit… till they took notice weren’t  no hocus pocus, it was hard work that got me heard so i put in the graph like google maps but the whole earth

… around my door mat, taking over like the drones, rolling dirt up in miles like the water, and exploding like Annas hematoma. Don't need to see a slammer to know that I don't want to go man

I’m a showman. I’m just focused on the drama… like i’ve got my own insurance, show myself the pain, like i boxed it in the frame, if we’re about to talk greatness im great, the way you have to say my name like beyonce

“Say my name”

4:00-4:46

Just a bum with a cigarette, sun coming up, all my thoughts on the internet. Feeling deep, I’m just bored with the silhouette single sec,  get fucked up for the thrill of it . killer streak playing Pacman. Like I came from the Philippines vanilla bean still a thing for the thrill of scene,

Theres a beam, UFO, Leave it well alone  I aint moving, stood still on the peloton, telephone and its always on the dial tone,  it's been a while since i’ve smiled at a milestone, seen a big pile in my mind stone, me against the world on my Jack Jones, Like I’m John Jones, With pictures in the condo, far from John Doe, in the ___, like I'm Johnny Bravo, got pravado, with a small dick sitting in golados, feeling far gone, cuz that last hit was the good shit, was that stay lit

4:48-5:02

You can never take my shit come and get me. On the top floor,  cloud 9, fading, never bailing, felt amazing, inhaling, til my lungs two guns blazing. Overcome all the stunts that I pulled. A suit of just skin and then wool

5:02- 5:17

This life doesn’t give you no armour, a lot of myself can harm ya. I swear on what’s good, that I’m here till they take me. I pray that I’m wrinkled, at least over 80, and start moving like a ruler, ?damaged? Like a computer going fast, bars from the jeweler, bring the songs to the beach in hopes of finding tuna

5:18-5:36

…

5:36- 6:16

Grab a bat, lose my rag. Couple things got me mad, a couple people got me wrong and now I’m changing up the swag. Coming in and stealing it, I might take the whole bag. Feeling undefeated, I’m a beast with a reason, and imma lead the whole pack. Fearless like I’m Caesar, I’m just waiting for a chance to fill it up with diesel, and all I've been achieving is clocking miles in its region, moving like a legion.

Promise that I made to myself an allegiance. Do you still believe I’m a fool for ever leaving, staring at the ceiling, can never put a cap on achieving. I’m just here for the rap, then I’m leaving.

I’ve had about enough of being my own enemy, it’s time I grew up,  a long way from 17. Always went against the grain, struggles in my life. Got some things to say when I stand up on a mike.

6:16-6:32

I ain’t dropping this for fame, I need this time, like therapy, it’s just to keep me sane. The truth is on my medicine, can’t put that on your plate.

Speeding into everything, bout time I fixed the brakes. Don’t say I can’t communicate , you know I conversate with you in several different ways. And I know you know it’s references, looking at your face.

6:33- 6:53

Can’t justify mistakes, like every man that made them, seems I ain't  the one to blame. Lying to myself, only had so much to gain, so now I’m switching up the plate, see if that affects the place, im at on most days

I ain’t going with the usual so they looking at me strange. Confused, I can feel it all,  I’m here to make a change. It’s cold at 3am outside, I’m walking with the dog, thanking god that you don’t talk at all, my mind is switching off

6:54-7:12

Driving down to find myself, cuz I’ve been getting lost, lived this selfless life and found I can give a toss. Lessons that I’ve learned I’ve tried teaching to myself. What I’ve learnt from certain people is that they’re better than myself.

So I surround myself with real ones, and you feel the plastic melt. Like burning toy soldiers that used to go up on the shelf. Recycle the ideas, conveying on the belt

7:14-7:29

.. circus, always hurting the way we felt? Embarrassed that we dreamt of bigger things and letting go of notions till we feel them in cement

Tired of only hoping, we feel broken men. Cuz the gravity is weight and has kept us to the ground, see the only people speaking with favors in their mouths

7:46-7:58

Got killer rhymes… no fillers, like godzilla, eating clouds cuz my smokes thicker, throat licker, my dope sicker, bringing people their hope like im the pope slicker,  i hope you’re getting the point cuz i walk quicker

I thought my city was shit bcs I want bigger like my zipper couldn’t zip up fed up with the…my love is fickle.. Residual age has a primitive face

I see demise for your limited ways, Left it to simmer, simmer away…a fake glimmer in the haze

8:09-8:11

Feeling trapped this industry is a cage

8:34-8:50

Nobody’s speaking the truth, I’m offended by the State. Look at the state of the news, I’ve decided the argument, reciting my views, while they’ve been sat in their chairs, I’m feeling pressure to choose.

Standing here as one man, how can I do half when you’re half the person I am. If it wasn’t in your life, you didn’t choose it. It’s the funny thing about music. It’s the pain and beauty of it.

8:52-9:11

Don’t give a fuck what my suit is, it looks good so I wear it, better than the shoot that People’s wearing, changing the whole narrative for these basics and scarcity

Been facing the racists from back when i were a kiddie .born up in in 93’. been living in Bradford City..kicked me out of the schools, they had a problem with me hitting the kids that would call me p*** still sitting in the classroom chilling, and i'm angry now that I’m older I see they treat us different

9:12-9:25

got me thinking I’m the problem cuz they never dealt with those issues.

20 years later I’m still in the same boat, tryna treat me like my grandpa, say I came up off the boat. Came to tell you what I stand for, man I think you’re shit, a joke. How can I be civil, when they got me by the throat

9:25-9:35

Pushing my feelings down, you ain’t got it like them

‘Boy your skin is so light’, ok motherfucker take my name up on a flight. Try to convince immigration that your bloodline’s half white.

9:35-9:45

I don’t know how that’s acceptable, when life is more susceptible to perception, be the death of them. I’ve been looking at the sky saying where’s that day of reckoning, you had your prophets right when they say that you would speak to them.

9:45-9:55

I need justice in this life and I trust that it’s my fight, cuz when I’m writing it feels right to have them focused on the facts again. Focused on the rap again, hoping for the change, gunna put this on the map again

9:55-10:16

Writing in all caps again, the pain, it goes through me so I write the letter. All the shit that could have brought me but made me better.

I’m at home with a pain in my soul , yeh rap… cuz you know I was too real to contest it, my time was invested. Now I look at the industry, I see it infested, looking like kids who would write on nesquik.

10:17-10:29

My name ain’t on the list unless they label it ethnic.

I ain’t never gave a fuck about these jokers and jesters. Ain’t no answers for these things, so just save us the questions, man allowed of violence, cuz my silence is deafening, your opinion stinks, somebody get him a breath mint.

10:30- 10:42

Start to understand why they think that I’m threatening, I move in certain ways, couldn’t slow me with ketamine Now they all wanna hear me, got a table at letterman. Direction changed, like I changed up the lettering. Don’t believe the age ,bcs I move like a veteran.

10:42 - 10:47

Raised on the benefit for whose benefit, they’ll never learn shit, man, if the shoe fits.

…no words coming out when you open your mouth

And to be honest, it’s insulting, offensive to my wounds that have been salting. Tryna ask me questions that they know I never answer. I’d rather sit online and reply to the fan art

11:00-11:06

Fuck a sports car, coming through when i rapped

tell you what I like, farm life and the tractor

11:06- 11:17

Fake life, 'sup online, suck a fat one. You don’t wanna buy into that, none of that son. Sitting in the garden 98’ in the Datsun,  seen some hot summers but I still remember that sun.

*music*

11:51- 12:34

I make millions off of my pain, cause I know a few millions still living that way

Dealing with the hurt, they should know cause they don’t deserve it, it hit deep cause i hit the nerve. Only way that the sheep learn if the street firm, in my ways I don’t wanna change, everything just stay the same

Who you tryna convince you understand, cant maintain, let the lights dim some,  get the Chow Mein, flex, get the tape, right up at night

Why these men be nice to my face, be nice,  i ain’t tryna be a gangsta ruins my vibe

Rather be low-key and on my phone. Never need the trophy or the show piece

Never show peace in a North Face fleece. Show kids this like i wrote my flip

Cause the sign might fit till the start i’m sick

12:37-13:05

Now you see where I come from, the world don’t. Only achievement in this life is the Jordans. Committing petty crimes out of boredom, we can’t afford them. So I stole it, need a rolex

Go make sense, get yourself a job, It’s a poor man’s game tryna sit and pray to god, he ain’t sorting out your problems, gotta sort them out yourself

Used to tell us fables, now I’m writing them myself, Cause we raw like animals we all just need some help

Cathartic, I’m an artist, trying to put my heart in

Felt double crossed like Leo in Departed

13:05- 13:27

For the knowledge i’m not charging see I got it all free

But my hunger kept me starving like i’m feening for the feed

I just Need a reason to see me bleeding for my creed. Trick you with the words like I keep em up my sleeve. Picking where I fit, I see me sitting with the queen

I ain’t doing it unless you’re used to saying please

Let me flow a bit, before I sting 'em with the bees, They tryna kill us with disease

(Music)

13:34- 14:12

Why does it feel like they had the same notebook and the same four looks

Like the rain won't touch on their face, so sus when they lie don’t trust not a minor

Please no fuss, I just move through the game like must

Something in the way i adjust till i stick, Free falling like the ship, free fall till i bust

Remember 21 brother gave no fucks. Trying to project when they give them looks

In the projects, in the objects us

In my own way, never gave me love, shoulda never started this, broken hearted kid

Dried up the feeling till I stole the lid

Don’t wanna relish in the fame but I can’t resist

14:46-14:58

I like the way we feel, I like the way, I like the way

Ain’t no mistake, i am a being

I ain’t tryna be a leader, been selling out since Jesus

All my rhymes are for the readers, between the lines, like Father time, I fuck Mother Nature

14:58-15:40

That’s what they get, the connotations. Tell 'em I lived a life, and then I lived a life of adjacent? like its…. and played it patient.

Alone on my own spaceship, always tryna find greatness, still defying lines, but I’m fighting in my prime.

Shining light like Kylo while imma kill it all the time. Aging like I’m wine

Asian in my face, but still my race you can’t define. Focused on defiance, imma fight it while it’s life.

Started something sick and on my mind is what’s next, just became a dad so now I’m taking all the cheques. Better know I’m staying and paying like it’s debt. Imma get it done, if it’s taking all my breath, sweat, and down I ain’t messing around til I’m the best

Speaking in full sentences, shoulda thought about a strategy before you went at the stratosphere about this… rings around Saturn, this ain’t a battle, I’m sat, I’m here

15:40-16:22

Catch me doing magic, hired and sounding tragic I think you could use practice and until that you get the blacklist and pull like a … actress? Fooling them like a catfish, schooling like a legend, happy to be the reference, fusing like iridescence, leaving them all guessing, leaking out of my brain like a pipe I aint fixing, shining like a star you can see it from a distance

Aint many of me around p*** I’m just different Certain stages to this level aint here because fame is to the devil fuck a label, imma do this from the ghetto, clean up like Im Dettol

I’m the man to put a bet on, sight smart like a weapon,  this is my kind of setting, i write the world I’m sat in, while these others live on hype, i see them fight in how they type, the fruit is ripe for the taking, i think i might

16:22-16:57

Let me take you away from here, Let me take you away from here, Let me take you away from here

16:58- 17:47

Eccentric things are mentioned like a kid stuck in detention tryna escape im just spitting what is written on the next page, spitting image of my dad in his young days

Born sinner when i’m livid i say fucks sake

Don’t worry i’m too cunning with no plumbing, the waterworks, i sung something that resonates, i thought it first like giving birth to the parrot perch

They see me do it and they know it works

Don’t know what’s worse: the way that you live your life or the way that you write a verse

You’ll be nervous, you don’t deserve it we’ll scratch the surface ill leave a crater, lift the dirt up to find the hurting

Can’t know for certain nothing is guaranteed, tryna be a better person than the world deserves to see cuz i see a lot of sharks still swimming in the sea

Cease and arrest what’s the reason.. And these the kinda kids we bringing up next

Distorted reality, all they needed was family, too hard to face, to see what the damage is

17:47

*i don’t wanna be, i don’t wanna be, a part of this, no, i don’t wanna be, i don’t wanna be, a part of this, *

18:04-18:38

Sometimes they ask the questions too deep to form a sentence, to disform, is this the norm, is this the sentence i feel defenseless i played the setlist, and all my sweat blood and tears, forgot to mention feeling lost, going off into different sections i feel like love wrecked it

If it’s not a drug why am i waiting for the next fix, affected, i cant believe that you left this

I guess I leave for the best wish, moving on like im fine for the lectures

We see it all from spectrums, cuz if we’re falling down we can fall down together

Staircase to heaven, mirror down the middle like 11, resentment on one side it won’t settle

18:38- 19:14

Mind fried but taking sense, they aint got a sense of themselves in the rich ends

Need to spell it out for them.. Made for them so witness

I know you feel afflicted but you always love it with me while im laughing at you, ya think you’re laughing with me

I try to (i love you) but im grown so they don’t fit me, my body thrown from the new to this old city so Im sick of sitting on my own, feeling so shitty, i’ve been on roads where its cold and the snow hitting

Its okay to be yourself, sit and talking to myself

I’ve been walking for the longest, just need a little rest, know i ain’t the strongest, I can feel it in my chest, talking about my feelings and of me, they get the best

19:14-19:59

They aint leaving, seeing breathing in my breath

Till death do us part is just seeded in my heart, like a work of art

Never winning,im just scared

Cant begin from the start, do i play a part in the rhythm of the night

I guess i’m onto something cuz the dark is feeling right

Every cloud got a lining, put my own miles  in, like moralis, figured that they’re jealous, that they could just never tell us to change because the weather never made me question whether or not i’m not that level

Got rid of all the bullshit sitting in my way, most of them are full of shit i see it every day

I do hearing the same things that i do, maybe that shits hitting like haiku

How much do you pay for them to hype you

Recycle your flaws but they aint like new, leaving and conceded and full of diesel like engines that need a cleaning, the ending will be revealing. Even though we ain’t raising the facts, now we been facing.

20:01-20:52

The cactus with spikes, needing spaces. Different faces, the same story. A full body like straight body direct to your system.

Could never tell 'em we missed’ em. Not even with the thoughts, we gift them. Cuz they just take advantage, guess we are caught in a system.

My soul pouring out details of borrowed time, had enough of a fill, this is for sorrow time. I’m seeing visions of Heaven, I seen the severed line, between the gospel they speak and when theyre telling lies.

Remember telling a friend of mine, you’d sent of mine, identified like a 3rd eye. Got a habit of knowing now where the dirt lies. So benign. I ain’t sober after 9, so I fuck their minds. Why you flipping out, see another

Try to rep it from the city, fuck a chiller crew, repping for the nittys, trying to keep us down, raised on the social, don’t want to let us out of the system. Me, I insist we assist them, me alone putting shifts til I lift them

20:53-21:12

I know it’s hard, that’s why I like it, I’m fit to fight it, I’m from the North, I’m backing Tyson, it’s been decided, don’t see no light. They needing guiding, just redefining, realizing, I’m realigning, in full finance, they stay silenced.

Can’t be louder, I’m juiced up with no powder. I fix shit like a slick spanner. Gone green like Bruce Banner. So free Gaza on my banner

21:12-21:51

The real McCoy, I ain’t nothing to toy with, signifying peace like a Japanese Koi Fish. How did this happen, we’re moving backwards in our timeline, killing us with cyanide, Right up for the freedom 'til we transform like Ironhide

This is bout my feelings, the way that I move affects the fate that I’m sealing. Can’t say nothing, with that something being on the page, kept inside the pen like the bars that have been kept caged. See I always had a plan, since I was young, we had nothing man

Now it’s been a few years since I ain’t seen the fam, on foreign lands. Bout to climb Everest in the avalanche. Right into the riddles as soon as you were born. Never asking the question cuz it’s the norm. See I’m in a questionin’ session

21:52-22:03

Like the manner got a method to teaching a lesson, listen to MF Doom, he taught me like Ra’s Al Ghul. Felt like living in Gotham, the people were rotten. Still we play cartoons so it’s never forgotten.

22:03-22:15

Chilling at the top but we came from the bottom. Writing and jottin for them life by, spotting the difference

*Dreams, was growing out of me, sun promising that tomorrow it will rise, time playing games with my mind, I swear it will pass us by

Train goes on the tracks, smoke, I’m tired to hide my thoughts, so blinded in flames, Don’t know where we’re going, I have no way of knowing, only see what’s in my head

Can’t we wait a minute, so we can savour this, It’s on my brain again, these days, It on my brain again these days”

23:10-23:46

They’re hating on Palestine ways, The oh no Palace playing Prince on the Steinway, Sending out mind waves, stop them like crimewaves, Freedom fighter, Yellow Metal is my name

Like vipers, I see the sly ones, the snake that’s called Biden, none of them abiding what they might put in writing

We should be used to it by now, say whatever for the vote and then just choose another route, say they’d never kill another unless that brother’s skin is brown

I’m just telling you the facts, if you can’t take it, the truth naked, to bare bones and my thoughts lately, spitting politics.. Done ain’t it, Shit just gets me vexed, and now I’m sitting that I think of it

23:45-23:59

Feeling on the brink of it, whatever it is, Figure out some shit at least it feels that way

talk about my feelings and I don’t feel so strange, finding solace, that’s a promise, in Metropolis but being honest, can’t write a sonnet, without some pain

24:00-24:40

Can’t fade away, away so we can savour this, been on my brain again these days

Can't find a way to be so you can savour this, been on my brain these days

Singing the song for another, singing a song for another

[arrowflier]

oh my god your xmen au!! i've just recently thought about them having powers and ian should def be a healer ❤️

it's so good, i'd love for you to continue or like... do another mutant au (same setting but later? im not picky haha)

as always, your writing is truly amazing!

Yeeesss thank you thank you thank you. I've been wanting to so bad but I'm already neglecting all my WIPs so I needed this excuse.

For everyone else, original here. I'm also tagging this for A.U.gust (hosted by the amazing @gallavichthings) because their professions are inspired by prompts 7 and 19.

---

Ian was crouched over a client, hands flat on a wrinkled and twisted back, when Mickey fell through the door.

Ian stiffened, and not just because his gift was working on the man stretched out on the table in front of him. Mickey attempted to straighten himself on the coat rack by the door, but only succeeded in knocking it over, hands slick with blood.

Not his own, by the looks of it, and that was the only reason Ian kept working.

“What’s that racket?” his client croaked, trying to lift his head, but Ian pressed harder and pushed his gift deeper into the man’s muscles, forcing his neck to relax.

Ian winced as his own neck tensed further, but forced his head straight so he could watch as Mickey stumbled through the room before finally collapsing onto a chair. His head was down, but Ian could see faint streaks of red at his hairline, glistening in his dark hair when he ran a shaky hand through it. The spikes on his shoulders, exposed by a tear in his black shirt, lay flat and weak and similarly wet against his pale skin.

Ian swallowed hard, and removed his hands from the body in front of him.

“You’re done,” Ian rasped, waiting for the usual weariness and weakness to fade. He rubbed his eyes with a hand that felt more gnarled than it was, and grimaced. His eyelids felt like sandpaper.

“That’s it?” his client asked. They weren’t one of his usuals, just someone that heard about him from a friend. Ian tried to accept new clients where he could, especially those that found him by word of mouth—there wasn’t much else he could do in the way of advertising without a license or registration for his unorthodox mutation.

“That’s it,” Ian confirmed, and tapped the edge of the table impatiently, waiting for the man to get up and leave. He should be perfectly capable of that sort of movement for at least a few days, if he didn’t do anything too stupid with his newfound physical freedom.

“I heard you offer…other services,” the old man said slyly, twisting to look at Ian as he sat up and swung his legs toward the floor. “For a price, of course,” he added, smiling like he knew something.

Clearly, he did not.

“No anymore,” Ian answered shortly. “And never for patrons of your type.”

“Of my type?” the man repeated, voice now rising with suppressed anger. “And what does that mean, you mutant scum?”

“Means he don’t like wrinkly old man balls no more,” Mickey called out from across the room, and Ian had never been so grateful to hear his rough voice, despite what it was saying.

“It doesn’t,” he assured his client. “I mean, I don’t, but—”

“No need to explain, boy,” his client stated—probably ex-client now, and Ian should really feel worse about watching him leave.

Instead, he held his breath until the door slammed behind that narrow, weak back, and then immediately darted over to throw the bolt.

Room secured, Ian took a moment to breathe, in and out, as the last of the other man’s fatigue finally left him.

“You gonna stand there all night?” Mickey asked, somewhat quieter, behind him. “Or are you gonna come patch me up, doc?”

Ian turned to see Mickey struggling to rise from his seat, and was there in a few long strides to push him down again with a firm hand on his shoulder. Mickey hissed as Ian rubbed his spikes the wrong way, but let himself be secured.

Without thinking about it, Ian stroked his hand down, following those dangerous barbs along the length of Mickey’s bare arm. He wasn’t worried about them; he had seen firsthand the danger they could do, throughout the years, but never had Mickey harmed him.

Well, at least not without reason.

And he had clearly come to Ian for a different reason, this time. It had been a few weeks since they’d seen each other, and in that time Mickey had apparently found someone new to piss off, judging by the blood on his spikes. Someone that didn’t already know all his tricks.

“You have to stop doing this,” Ian said accusingly, gesturing at Mickey in general, and the other man snorted, then winced when it opened a cut on his face.

“Define ‘this’,” he challenged, and Ian shrugged.

“Picking fights, I guess,” he answered. “I know you have that new gig at the bar, security or whatever—”

“Bodyguard, doc, it’s a little more impressive—”

“But you don’t always have to jump straight to violence.”

“Why” Mickey asked, quirking a bleeding eyebrow. “I’m paid to be a badass, Gallagher, and you always fix me up just fine.”

Ian shook his head, eyes scanning for the worst of Mickey’s injuries. Thankfully, they were few—a slowly seeping gash at his hairline, the source of the blood about to drip into his blue eyes; an oddly bent finger; a patch of quills at the base of his neck that looked nearly torn out, like someone had gotten hold before Mickey flexed them.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Ian insisted absently, trailing his fingers from Mickey’s shoulder to his neck, to his face, heedless of the red trail they left on pale skin.

“Please,” Mickey scoffed, bending his head obediently when Ian pushed it back for better light. “The principle is that you like havin’ an excuse to get your hands on me.”

“Could get my hands on you anyway,” Ian mused, digging his fingers roughly into Mickey’s hair as if to prove a point.

Mickey hissed, but smirked through it.

“Oh yeah?” he questioned lightly. “Think I'm that easy, huh?”

“Know you’re that easy,” Ian murmured, leaning in closer than he strictly needed to to finish surveying the damage.

Mickey blinked, eyes only inches away from Ian’s own.

“Get those healin’ hands on me then,” he breathed, and Ian didn’t bother to point out that they already were.

Instead, he moved one hand over the scratch on Mickey’s scalp, one hand to the damaged quills on his neck, and his mouth to Mickey’s bottom lip.

And he reached inside himself for his power, and pushed.

They both gasped, deepening the sudden kiss almost by accident as Ian’s power coursed through them, between them. Mickey’s cuts started to heal even as they opened on Ian’s skin, quills bristling and growing strong again as tiny pinpricks of red showed on Ian’s own neck.

Let go of her, Ian heard in his mind, Mickey’s voice ordering some creep to release the girl he was trying to carry from the club.

I’m just gettin her home, man

Thin fingers reach for Mickey’s jacket, Ian’s jacket, their jacket. Grasp the hem, tug faintly, fall again on a limp arm.

I don’t fuckin’ think so

Pain in his fists, then pain on his back as someone else joins the fight, someone Ian can’t see. Sharp fingernails in his hair, on his neck, gripping, twisting.

A flare. Quills puffing from their sleek layer against warm skin, finding their target. The slippery wet feeling of blood on his shoulders, wetting them down again.

Okay, it’s okay now as frail hands grasp at him again to stand straight. Come on, it’s okay.

Ian’s hands fell from Mickey’s wounds as the last ones finally closed. He ignored the wetness in his eyes, the wetness on Mickey’s face, pretended they were blood and not tears.

“You did good,” he whispered against Mickey’s searching lips. “So good, Mickey.”

“Shut up, doc,” Mickey murmured back. “Give me something different to feel good about.”

So Ian did.

He kissed him again. Bit his lip, licked it clean. Ran a finger over the indentation, felt the bite on his own mouth as he soothed it. He scratched at Mickey’s back, didn’t recall when it was bared, felt hot lines down his own and couldn’t tell if they came from Mickey’s dirty hands or his own neatly trimmed nails.

It was always like this, when it happened. A feedback loop, not knowing where he stopped and Mickey began as they hurt and healed and hurt again. Hurt in good ways rather than bad, ways they had been hurting and helping each other since they were just children in a schoolyard chasing bullies. Ian lost himself in it, lost himself in Mickey’s mouth and eyes and skin and his own touches upon it, a constant blooming sensation deep in the reserves of his power.

He wondered what it felt like for Mickey, but then he didn’t have to. He never had to. He could feel that too: the tug of quills pushed the wrong way, the press of them into skin at both point and base, the prickling sensation when they settled, flared, settled again within sensitive skin and muscle.

But they never stabbed on purpose. They never hurt more than he could take; than they could take. And as he let Mickey stand, let him walk Ian back toward the bedroom on newly strengthened legs, Ian embraced all the feelings it invoked in the both of them.

Tomorrow, Mickey would most likely leave again, possibly even before breakfast. He would go back to his job, the one Ian didn’t like, and work and live and thrive until he needed Ian again.

It would feel worse, that separation, if Ian couldn’t feel the truth in every movement they made against each other in the night.

Mickey didn’t need Ian to fix him up; he never had. He had been doing fine on his own long before they met.

No, Mickey didn’t come to Ian because he liked to pick fights. He picked fights because he liked to come to Ian, and for now, that was enough.

[lady-tortilla-chip]

This? This feeling which sparks light between his fingers and builds an endless heat in his core? It’s ruin.

Ruin like a windstorm in the flatlands of the Earth Kingdom. Like the frosting air of the furthest south. Like swirling clouds dancing with light and rumbling with over bearing sounds that should’ve been crushing but were instead inspiring.

It’s ruin in such an incredible, beautiful, powerful way and Zuko is easily — willingly felled by it. Readily moved to its rhythm. It’s force.

He thinks it should be impossible that the embodiment of it all is just so small. Small enough to grip in his hands and destroy without thought. But strong enough to never let such a thing occur — at least, not at Zuko’s hand.

There’s an image which haunts him, a streak of lightning flashing underground and a convulsing body which stills just as quickly and falls like a stone.

It replays when Zuko gives into the idea that he could have what he wants. What his fire breathes for and his body burns for. Reminds him of the choice he’d made then and the consequences of it.

The kind of ruin he’d inflicted that short while ago wasn’t beautiful. Wasn’t powerful and inspiring. It was vicious and disgusting and a reflection of everything wrong with his Nation.

That singular decision was a thick thread of shame woven among the many other shades which make up the fabric of his life. All red and furious with the anger that colored every scenario they depicted. And it was that thread, that decision which guaranteed he’d never deserve what his heart so quickly came to long for.

Aang’s body twists slightly as he shifts and bends a small stream of fire but the movement is so horribly incorrect, even if it technically produced something, that Zuko’s jarred out of the unproductive thoughts he’d lost himself in.

“How was that Sifu Hot—,”

Zuko sighs, loudly enough to cut off Aang’s millionth use of a term he can’t possibly know the connotations of with how often he uses it and deadpans, “Awful.”

Aang pouts at him. But the expression is short lived upon his features as it quickly sinks into a smile when he suggests, for the nth time since they started their session, “Mind demonstrating for me then?”

If he didn’t know any better he’d think Aang failed the movements on purpose. Either to get Zuko to manhandle him into place or to watch him do it himself.

Ridiculous.

Zuko does as asked and Aang manages it better the next go.

Zuko doesn’t think about his ruin again. How it comes in a form so small he could cradle it in his hands but will never be given the chance to.

He doesn’t think about anything but the forms he’s attempting to teach. No actual bending as that would lead to thinking and longing and he can lose himself to neither.

He succeeds at that much, at stifling himself. Does so until the end of their session and Aang leaves him and he gains a full view of the scar that interrupts Aang’s tattoo. The explosion of heat and Azula’s power imprinted in his skin like a brand.

Seeing it twists a sort of jealousy in his gut over the fact that his sister of all people had gotten to touch a part of Aang even if only through a streak of energy and a will to harm.

It was something. Lasting upon the Avatar in a way Zuko’s touch never will be. His touches are only echoed in Aang’s firebending. In the movements he’s perfected with Zuko’s own hands having shifted them into place.

It’s then, with that thought and that view that he, not for the last time, considers his ruin.

[capri-ramblings]

hi!! may i please request some headcanons of Lilia, Riddle, and Floyd with an s/o who just refuses to wear pants because they make her feel constricted? i only wear skirts and short shorts for that reason, whenever people ask me to wear pants, im like a seven year old who wasn't aloud to go to the park 😅

Funny story when I first started writing this I mistook the whole not wearing pants thing as in their s/o went around not wearing anything but their underwear but then I went and read the request back and I just sat in my room for five whole minutes like 🙂 or was that how you actually wanted it to be,Peachy? If it is I'll just go bury myself in my backyard then.

Requests are in the works. Please refer to Pinned post before sending one in.

"Shorts and Skirts!"

Riddle Rosehearts

- Riddle was fine with it. Well,he thought he was fine with it but then he started to just realize how immensely...short your skirts were and one time he swore he could get a glimpse of what you wore underneath and aside from his cheeks burning from embarrassment, Riddle also felt a jealous streak coming over him.

- "Wear these" He'd say while handing you longer skirts and not so short shorts-shorts but being someone who never liked being or feeling restricted, you always had something to say and honestly Riddle just loses it sometimes

- He isn't the best partner at understanding mostly because he tends to react emotionally rather than logically when it came to his s/o, and also the fact that he grew up with a mom who always had the say over what he had to wear and what was deemed proper.

- He's not trying to be controlling over you, but it's hard for him to watch your bare skin so visible to the world and even when he knows you can handle yourself, Riddle also knows some people don't care where they place their hands and what if he's not there when you need him? What if someone just comes up to you and shoves their hand up your skirt? Just thinking about it makes him want to put a collar on any guy you walk pass

- It gets a little frustrating what him throwing fits at how stubborn you are but if you just keep explaining yourself and have him listen which he will eventually, Riddle will learn to simmer down.

- A bit jealous and overprotective but once he sees how happy you are with your clothing, Riddle would just adapt to glaring at anyone who looks at you like you're a free pass.

- He likes the checkered skirts though so expect him buying you lots of those

Floyd Leech

- He doesn't really see the problem. What's the difference between a pants and a skirt anyway? Both things cover up your leg anyways which is weird for him cause Floyd feels human clothes are heavy and he wouldn't want to wear anything if it weren't for Jade

- If you're okay with him randomly touching your leg or pulling on your skirt when he chases you around, then chances are you won't really have any problems with him

- He likes seeing your skin anyway,back in Coral Sea people didn't wear clothes that covered them up and so it was always easier to snatch people and scare them

- It does make him a bit more of a teaser though and brings out his sadistic side too and since human skin is easier to bruise, he'll have a lot of fun with that

- Floyd would purposely grab you a bit too hard and he's always saying it's an accident that you're so small and fragile so sometimes he forgets that gripping hard would leave prints

- It's easier to pull down too right?

- Jade told him once that a gentleman doesn't grope a lady's skirt but Floyd isn't gentle and he's an eel so that doesn't apply to him,right?

- Expect him to run his hands up your skirt or shorts and just him going "What,lil shrimpy? I like my hand on your skin, that's why you're always showing them to me right?"

- He doesn't care who sees, just that you understand he's starting to get addicted to your skin and if you do try to cover up he'd probably do something to have your pants.... accidentally ripped.

- He doesn't mean any harm though, things like affection are just different when it comes to Floyd and as long as you know his best interest,you'd be fine.

Lilia Vanrouge

- Here's another person who wouldn't mind an s/o rocking short skirts and even shorter shorts.

- Lilia actually likes it and sees it as something very charming with how you like feeling free in your in clothing

- Not everyone is comfortable in their own body after all so seeing his s/o being someone who is makes Lilia proud

- He also understands your sentiment of not wanting to feel constricted and it makes sense to him seeing how with full access to your limbs you'd be able to fight or run away if you ever got into trouble.

- It shows that you're flexible and flexibility is just as important as intelligence and strength after all.

- He'd buy you a variety of skirts and shorts and have you try them on in front of him, not only because it's a major turn on for him but also because he wants to take note of what you like and what you don't for future references

- He might even get matching shorts for you and him to wear much to everyone else's dismay of course, but hey you look cute wearing his colours.

[faimrpg]

Maccius arrives as it always does: with very little flair. Spring has fully settled now, and across Val Faim, trees blossom with pink and white flowers, nearly every merchant sets out grand bouquets in front of their displays to draw possible patrons in, and sailors return home from long excursions at sea to the arms of their loved ones—it is at this time of year that the Celestinian ocean is most peaceful. When Summer arrives, it will be so soft and lulling that the only way to move product to trade is by means of magic, and when winter comes, the waves will tower so tall any man who thinks to sail them will be dubbed out of his mind.

TRIGGER WARNING: Death, explosions, implied violence

Now, however, peace reigns. People settle back into their usual daily routines, and while the death of Hippolyte had been tragic, most are content to forget the event entirely. His blood was cleaned from the marble of the Summer Palace that same night—why should they carry his bones with them? It doesn’t take so much as a week before Hippolyte’s duty is replaced by someone else, who will tend the docks and its workers and ensure Val Faim gets what it needs. GHISLAIN in particular has taken much interest in this replacement, hoping to wring out of this execution whatever dor it will provide. A job on the top of the Azure Quarter, overseeing not only trade but also every writ of passage through the capital, is an incommensurate advantage. Maybe it’s crude to make a move so soon after a man’s demise, but Calandre’s word is holy: he was a traitor, and he got his due. Besides, the hunger for power consumes all else. Ghislain’s efforts come to the dismay of RÉGIS, who’d been hoping to wrangle a similar deal for themself, and become the new helmsman of the docks on behalf of Alain Gauthier.

Not all are content to return to the way things were—in fact, some find the idea abhorrent, and Alain has taken to tracking down those who speak with dissent about Calandre to a new level entirely. He has enlisted GISELE to pick out newfound dissidents, with a particular emphasis on ETIENNE. “Having someone as skilled as Etienne”, Alain explains, “certainly wouldn’t harm us, especially if they were already in our pocket.” As soon as Gisele is sent away with their goal, he calls for BEAU and explains in no uncertain words what he needs them to do, with a little bump in their pay to incentivize it.

Talk in the Underworld says that Hippolyte had some sort of allegiance to Widrowem, and that his plan was not to kill Calandre, but to warn her about Alain in order to earn Widrowem a foothold in Celestine’s court. Gauthier doesn't know how far back this scheme goes, or whether it has something to do with Widrowem’s insistence for Calandre to receive their ambassadors and listen to their offer.

Alain, as is ingrained in his nature, fears the worst. The Widrowish envoy has long whispered of the need to unite their two kingdoms in marriage, and Calandre sharply rebuked each of these attempts. It could very well be that Widrowem tired of waiting, and found another way to ingratiate themselves upon the throne. If BEAU could dig through Hippolyte’s abandoned townhouse in Hightown, there’s a chance they might find something of worth linking him back to the foreign southern kingdom. “Anything works,” Alain says, pressing a small purse of dor into Beau’s hands. “Journals, letters, ledgers, books—whatever you can find, take it. And one more thing: find PATRICE, ask for their help. They might be a noble scorned, but they’re noble regardless, and if you need to take your time looking, having someone from a high-standing house with you might save your neck. Tell them I sent you.” Whether BEAU needs to split their new wealth with PATRICE goes unsaid, because Alain is gone before anyone can think to ask him.

Across the city, LIANE listens intently as Calandre explains her next task for her esteemed spymaster, with CELESTE close behind: she, too, wants them to go rooting around in Hippolyte’s grand old house. Not to find any links to Widrowem, but to find what they can on Alain Gauthier, who the Empress thinks was pulling the strings behind Hippolyte’s poorly coordinated assassination attempt and untimely demise. She might have given the signal for the axe, but it was Gauthier who hung it overhead.

Standing on the balcony overlooking the gardens, with the air cool, the weather fair, and Calandre’s tone mild, it is difficult to recall that a month ago she had stood here and watched one of her detractor’s bodies burn on the Pyre.

It is the virtue of the Summer Palace’s unique positioning that gives all three of them a perfect view when a flash of light and fury shakes Val Faim. The very ground rumbles. In a heartbeat, bursts of flame and thick grey smoke rise up into the air, somewhere close to the Prophet’s Tomb—the Tomb is thankfully unharmed, alongside Odeline’s tall-towering figure. The city immediately drops into complete stillness. They are left to do nothing but watch as the smoke grows and grows and grows, and while the shaking hadn’t lasted longer than a few seconds, it seems to reverberate through their bodies, like the very foundation of the Palace had been shaken and reaped them along with it. Before the rubble even settles, Calandre is swept away by HECTOR and VICTOIRE, each of them hemming the Empress like wings of iron and steel. In their ruler’s wake, CELESTE and LIANE are left to simply stare at the coiling plumes on the horizon and tremble. They watch the ruins with their arms interlocked, as the smog carries over a bitter taste of omens and defeat. Even in this state, the two spies are already planning their next move. It is the life they’ve chosen.

SAINTE and AGRIPPINE bear the brunt of the shock. They are nearly taken off their feet when the explosion occurs, as they were just on the outskirts of the tomb. They help one another to their feet and rush to investigate. The city guards who join the scene are met with a perturbing sight. Rubble lies everywhere, windows of neighboring buildings blown out, and in the epicentre of the destruction stands a mage, shaken and trembling, arms wrapped around herself and desperately attempting to cover the body of her friend, both their faces streaked with soot.

“He didn’t mean to do it,” the mage cries, unwilling to let go of her compatriot as she is pulled away, even as his body goes limp among the stones. “Henri didn’t mean for any of this to happen!” The street is soon blocked off entirely, and stunned passersby are urged to visit the Tomb or the Lion’s Mane for a drink to soothe their spirits, much to the chagrin of DEGARÉ, who has more clientele on their hands than anyone could be reasonably prepared for in such a short window of time. Yet the deluge of customers entails lesser known advantages for the club’s proprietor—especially in times of despair, when purse strings are loose and tongues even looser.

MICHEL and CECILE are commanded to take point on the clean-up of the building. Michel is tasked with coordinating the guardsmen clearing away rubble. Cecile’s role is to smooth over the ruffled feathers of angered noblemen and politicians who come calling to ask why the pesky issue of a desolated building and a dead man in its grip have yet to be resolved by the Empress. It’s tricky work, with even trickier tempers to handle, but they see it done, and within three days of the incident, it is like it never happened. Where the building sat before, now there are only ruins, a barren foundation to be covered up and built upon again by someone with grander designs.

SIDONIE is called upon immediately by Calandre, once the Empress is informed of what happened, along with HELENE. They are to interrogate the surviving mage, and find out what was their purpose in the heart of her empire—and what they hoped to gain from splitting it open. Was the dead mage a madman, or a fool? Were they foreign assassins, an honorless path already trodden by so many of her enemies? Were they zealots of a hidden coven, whose aims to control magic got the better of them? On these questions their fate, and that of so many others, rests unevenly. When the two go to meet her, the woman, named Amelie, is shaken into stupor, entirely unwilling to speak. Not even Calandre’s favored advisors can get anything out of her. Calandre listens intently when she is informed of the matter, and dismisses the two with a simple wave of her hand. “If she won’t tell us directly, there will have to be another way to find out what happened.” It is as much an admonishment as it is an admittance of a dead end.

She does not tell them she has other resources to call upon, and call upon them she does. They come to Val Faim in the shape of ROTH, ADRASTE, and MEDRAUT: two Chevaliers, and one Chevalier-in-training, recalled back from the border of Widrowem to investigate the truth of what happened with the explosion, and whether Alain Gauthier had anything to do with it. MATTHIEU is sent to greet them, as the present superior of the knight order—yet he is quickly rebuffed by his own compatriots, who are apparently more loyal to each other than to their Empress.

The wound of the incident heals relatively quickly, as unspoken horrors do. The death of the man who was supposedly to blame is quick to soothe any worried souls, and Amelie, once she has come to her senses and understood the risk she was in, confirms it to SIDONIE when the other mage visits her in her cell. When she speaks, the girl’s eyes are wild: “Not all is what it seems. My friend only wanted to stop something awful before it began, and it cost him his life.”

That very same night, a faceless assassin attempts to kill SAVATIER in the deepest recesses of the library—only for ISEULT to spear them down from behind a shadowed pillar before they have a chance to draw blood. By morning, Amelie has mysteriously disappeared. Investigations into her vanishing bear no fruit, save for a farewell letter the mage left for her family, now fallen into the hands of VIOLAINE. Amelie was from a noble house: if VIOLAINE wanted to, they could reach out on her behalf and deliver the letter, or they could keep it for later blackmail.

In the midst of all this chaos, Calandre finds herself desperate for a distraction, and can see that her court may very well feel the same. She writes to one of Celestine’s most famed artists, and by the end of the week, SYLVIANE has returned from their expedition into the Obsidienne, alongside their bodyguard, VASKA. Calandre orders them to enliven the palace grounds and paints a series of murals depicting her reigns’ latest achievements—as well as a new portrait to replace the one she had commissioned when she first seized the throne. It is a clever reminder that sometimes a gilded foil hides real triumph beneath. Yet SYLVIANE & VASKA have not come empty-handed, nor are they tongue-tied before Calandre’s command. They are determined to inform the Empress about the concerning sights they’ve witnessed in the Obsidienne. Yet all these attempts are brushed away, first as baubles of passing interest, then as outright fantasies spurned by the solitude of the scorched desert. The shapes of dead bodies awakened to walk, or rifts in the very fabric of the air that shimmer and wrinkle like human skin, and lead to nowhere should a soul step through, are torn from a different cloth than Calandre’s designs for her progressive reign. These old wives tales might be of interest to others: courtiers and commoners alike, such as SIDONIE, SAINTE & AGRIPPINE flock to listen to the painter’s tales. All Calandre does when she is remembered of these discoveries is flatten her mouth into a tight, disapproving line. Some overlook how the Empress’s moods are darkening by the hour.

Not everyone can turn a blind eye to her displeasure, especially those closest to her retinue. CYRIL is witness to Calandre’s frayed nerves firsthand, when ZHENYA pressures the Empress that the North will need more incentive if they are to maintain their trade deal with Val Faim. They are quickly dismissed from her side, and they run into the imperial tailor on the fringe of the hallways. Neither of them can help but eavesdrop on the sobbing fit Calandre falls prey to when she thinks she is alone for the first time. Something is breaking, but neither of them know what, and the decision about whom to ask for help lands in muddied waters. MELODIE, her closest confidante, seems the most obvious choice to be called at her side for comfort, but will Calandre thank them, or resent them for having her weakness noticed and exposed?

In Emperor Tristan’s days, talk spread as fast as a wildfire bracketed by dry grass. While Calandre’s reign has seen some of that blood-hungering cease, the sharks remain desperate for whatever falls into the water, and that hunger has not vanished entirely. It does not take long for many others to discover that Calandre might not be faring as well as she presents herself, in spite of the grand dinners and parties she has hosted in the Summer Palace to try and distract herself.

ROSALIND is one of the first outside of ZHENYA and CYRIL to find out, a not-so-well-kept secret falling right into the palms of their hands. The information goes from them to Alain—who is pleased to be informed. In an effort to secure their loyalty, he gives ROSALIND a task. “See if you engage YVON in a little tête-à-tête, and find out where their true loyalties lie. Lure them on our side, but only promise them enough to prove a guiding light. They are still young and mercurial enough that they must believe the choice is their own. Do this, and I’ll see if I can coordinate a certain royal jeweler’s fall from grace by the time Aude is through.” He leaves them there in the bustling Silver Quarter to make the choice on how to proceed on their own.

Secrets are unearthed, vows and oaths amassed—old debts are summoned up like the souls of the dead, and new scores are forged from thin air. For a while, it seems that Val Faim is pitching to a critical point, a colossus capsizing on its own weight. The threads roped around its people tangle and thrum. And then the skein seems to unsnarl. It lies very still, too much distance between its knots to ever properly destabilize it. The tapestry of faith and power has weathered more tempestuous times than this. The wind smooths over the dust, the storm slackens, and even the spring becomes spring once more. It’s on this day that the tides turn for good.

A Widrowem ship is spotted on the quiet sea, its sails as white as bones. Two ambassadors, themselves of noble lineage in those intricate Widrowish ways, where Gods are ancestors and night is day, step on the shore. CASSIAN and ROWAN have been sent to Val Faim on a mission that feels almost sacred. Yet their Thane’s anger, the chosen ruler of their realm, has nothing holy in it. Their homeland was promised a treaty and a throne years ago. So far, not a single audience has been granted, and this strange Empress balks at marriage as if it were carnage. To add the salt of insult to an open injury, their most trusted man in court was murdered without the right to trial. Hippolyte was gutted for spectacle, a debacle that echoed the barbarians of centuries ago.

It’s Widrowem’s duty to put an end to tyrants. And that is what they came to do.

On that bone-sailed, hollowed-out ship rides another: KARINE, Alain Gauthier's closest compatriot in bloodshed. They, too, have been summoned from Widrowem with a similar purpose. With a hungry smile that cuts their jaw wider, they shake hands with Gauthier on the dock as he pulls them aside. They have business, and if there is anything KARINE thrives at, it is anything to do with death. Imagine their surprise, then, when they are tasked with a more simple duty. Not to kill, but to hunt. Amelie remains unfound, in a city packed to the brim with people, and no one trusts Alain enough yet in the Underworld to give him information of any worth. So he sets his favored assassin on the trail, and tells them not to return until they have what he needs in their grasp.

The stage is set, the spotlight positioned perfectly, the doors to the theater wide open to allow a spring breeze to flow through. Underneath that sweet scent is an undeniable trace of rot. With Widrowem Ambassadors on the scene, their expectations low and ambitions high, and warnings and whispers working their way through the Court—the show has truly begun. Hippolyte's death at Calandre’s command was a mere prelude. What happens now may very well change the fate of all those in Val Faim, forever.

Welcome to our second event! We realize this one is even lengthier than the first, so below, you’ll find a simplified summary and a timestamp breaking down important dates for the month. Like the first event, feel free to thread out flashbacks, continue your threads from the Anniversary timestamp at your leisure, and explore what your character might be up to throughout the month outside of where they’re mentioned in the event. It’s definitely a busy one!

SUMMARY: It’s Maccius, and springtime has officially arrived in Val Faim. What would be a relatively peaceful start to the season otherwise kicks off with catastrophe when a building explodes extremely close to the Prophet’s Tomb. Only one person dies, a man named Henri, who’d apparently been the cause of the explosion, but the details are murky. The only other individual who could provide any information explaining what happened, Amelie, is brought in to be spoken with but gives up nothing before eventually disappearing into thin air. All the while, Alain Gauthier is scheming in the background, trying to take advantage of both Hippolyte’s execution and the chaos caused by the explosion to get a step ahead.

He calls for one of his allies, KARINE, and asks them to help put the pieces together. Alongside KARINE come two Ambassadors from the not-so-far-away Widrowem, ROWAN and CASSIAN are here to negotiate a marriage contract between Widrowem’s Thane and Calandre… or to see if war might be the next best option, as Calandre’s stubbornness over the years has not improved. Calandre, wanting to lighten the mood in the Summer Palace and distract both herself and courtiers from these gloomy events, summons SYLVIANE to come to Val Faim and paint a beautiful new mural as a tribute to Celestine’s strength. With SYLVIANE is their bodyguard, VASKA. Less famous are the three Chevaliers Calandre brings back from the border of Widrowem to investigate the explosion and members of her court. ROTH, ADRASTE, and MEDRAUT might all be a little on the prickly side, but they’re here to see the rough work done. There is a general air of tension to the city. It feels like most people are waiting for the other shoe to drop.

TIMESTAMPS:

The Second of Maccius: The explosion occurs. Henri is dead, and Amelie is brought in to help figure out what happened.

The Sixth of Maccius: The rubble from the explosion is officially cleared away. Sylviane and Vaska arrive to paint Calandre’s mural.

The Twelfth of Maccius: Roth, Adraste, and Medraut make it to Val Faim and are set to the task of figuring out why Henri set the explosion off, how he did it, and where Amelie went. Calandre has given them full reign of the city and those they speak to for details.

The Nineteenth of Maccius: Karine, Cassian, and Rowan arrive in Val Faim. Karine is here on business for Alain Gauthier, but Cassian and Rowan’s goals are much more political.

If you have any questions pertaining to the event, please drop them in the Discord channel! If you need any help plotting, or getting things started, please reach out and we’ll see what I can do to help. The new characters (Roth, Adraste, Medraut, Karine, Cassian, Rowan, Sylviane, and Vaska) are all open for applications. Their skeletons will be posted throughout the day. Thank you again, to all of you, and happy one month of being open!

[isis-astarte-diana]

Milk and Honey: Day 2

Day 1 ‖ Day 2 ‖ Day 3

Summary: “I don’t need your pity. I won’t stand here and be fussed over by some idiot human child.” Wounds healing and ego bruised, Missy self-sabotages. You pick up the pieces the only way you know how.

Warnings: Possible bit of self-harming/OCD behaviour (obsessive cleaning and fingernail trauma, nothing too heavy). Missy does not handle vulnerability well and she gets nasty, but then she’s such a soft troubled baby that we all collectively pretend that it’s not problematic. Unhealthy relationship dynamics and angst. MIHOW.

Word Count: 3615

NB: Oops! It’s angst. Mostly hurt, bit of comfort. Stay tuned and hopefully the fluff will be back soon!

You wake up warm.

The bedside light is still on, its amber glow shaming the thin autumn sunlight that streams grey from the window. When you reach over to switch it off, something drags you back.

Missy has her arm flung across your stomach.

Beneath the duvet, her hand presses just above your navel. You can feel the weight of it when you breathe. Her fingers are splayed across your pyjama top, gripping the fabric tightly.

You stop dead still, half upright. Inexplicable panic floods your chest. "Missy?" You whisper into the pillow, hardly daring to turn your head and look at her.

"Hmm?"

For a single bloodcurdling moment, you think she must have woken; but then she hums again, squirming closer, her nose brushing the back of your neck. Any relief at realising that she’s still sleeping is lost when her arm tightens around your waist.

You think of staying there. With all of your free time spent travelling in the TARDIS, you can’t remember the last time you were held like this. She’s soft and warm behind you, her breath stirring the fine hairs at the nape of your neck, sending goosebumps prickling across the sensitive skin there. It would be so easy to wait for just a few minutes. Half an hour, maybe.

She would never do this on purpose.

The disgust hits you so hard that you flinch. To lie here, taking advantage of her unconscious embrace, enjoying the sweet comfort of an arm around you and peaceful breathing behind you - what would it make you? What would she think if she knew?

You tear yourself away too forcefully, fuelled by the self-loathing that burns in your throat. Missy groans softly in her sleep but doesn’t stir, burying her face in the pillow where your head had been resting. You tuck the duvet back around her, pointedly not looking at the inch of milk-pale skin on her side where the shirt she wears has ridden up.

She looks better already. The angry graze on her cheek is fading, and the long, deep cut down the side of her face is healed and red with new skin. You wonder how long it will take for them to disappear completely.

It’s clear that the sleep is working how she’d hoped, so you leave her there. The clock on the bedside table reads 9:47. Gathering your things, you head for the shower. As you close the bedroom door, she opens her eyes blearily and mumbles your name. You don’t hear it.

+++++

“How’s the patient?”

The Doctor leans against the kitchen counter, watching you make tea. His hands are thrust into his jacket pockets and there’s a careful aloofness to his voice that does very little to disguise his obvious concern.

“Fine.” It sounds clipped. “She ate. She slept. Still sleeping, last time I checked.” You glance at the time on the microwave; it’s after twelve. “For quite a while now.”

“That’s good.” He reaches past you, snatching a biscuit from the tin and biting it in half. He speaks through the crumbs. “We heal better when we’re asleep. Sometimes go into a coma for a few days, wake up ravenous and fully recovered.”

“She mentioned that.” You take both cups into the living room and he follows, carrying the biscuit tin, going back for another. The bag of Missy’s things is sitting in your space on the sofa and you move it to the floor. It’s a floral, Victorian-looking carpet bag, not particularly large but, you’re assured, bigger on the inside and full of everything she’ll need.

“So what else did you talk about?” He props his feet on the coffee table and you scowl. Looking suitably chagrined, he takes them down.

“Nothing, really." Taking a seat beside him, you feel oddly embarrassed, as if the prior evening’s events were a delicate secret that might wither under his scrutiny. “We watched some telly, and then we were both pretty tired so we went to bed.”

You can feel his eyes on you as you reach for your tea, and your face burns under them. Mercifully he doesn’t ask about the sleeping arrangements. “She didn’t try to kill you, then.”

“Not even once.”

“I was tempted.” Your head darts up at the sound of Missy’s voice in the doorway. She looks more like herself, her face the familiar mask of malicious indifference, the wounds there having healed even further since you woke this morning. The pink skin on her cheek is bisected by a blurry streak of red. She’s taken the braid out of her hair, leaving it to tumble in loose waves about her shoulders. “No tea for me, I take it.”

“You were sleeping.” The Doctor looks her up and down. “Nice pyjamas, by the way.”

“Aren’t they?” She gives a performative little twirl. She’s moving more easily than she did yesterday, coming to a halt with only the faintest wince. “I might move away from purple after all.”

“I brought the things you asked for. Well, most of them.” He gestures to the valise and she snatches it up, fixing him with a suspicious look.

“Most of them?” Her voice is thin.

“I’m not convinced that whalebone is suitable for a stab wound.”

“I’m not convinced that I asked your opinion.” She tears the bag open, reaching into its impossible depths, staring at the contents. “My shoes?”

“Ah, well,” he rubs the back of his neck, leaning forwards. “I didn’t think you’d be going anywhere just yet.”

“My sonic?” She spits it out through gritted teeth.

“The sonic stays on the TARDIS. I’m sorry.” He sounds anything but apologetic. “I can’t have you using it without my supervision.”

“No,” she mutters. “No, of course not.” She closes it slowly, snapping the fastenings with a flourish of her fingers. “Well, if there’s nothing else, Doctor-”

“Actually, I was going to ask-”

“If there’s nothing else, Doctor,” she repeats, speaking over him. He falls silent. “Then I’d better go and make myself decent. Do stop by another time.”

She slips back into the hallway and you hear a door slam. Beside you, the Doctor clears his throat.

“I’d best be going. Lecture on Quantum Chromodynamics this afternoon. Still need to pick out the perfect record for it.” He stands up heavily, thrusting two biscuits into his pocket for the road. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Yeah.” Your eyes are fixed on the door. “Of course. See you soon.”

+++++

“Had a nice chat, did you?”

The bathroom door is open. Missy stands at the sink with her back to you, the tap running full force into the open plughole. Over the sound of rushing water and gurgling pipes her voice is low.

“Yeah, it was okay.” You move closer, gesturing towards her with the steaming mug in your hands. “I made you some tea.” She ignores you. Her attention is fixed on something in the sink, her hands busy with it. You peer around the doorframe. She’s wearing a clean chemise and nothing else, her hair pinned up messily, the muscles in her bare arms tight and flexing with the sawing motion of her elbows. “What are you doing?”

Her stained corset from the previous day is crumpled awkwardly in the sink. The bloody laces are directed under the freezing tap as she scrubs at them with a nailbrush, turning the water the colour of rust where it runs down the drain. Her fingers are a furious shade of pink from the cold and the rough work.

“He didn’t bring me any presentable clothes,” she mutters, not looking up from her thankless task. “No corset, no jacket, no shoes. He’d have me walking around in a housecoat and stockinged feet like an invalid.” She snarls, scrubbing harder, catching her fingers with the bristles. There’s too much blood in the water for it to all be leeching from the fabric; the delicate skin around her fingernails is ragged. Heart in your throat, you set the mug aside and reach for the tap.

“Missy, your hands-”

She knocks your hand away and turns on you. He’s obviously brought her some makeup; the injuries on her face are concealed and her eyes are lined heavily with kohl, flecks of mascara clinging to her lashes, dark lips stretched tight around her bared teeth. It’s hard to believe that she’s the same person who’d slept beside you last night.

“I don’t need your pity,” she snaps, the words poison in her mouth. “I won’t stand here and be fussed over by some idiot human child.”

It stings. After yesterday you thought you were getting somewhere; that you might do better than to tolerate each other, and actually start to become something like friends. Swallowing angry tears that threaten to weaken your voice, you bite back.

“I’ll bear that in mind next time you can’t get undressed by yourself.”

You regret the words before you’ve even spoken them. You understand that she’s lashing out at you because she feels weak, but it smacks of bullying and you can’t bear to be a punching bag for her wounded pride. Something sharp flashes behind her eyes.

“Oh, I bet you had a good laugh about that, didn’t you?” Her fingers, wet and cold as the grave, wrap tightly around your wrist. “He must have loved it.”

Softening immediately, you backpedal, realising the source of her rage. “Missy, I didn’t tell the Doctor about-”

She isn’t listening. She twists your arm up behind your back with startling strength, forcing it so high that your shoulder screams in protest and your words die in your throat. You’re up against the sink before you can draw breath. The tap is still running, icy spray soaking the front of your clothes. You brace your other hand against the slick porcelain and look down at the bloody water.

“Look at me!” Her teeth snap inches from your ear. Lifting your eyes to meet hers in the mirror, your breath falters at the expression on her face. In all the time you’ve known her, you haven’t seen rage like this. “Who am I?”

“You’re the Master.” Mouth dry, your breath fogs the mirror.

“I was reducing whole civilisations to rubble before your species stuck a feather into a pile of ash and drew their first hieroglyph,” she snarls. The threat in her voice makes your hair stand on end. “You’d do well to remember that.”

“I will.” The words come out strained. There’s a band of vice-like pain where she holds your wrist, an aching tightness in the muscles of your back that isn’t lessening. “I will. I’m sorry.”

She steps away so suddenly that you crumple, gripping the sink for support. Your forehead hits the mirror. As you squeeze your eyes shut and catch your breath, you can’t see the look of horror that flashes over her face.

When you open your eyes again she’s gone from behind you. Down the hall, your bedroom door closes. You stare into the sink until it starts to overflow.

+++++

You’re elbow-deep in soapy water, washing yesterday’s dishes, when there are four tentative knocks against the doorframe. You swallow hard and try to ignore them.

“Need a hand?” Missy’s voice is soft and hesitant.

“I’m fine.”

She doesn’t respond for so long that you think she must have left. You’re rinsing the last mug - the octopus - when she speaks again. It makes you jump.

“I’m sorry.” She sounds so genuine that your eyes flutter closed, pain twisting in your chest. “I’m sorry for earlier. That was- not my proudest moment.”

It takes you a second to steady your voice. “I didn’t tell the Doctor. About last night. About any of it.” Steeling yourself, you glance over your shoulder at her. She’s standing so far away. “He doesn’t know.”

“But you do.” It takes you by surprise. You turn around to face her, leaning against the sink. Her expression is implacable. Tracks of mascara stain her pale face; she’s been crying. “You know.”

You cross your arms and look away. The sight of her is turning your resolve into dust. “I understand that you don’t want to be here, Missy, but I didn’t ask you to come. That was his idea.”

“Wrong.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re wrong. It wasn’t his idea.” She scrubs a hand over her face, further smudging her makeup. Her fingers are trembling. She’s wearing the long violet housecoat, unbuttoned, over her thin chemise. Standing barefoot in your kitchen with her hair piled up in loose twists she looks like a ghost. “I don’t know what I expected to-”

“You asked him to bring you here?” You push away from the sink, your voice rising as you step towards her. She flinches, touches the wound on her back, leans heavily against the doorframe. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a criminal,” she snaps. Her words are tight with pain, and she bows at the hips to ease the strain on her back. “I’m a prisoner in the TARDIS as much as I am in the vault, but I thought that here I might be something else. Just for a few days.”

“I’m not keeping you here,” you snarl. “You can do whatever you like, as you took great pleasure in reminding me. You can leave whenever-”

“How can I?!” Looking up from the tiled floor, she fixes you with wild eyes. “How can I when he plays the warden and keeps my things from me on a whim? No clothes, no shoes, no sonic? Wherever I go the Doctor has my dignity under lock and key. What little sanctuary I find he takes, every time.”

“And you thought you’d take that out on me?” The trembling of your bottom lip betrays you. You bat at the mutinous tears in your eyes. “Put the stupid human in her place? Show me that you don’t-”

“That I don’t deserve your kindness.” She cuts you off, straightening up with obvious difficulty, her knuckles white on the door jamb. “Not so long ago I would have snapped you in half just to hear the sound it made. I have lived longer than you can fathom and done things that your language doesn’t have words for. I’m no stranger to regret, my dear.” The fury in her expression drains away and for a moment she looks as ancient as you know her to be. “So when I tell you that I am sorry for what I did to you, please understand what that means.”

Your throat tightens. She’s too easy to forgive like this, with her face lined with pain and her small frame quivering. She looks cold. The words sit heavy at the back of your tongue, ready to accept an apology whose sincerity you don’t doubt for a second. Swallowing them back, you murmur instead, “I think you need to sit down, Missy.”

She studies you with glassy eyes, breathing heavy. “Yes,” she whispers in the end. “Oh, yes. I think so.”

She slumps to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. You land on your knees beside her just in time to keep her head from striking the tiles.

+++++

Despite your efforts, you can’t lift Missy onto the sofa. She’s fully unconscious and the dead weight of her is too much for you to move alone. Instead, you do the next best thing; you tuck a pillow beneath her head and a blanket around her, covering her from shoulders to bare feet, and sit in the living room to watch her breathing.

As the afternoon drags on, you make a late lunch - stepping carefully over her body to reach the kitchen - and pick at it, hardly tearing your eyes away from her for long enough to look at the television. You make no effort to be quiet but she doesn’t stir save for the soft noises she makes in her sleep and the occasional shift in her position. Recalling the Doctor’s words, you choose not to wake her.

“We heal better when we’re asleep.”

You have a torturous amount of time to think while she lies there. Did she sleep in the vault? What about the TARDIS? And before she came here, when she was travelling alone? The Doctor had told you once that Time Lords could go months without it and then spend the best part of a week unconscious. When the light begins to fail and evening falls outside the window, with Missy yet to awaken, you wonder just how long ago “the desert, last time” really was.

Phone in hand, you type and delete the same message over and over for almost ten minutes. The wording escapes you. Some iterations of it are huge paragraphs, wrought with pleading explanations; some are terse and demanding. The final draft ends up being one of the latter, sent before you can second guess yourself.

Bring her sonic tomorrow.

The response comes almost immediately. You open it with trembling fingers.

No.

Incensed, you don’t wait this time. Your jaw clenches with impotent rage as you reply.

Bring it.

You toss your phone to the other end of the sofa, ignoring the answering buzz that sounds angrier than an inanimate object has any right to. As if in response, Missy jolts upright.

It shocks you when she draws a deep, painful-sounding breath, her head whipping around, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Rising to your feet, you approach her slowly.

“Missy?”

She yelps at the sound of your voice, turning to look at you with wide eyes, reaching back to touch the healing injury when the sudden movement tugs at it. Her chest heaves with ragged breaths. The room is dim with autumn dusk, the overhead lights not switched on yet. In the gloom you can’t make out her expression; just those eyes, gleaming like a cat’s.

“It’s okay,” you say cautiously, showing her your palms in a gesture of surrender, trying to soothe her the only way you know how. “It’s okay, it’s just me.”

“What happened?” She throws it out like an accusation but there’s too much fear in her voice for it to wound you.

“I don’t know, you just- dropped. I think you passed out. It’s been a few hours.” Conscious of looming over her while she’s like this, you sink carefully to your knees, a few feet away. “Are you alright?”

It knocks the wind out of you when she throws herself into your arms.

“I thought you’d gone.” Her voice is muffled, warm in the crook of your neck as she claws at the fabric on your back, pulling herself closer. Your hands come to rest either side of the small of her back in an attempt to avoid the wound there. “I thought- I didn’t-”

“It’s okay,” you manage, stunned, propping your chin up on her shoulder. She’s shaking. “It’s okay. I’m here. Did you- were you dreaming?”

A stunted nod. “I can still hear them,” she croaks. “The drums. Always the drums. Whenever I sleep. Whenever I’m alone, they just keep coming back-”

“You’re not alone.” It spills out of your mouth before you can stop it and she whimpers, nuzzling deeper into your embrace. “I’ve got you, Missy. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

+++++

Propped up on the sofa with pillows behind her, Missy takes her makeup off with a damp cloth. She hisses as it drags over the graze on her cheek and your fingers twitch at your sides in sympathy.

“You’re sure you want to sleep here tonight?” As you tidy the remains of your shared meal from the coffee table, you resist the urge to look back at her. She’s lying awkwardly across the cushions, still wearing the housecoat, the blanket from earlier thrown over her body. “I really don’t mind if you want to share the bed.”

“No,” she answers too quickly. “No, I think- I think this is best. It’s easier on my back.”

“Of course.” The lie is paper-thin. After the day’s events, though, you don’t want to push her. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will.”

The microwave dings as you set the dishes on the counter, and you remove the steaming mug of hot milk. It’s been a long time since you’ve made this. You add twice as much honey as usual - she takes four sugars in her tea - and stir it in with the spices, turning the drink the colour of sand. It smells like home.

Missy looks at you questioningly when you set it on the coffee table in front of her.

“Milk and honey,” you explain weakly, rubbing your neck. “My mum’s recipe. She used to make it for me, when I had nightmares. It helps me sleep.”

Her keen eyes follow you as you switch on the standing lamp and turn off the main light, casting the room in a dim orange glow.

“I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”

“Yes.” She picks at a loose thread on the blanket without looking at it. Her face is unreadable. “Thank you. Sleep well.”

There are so many things you want to say. Come to bed, or I forgive you, or you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

As you slip out of the door, all you manage is a quiet, “you too.”

+++++

When the bedroom door creaks open you close your eyes and fall still. There’s a rush of cool air over your back as the duvet lifts at one side, and the mattress sinks behind you. Missy whispers your name. Smiling to yourself, you feign sleep.

[the-sympathetic-villain]

Choking in the Dark

AO3 | Next | Masterpost

Description: The prompt for this one-shot is this animatic, "Wires" by Anna Midnight, which I highly recommend you watch before reading.

Characters: Logan, Remus Word Count: 2769 Chapter Warnings: Heavy Angst, Choking, Self-Esteem Issues/Self-Deprecation, Injuries, Dark but Not Necessarily Unsympathetic sides, Abandonment, Self-Harm, Angst with an okay(?) ending (Let me know if I need to add anything!)

General Taglist:

@somehow-i-got-an-account @justanotherhumanstuff @im-an-anxious-wreck

-

   I can’t breathe.

   Hours.

   How many hours?

   I've been here for so long.

   Logan's lungs ached. On his knees, he hung his head. The weight of his head pulling against the thick rubber cable around his neck, making it even harder to breath. He stayed there for a moment, swaying as he ignored the voice in the back of his mind screamed for air.The voice became increasingly persistent until he was forced to raise his head as the edges of his vision blurred.

   It doesn't matter.

   Thick wires cut deep into his wrists, a solemn comfort that he was even alive. The fading had started hours ago, starteing in the tips of his fingers and slowly claiming his body.  He held up his hand. The translucent appearance of his digits a metaphorical punch to the gut as he jerked his head, the wire around his neck tightening like a noose.

   I'll do you all a favor and spare you my company.

   If he'd known the words would be some of his last, he would have chosen a subject more interesting to lecture on than Peter Singer's take one Effective Altruism. He could have talked about anything. Astronomy, chemistry—The others barely acknowledged his contributions as it stood. The topics may not have been relevant, but at least he would have been able to choose the lesson.

   His last lesson.

   Logan whimpered as the thick wire tightened around his neck, cutting into the already raw skin. He wheezed a stiff breath against the heavy piece of rubber threatening to crush his windpipe.

   Not that it would have had an impact on any of them.

   The piles of dust scattered across the floor around him remained a stark reminder that his words fell flat on the ears of those he most needed to hear them. Thomas—His friends—

   If that's even what they consider me at this point.

   After all, he was here. No one had noted his absence in the hours he'd been gone.

   Why would they?

   Clearly, his words were so unnecessary they should simply be skipped. He growled breathlessly in frustration as the binds around his wrists pulled taut. His arms were stretched out, pulled upward like some sort of sick marionette hanging limply on his knees. He glared into the empty space around him. His ‘room' as the others loved to refer to their personal corners of Thomas' mind.  His room. The awe-inspiring place had once been full of chemistry books and stars and all the little things that made Thomas curious. Logan had been collecting them since Thomas was a child, but it was gone, turned to piles of dust around his room as Thomas' search for knowledge fall further and further out of his mind.

   Unimportant.

   Just like him.

   He couldn’t help the sick smirk on his face as the wires tightened once more around his throat, jerking his head upright. He swallowed a shallow breath, barely drawing oxygen as his airway strained to remain open.

   Unwanted.

   Logan snarled bitterly as memories surfaced forcefully in his mind.

   Not that any of you care, but I am unharmed—

   I'll do you all a favor and spare you my company—

   His own words from this video echoed in his mind as he choked on his own breath. Only Patton had objected, but his protests were weak and quickly forgotten. If one thing was clear, it was that his contributions were neither wanted, nor needed anymore.

   They'll finally get what they've wanted all along—

   Logan groaned as the wires pulled on his wrists and his shoulders ached, barely holding place in the sockets against the strain of the heavy cords threatening to pull him to pieces.

   His life was a small price for them to pay for him to finally be silenced.

   Roman wouldn't have to shut him up when he started rambling anymore. Virgil wouldn't have the added stress of convincing him that Thomas' fears were valid. Patton wouldn't have to feign the moral obligation of treating him like an equal, like he actually had a seat at the table. Thomas—Logan choked back a sob—Thomas wouldn't have to feel guilty about pursuing what actually made him happy.

   This is for the best.

   After all, I already see how worthless my life had become—

   Logan’s head jerked up at the sound of a sinister snicker. “Well, well, well—Look who's wandered a little too far from the light. I didn't take you for the bondage type, teach.”

   He watched as Remus stepped out of the shadows, a menacing grin on his face as he approached. Logan scowled as Remus kicked through the piles of dust, scatter the last remnants of the things he once loved. “What are you doing here, Remus?”

   “What am I doing here?” Remus cackled maniacally. “Oh, no, no, no. The better question is what are you doing on the dark side?”

   “The dark—” A cry past Logan’s lips as the wires around his wrist jerked once more, dislocating his right shoulder. He groaned, daggers in his eyes as he glared at Remus. “You know what?”

   Remus tilted his head at Logan, a show of mock concern as he brushed through yet another pile of dust.

   “Fuck your questions.” Logan spat. “Leave me alone. The least the rest of you owe me is to let me fade away in peace.”

   “You ought to watch that mouth of yours or you're going to disappoint the cardigan-clad killjoy. Besides, what are you going to do about it?” Remus giggled as Logan glared, stepping forward and waving his hand through Logan’s phantom limb. “Ghost me?”

   Fire burned in Logan’s eyes as he stared at Remus, knowing he was helpless. Trapped, as Remus walked free to do as he pleased.

   “So, nerdy wolverine,” Logan looked up as Remus leaned close to his face. “What happened to my invite to the pity party?”

   “This isn't my doing,” Logan hissed, losing steam. “Thomas’ subconscious is pulling me back. I—I've outlived my purpose.”

   “Pulling you back seems like an understatement. It looks to me like you’re about to be pulled to shreds—” Remus smirked, leaning against the wall behind him nonchalantly. “—and don’t get me wrong. I’m all about watching Thomas' mind tear you into little pieces, but you’re supposed to be pretty important for the big guy, right? Seems to me like Thomas is supposed to need you more than those other dorks on the light side.”

   Logan gritted his teeth. “Clearly, you’re mistaken. They are managing perfectly well without me.”

   “Oh, now I do sense a little bitterness.” Remus purred. “Maybe he's not so resigned as he looks.”

   “Your point is null, Remus. My existence is of little consequence to anyone and the subconscious has made its decision.” Logan wheezed numbly, tears in his eyes as he tried to move his fingers, desperately hoping they were still there. “This is happening, whether I want it to or not.”

   "Oh, I don't know." Remus mused absently. "I don't think all of that is true."

   “What?” Logan strained painfully against the thick cord around his neck to turn his head to catch a glance at Remus.

   “I wouldn’t say no one wants you around.”

   Logan swallowed painfully, dropping his gaze in shame as tears brimmed in his eyes. “The others—”

   “Screw the others.” Remus smirked as Logan stared a him. “I meant me.”

   Logan froze, temporarily stunned as his limbs went limp in their binds. “You—you want me around?”

   “Now, don't get all sappy on me, teach, but the others aren't as much fun to play with. They roll over to easy.” Remus wiggled his eyebrows at him and giggled as Logan stared blankly at him. “Not you though. You gave me a run for my money last time, and—and we made a good team. Didn't we?”

   “What?” Logan winced as Remus raised a hand to his neck, staring at the wires digging into his skin. His fingertips brushed the edge of the wire's tight grip and the red, raw skin burned painfully at his touch, but the contact—the contact felt nice.Tears streaked down his face as emotions welled in his chest. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been touched so gently.

   “We may have opposed each other, but really that was the only way to get through to Thomas and it worked.” Remus sighed, and Logan could see the sadness in his eyes as he pulled his hand back, looking into Logan's eyes. “I couldn't have done that without you. The rest of them would never have seen past the darkness in me.”

   Logan stared blankly down at Remus for a long moment, before his purpose kicked in. “The others are unnecessary blinded by their narrow view of moral. The  concepts of light and dark are arguably meaningless. Assigning actions as good or evil only serves our biases and our internal need for affirmation of our own moral value—” Logan nearly bit down on his tongue as Remus raised an eyebrow at him. “—I'm sorry. I'm rambling.”

   “I didn’t stop you, teach." Remus smirked. "I would gladly listen to you ramble about light and dark for hours.”

   Logan blinked in surprise. For the first time in a long time, he actually believed someone was genuinely interested in his thoughts. He stared blankly at Remus until another tight squeeze of the wires caused his vision to blur. His head swayed, the lack of oxygen contributing to his fading consciousness.

   “Unfortunately, I don't think we have the time right now.” Remus glanced at him nervously. “The subconscious has nearly claimed you."

   “It's too late.” Logan wheezed, tears streaming down his face as he prepared for the mysterious edge of Thomas' mind to pull him apart.

   “The subconscious could have just taken you.”

   “What?”Logan cracked his eyes open at Remus' solemn whisper, nearly hyper ventilating from the strain to pull in enough oxygen to keep him conscious.

   “You could have disappeared on the light side, but it brought you here.” Remus looked up at the wires trailing infinitely into the  mind palace above them.

   Logan wearily stared up at him, black oblivion tugging at his vision as his head swayed. “So?”

   “So, do you want to live, Logan?” Logan barely felt as Remus grabbed his collar.

   Logan wheezed, exhaustion hanging onto his body as the pain intensified.

   “I need an answer, Logan.”

   Logan closed his eyes, oblivion pulling at him as he whispered breathlessly. “Yes.”

   “Alright,” Logan felt Remus drop his collar as he took a step back. “Forgive me for this.”

   “Wha—” Logan’s statement was cut off as Remus' knuckles connected with his temple. His head was jerked to the side and the welts on his neck burned like fire from the sudden movement.

   "Time to taste what you’re made of, Lo!”

   Logan’s head jerked up as he lurched forward furiously. White hot rage surged through his veins as he bit bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

   What kind of sick bastard punches someone as they're dying.

   His hands hung loosely at his sides as he screamed at Remus. “You piece of—What are you trying to do to—”

   Wait. Loosely?

   The realization lasted only a moment before a second fist connected with his cheekbone. All rational thought left his mind as fury filled his being and he lunged forward at Remus. He cried out as his dislocated shoulder connected with Remus' chest, toppling him over. He gasped as he hit the ground and pain lit up across his body as his bruises and welts all connected with the ground with a loud thud.

   “Shit, Lo. You knocked the breath right out of me.” Logan could hear the sounds of Remus shuffling next to him. “Hold on. I've got you.”

   Logan felt Remus roll him over and he moaned in pain at the forced movement as his back settled on the cold ground.

   “I know, Lo, but I've got to set your arm before you do some permanent damage.” Remus whispered gently. “Are you ready? On 3. 1—2—”

   Logan's vision went white as pain shot through his body and his consciousness faded briefly. No times seemed to pass, but as he opened his eyes a moment, he found himself curled in Remus' arms. A quick glance down revealed that creative side had used his signature green sash to fashion a makeshift sling for his arm. He stared down at the gentle attention Remus had shown him and he couldn’t help but smile.

   Brilliant—

   Logan cut off his thought with a sudden gasp. His uninjured hand shot to his neck, feeling—nothing. Tears streamed down his face as he looked up to Remus. “ The wires. Th-they’re gone.”

   I'm free.

   “Sorry about the black eye I gave you to get you out of there.” Remus smirked as Logan looked up from his shaking hands, running his free hand through his hair as he looked away evasively as Logan stared at him. “I normally try to get permission before I get rough, but—”

   “You did that for me.” Logan's mouth hung open as he traced the deep indents in his arms where the wires had constricted his wrists.

   Remus shrugged. “It wasn't noth—"

   Logan sucked in a breath, going limp with the realization that someone cared enough to intervene. “It most certainly is something, Remus. Those wires—they've bound me for years. I don't think I even remember a time when they weren't—” Logan clenched his teeth, feeling the wet streaks mix with the blood from his lip running down his face. The realization of what just happened hit him all at once and he choked back a sob. “You saved my life.”

   “Nah,” Remus brushed him off. “You did all the real work. Everyone’s got a little light and dark in ‘em, right? I just antagonized that little spark of anger in you until you went full Mr. Hyde to your usual Dr. Jekyll. A little push and the dark side accepted you.”

   Logan blinked in shock as realization struck him. He dropped his gaze to the ground as he considered the days' events. "I'm a dark side now. Aren't I?"

   "What happened to the idea that light and dark are arguably meaningless, nutty professor?" Remus giggled before turning serious. “Don't worry. You're not stuck with me. The subconscious’ grip on you is gone if you want to go back—”

   “Don't make me go back, Re.”

   Remus stared at Logan pleaded up at him. “Lo, you can stay, if you want, but Virgil’s gone. I'm pretty sure Janus checked out after the last vid. It's just me down here and I snore—”

   “Remus, in the last ten minutes, you've shown me more humanity than any of the others have in years,” Anger flashed in Logan's eyes as he slowly straightened to his feet, glancing around the room. The piles of dust were gone, revealing a polished concrete floor, a blank canvas. “It all makes sense now.”

   “What does” Remus paused and watched as Logan stood. With a devilish smirk, he brushed off the the dust of his shirt. The last remnants of the his empathy fading into oblivion.

   Emotions. I always knew they were simply a nuisance.

   “I couldn’t help Thomas from the light side. The rules, the niceties…They were preventing me from fulfilling my purpose. I need to be more forceful. More persistent. More angry” Logan looked up to see the night sky above them, an illusion of the mind palace and the beginning of a new chapter. A bitter smile spread across Logan's face as the dark clouds swirled above them, allowing only a sprinkling of stars to show through. “Don't you see, Remus? I need to make them listen. I need to make Thomas listen.”

   Remus raised an eyebrow at him suspiciously. “You’re actually staying?”

   A mischievous smile spread across Logan’s face as he watched items creep slowly up out of the floor, his room now feeling much like he'd had before. A desk, a globe. The room filled to the brim with bookshelves. Everything returned to his room just like before was except—a little darker, a little colder and about as welcoming as the sinister smile spreading across his face. “Yes, I think I'm going to get comfortable here, Remus.”

   Remus matches his smile, giggling manically. “Ah yes, Lo. Let's burn this place to the ground!”

   Free. He was free at last.

   Logan chuckled, smiling at the wonderful man beside him. “Yes, Re, let's do just that.”

[utterlyhopeful-fics]

Love on the Line - Part 2

I hope y’all are ready for the heartache because this chapter absolutely destroyed me. Please read the warnings because this chapter does deal with quite a few heavy issues along with ripping your heart to shreds. Let me know if you’d be interested in another part? Thank you all for the read! Part 1 HERE

Masterlist

Henry Cavill x Reader

Word Count: 2360

Warnings: heartbreak, break-up, language, mention of self harm, pure unadulterated angst 

******************

Today was a day where she just wanted solace though the impending doom of forethought clouded her every sense. She wanted to blink and will the world around her to magically disappear enjoying her descent into darkness. Y/N sought to feel anything at all but alas she felt wholly empty. It was slowly but surely killing her, picking her apart piece by fucking piece. She hadn’t had the chance to speak with him, hear his once soothing voice on the other end of the phone. Just nonchalant texts messages brimmed with no meaningful purpose. But is that what she wanted the entire time? Possibly so. 

That’s what made her friends poke into her business, snoop until they found an answer worthy of their liking. Y/N knew how to play their games and say whatever it took to make them stop their line of questioning. It was her equivalent of mourning the future she mapped out. Her phone chimed alerting Y/N of its annoying presence. ‘Catching a connecting flight out of LAX to meet with Danny and, finally heading home baby! ETA tomorrow late afternoon.’

Great, there was no stopping his arrival now that he was officially coming home.

She had so many grand plans in her dreams, promises of a life she now questioned if she ever wanted at all. The blade felt cool against her skin, she begged for the sweet release for the air latched in her lungs to be set free, but no such luck today. Old habits die hard. Blood dribbled onto the marble sink as relief flooded her system, endorphins pumping as her vision momentarily darkened. For a second, all was calm and she relished in the fleeting feeling. Y/N finally released the breath scratching at her lungs. She was anxious and just wanted to sleep away the day while morph into her sheets.

Curiously, she didn’t remember when she became exhausted. She didn’t remember when exhausted was no longer exhausted, and it just was. The tiredness seeped in her bones and she accepted this state of being with utter apathy. Y/N frowned down at the piece of jewelry that once sparked joy, reminiscing on the night Henry proposed. Now the ring on her finger was beginning to weigh too much for her to fathom. So, Y/N did what was best and sadly slide the diamond off her ring finger and back into its elegant box.

~The Next Day~

             Y/N paced their chic living room floor awaiting his and Kal’s arrival. Mentally prepping herself over the strong points to hit in their conversation trying to build her courage and morale. This would be easier if I wasn’t in love with him. Just then, she heard the sound of the garage door open and an engine decease. It was now or never. Realistically, Y/N knew she couldn’t keep a straight face for very long but at the same moment so ached for his touch, for his gentle kiss, and for one more unscathed instance. She inhaled deeply and soothed her nerves to the best of her ability. The front door opened, the pitter patter of paws hit the ground first, greeting her with overwhelming enthusiasm. Y/N kneeled to Kal’s level letting the dog lick her cheek powerless to the loyal Akita before her.

“Darling, where you are?” His voice echoed through the foyer in search of Y/N as he found her with Kal. He rushed towards her, wrapping his arms in a warm embrace and brought her close. He buried himself in the column of her neck kissing a trail of the gentle kisses and inhaled. Everything about this woman lit his insides of fire and now she was tangible, a reality he was more than happy to clasp on to. Hands finding his tamed locks, Y/N intertwined her fingers pulling him in leaving no space between their bodies. Stay strong. Stay focused Y/N.

“Is it even possible to miss one’s smell?”

“You’re home.”

Y/N stepped out of his warmth missing the fleeting scowl etched on Henry’s face.

“Can I get you anything to drink; Scotch possibly? I’m dying for a drink.”

Henry couldn’t put his finger on it but something didn’t feel right. As she reached the wet bar, he took in her appearance. She had lost weight; her bones were noticeable now. She turned his direction with glasses in hand. Her cheekbones were too pronounced, she quite frankly looked …fragile?

“Here you go, babe. Welcome home.”

His hand clasped over hers holding her stare before retrieving the glass.

The liquor deliciously burned down her throat. He refused to bite his tongue any longer; “Y/N, is something the matter?”

She ogled the bronzed liquid in her glass before clearing her throat; “Yes.” Henry’s eyebrows raised in concern reaching out to her as Y/N took a step out of reach.

He barely heard her before a whimper left her; “Please don’t touch me, Hen.”

Bewilderment override his body leaving his brain in the dust.

“Love, what’s wro—” Before he could finish, his phone beeped notifying him of an incoming message. He reached in his back pocket wanting to silence the damned thing before reading who it was from.

‘Anya: Make it home safe? I’m lying in bed alone and can’t help but think of your taste. See you soon?’

Y/N watched in disbelief at his attention pulled elsewhere. So much so that she didn’t comprehend the glass shattering onto the tile floor and blood sliding down her wrist. She clenched her fist in blinded anger reminding herself of the pain as the shard dug deeper into her flesh.

“I’m standing right in front of you. I always have and yet you refuse to even acknowledge me. I can’t even maintain your attention god forbid you put your phone down for five minutes. How do you think that feels when the one person you’re in love with can’t even give you the time of day?”

He drank in her disheveled appearance, her blotted checks streaked with tear stains, her messy hair from constantly running her fingers through, and lastly, the hurt that lay just behind her blue irises. He’d never hated himself more than in this moment. Ever so gently he leaned closer into her frame craving her closeness but she remained a step further. She ducked away in disgust swatting his hand from reaching her face. Henry attempted to cover up the shock from overtaking his chiseled features. He’d never seen her so on fire in their entirety as a couple.

“I said don’t fucking touch me. You sicken me. Is that what you wanted to hear, huh? Do you think it’s fun being invisible to the one person I thought had my back?” She refused to hold back her emotions anymore allowing the storm to overflow.

“YN... please let me...”

“What? Let you explain? What possible bullshit are you about to spew in hopes of changing my mind?”

“I love you. Don’t ever underestimate my feelings for you.” 

Sighing, she inhaled a much-needed breath of air before composing herself, at least to the best of her abilities; “Henry. Stop. Please, I’m begging you. My chest feels as if it’s been pried open and my heart ripped from my body. My blood boils through my veins yet is tinged with ice. You’re breaking me into a million little pieces. You must see what you’re doing to me.”

Melancholy dripped from her voice as he silently berated himself, shaking his head in defeat. His eyes glazed over slightly in an attempt to find his own composure, to quill the manic pounding residing in his chest. If he were being honest, it had been quite some time since he last looked at Y/N. Genuinely looked at her. No facetime, no phone calls. And she was right, she was ripping at the seams. How had he not noticed? The chilled atmosphere left the pair suffocating, grasping onto their last truth of reality as quietness laid between them. 

“You pride yourself on your so-called honesty. So, now’s your time! ...are the rumors true?”

Henry’s eyes immediately averted to the cement ground below wishing to buy himself another second of borrowed time. But with no such luck, he let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realize had been lodged in his lungs. 

“Yes. But I didn’t sleep with her.” 

YN bit her lip to keep a wail from slipping out making her insides inflate with sadness. She knew it was all too good to be true. Her stomach churned at the mere mention of her name.

She sniffled trying to look anywhere but at the handsome god displayed in front of her but to no avail met his calm blue eyes awaiting hers. 

“Okay.”

“Okay? That’s all you have to say?” 

Y/N’s fight was fast depleting and she wasn’t sure how long her energy would remain before perching upon empty. If she was being honest, all she wanted to do was bury her head into his warm chest willing his past mistakes away and reuniting them with their life...the life they built together. But that was no longer an option she could look forward to any longer. He made damn sure of that before returning home from filming. And worse, TMZ had the pictures to rub salt in her fresh wounds. 

Her silence was killing him increasing his anxiety foolproof. 

“Please Y/N say something, anything! I deserve your wrath and anger. A shout would be better than nothing.”

But to his surprise, she remained frozen unable to show what was running through her mind. 

“There’s nothing left to say. You made a choice and with that said choice allowed for the entirety of our relationship to simply vanish. I deserve wholesome and unconditional love, not some half-ass attempt. It must’ve been so lonely in Budapest for you that you just had to fuck somebody else. I totally get it.” Her sarcastic tone finally freeing her most inner thoughts.  

“I didn’t have sex with her! Woman, listen to the words I’m saying.”

“Don’t you dare patronize me. Look me in the fucking eyes Henry William Dalgliesh Cavill and tell me what happened.”

“A silly mistake. We had just wrapped and headed out to a local pub down the way. It had this amazing terrace and all I could think is about how much you would’ve enjoyed the view, the architecture of the city. Drinks led to shots and before I knew it, someone pushed me into a bathroom stall. I remember hearing the lock click, Anya tugging at my belt, and not having the restraint to push her away. I closed my eyes and pictured you, I swear it. God woman, I missed you. It wasn’t until I came that I realized it wasn’t you.”

“Did you ever even maybe think about how I get being hundreds of miles away from you? That maybe I was just as lonely. But guess what? I didn’t go to a bar and stick my tongue down anyone’s throat. Jesus, Henry, I’m not even sure I even crossed your mind. Do tell me though; are you apologizing because you got caught or because you feel bad?”

His question left her stunned. This wasn’t how he saw this scenario playing out in his head. Y/N glanced down at the beautiful ring residing on her delicate finger. The one she had forced herself to put on that morning. The diamond ring she once so blindly admired now felt like a ton of bricks forcing her stomach to stir with resentment. 

“Filming was chaotic and I just slipped. A fucking lapse in judgement. I’m an asshole Y/N but you must know how much I regret causing you any amount of pain. 

“Temptation is an impossible beast to tame. But worry no more for you are a free man now.” 

“That isn’t what I want.”

She smirked at him before letting out a loud huff; “Sometimes we don’t always get what we want. In this case, we’re both losers.” 

Henry shook his head in disagreement unable to process her words before she spoke again; “Perhaps, somewhere, someday, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.”

“Don’t say that my love. Please give me another chance. We can work through this; I know deep in my bones there is no one else for me in this life.”

“To what Henry? To make a fool out of me once more? To show the world your power of forgiveness?”

“Be rational Y/N. I asked you to fucking marry me for god’s sake. I want you as my wife, to be by my side!”

Her throat dried at his words of admittance. It was still her dream too. When she closed her eyes YN pictured him in a wonderfully fitted tux waiting for her but now he had trampled her trust.

“I, I want to be the last person who ever kisses you… Please, hear me out. I know that sounds weird, like some sort of death threat.” Henry continued to stumble in attempt to find the words his brain was spewing; “This is it for me, darling.”

His words sunk into her encapsulating her very presence. It was everything and more she had craved to hear. But now his pretty words were tinged with guilt and cheapness leaving a bitter taste on her tongue.

“You’re not in love with me, not really, you just love the way I made you feel. And you’ve definitely proved that others can make you feel the same just as easily. Stop playing the victim. You did a shit thing and it kinda makes you a shit person now. The sooner you accept that the easier it will be to comes to terms with your new reality. The one without me in it.”

Before Henry fully processed her words, he suddenly felt an object being placed into his right palm. Her slender fingers atop his before throwing him a pitiful frown. Slowly prying his hand open, the glimmer of the engagement ring laid desolate as blood bombarded his eardrums. After all, how often do we get a second chance?

 -------

Tags: @maggiemoo1892​ @thedeadhearted​ @giveusbackourbucky​ @elinalfrida​ @thereisa8ella​ @henry-cavlll​ @onlyhenrys​ @threeminutesoflife​ @princess-of-riviaa​ @omgkatinka​ @littlefreya​

[janekfan]

hmm prompt time... jon angst about his humanity or lacktherof? worrying about him not being good enough for+worthy of+safe for martin/general guilt/self hatred? before or after apocolypse idk maybe safe house maybe post change? maybe season 4 after coma? could end up being jmart h/c or just be jon sad time whatever works

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27232381

For everyone else it had already been six long months.

And for Jon.

Well. For Jon, it was just yesterday.

Sasha.

Gone.

Tim.

Gone.

Martin.

Gone.

Himself?

And wasn’t that the question of the day Jon thought as he dragged himself up the steps of the Magnus Institute. He didn’t have anything with him. He didn’t have anything left that he knew of. Just the Oyster card and set of clothes the hospital had been kind enough to give him as his own were thoroughly shredded in the explosion. Everything else was gone.

He should be gone.

He’s the only one who should be gone.

But he’s still here.

And they’re just.

Was he even allowed to grieve?

“Jon” Melanie’s sharp, irritated voice raked over his ill-fitting skin like claws and he lifted sore eyes in acknowledgment.

“Hm, y’yes?”

“Been calling your name. You up to your spooky monster shit already?” He winced, wishing the scratchy two-sizes too big tee shirt would swallow him the rest of the way. “Barely through the door and you can’t resist.”

“N’no. Was. Was thinking, s’all.” Rubbing his arm, trying desperately to feel something, Jon didn’t know if he was allowed to leave or not. If he moved would she be upset? If he stayed?

“Least keep to your office. Don’t want you...watchin’ me.” She shoved past him, knocking him against the wall, still unsteady on his feet, the effects from the statement earlier were wearing off, or whatever the supernatural equivalent was and he slipped like a shadow through the halls to his door to hide himself behind it.

Things did not improve. He was always in the wrong, always a menace and he’d caught a glimpse of himself in the restroom mirrors a couple times, surprised at how thin and pathetic he looked. But they were afraid of him. He Knew it. Because the Eye gravitated to these heavenly tastes of fear like a starving man did to food.

So he kept to himself.

I’m sorry.

As days crept in and out, Jon tried to keep stock of what was different and the only thing he could conclude after his careful analysis and study was that he. Jonathan Sims. Was now something less than human.

Less than.

That made sense. That was okay. He’d always been better off alone because when he was alone he couldn’t hurt people and all he seemed to do was hurt people.

Wasn’t that true?

Georgie Sasha Tim Martin Daisy Georgie Sasha Tim Martin DaisyGeorgieSashaTimMartinDaisy

What was the point of learning that hard-won lesson if he had no one left?

I’m sorry.

And there was no way to go back. He’d caused it. Been causing it since he was a child, alienating, precocious, and so unlikable.

And there was no way for him to fix it. Not when he was in so deep. Not when he was addicted to these, these tales of dread and panic and horror and pain and death and terror and loss. Not when he had taken from those that he haunted and hunted through nightmare and dream. Took what they had and made it his, feeding, feeding, feeding like some animal.

But animals didn’t have a choice did they?

I’m sorry.

He’d already been judged and found wanting. Georgie was right. He should have died, or stayed in the coma, or anything other than turning into whatever he was now. Something inhuman, un-human.

Un-made.

Twisted.

I’m sorry.

Pity there was no one left who would accept his worthless apologies. Not from whatever he was now.

Jon was barely in control, not in control. Not really. Exhausted and hungry and lonely, lonely, lonely. He decided to take control back, just a little, whatever he could because to be human was to stay in control.

And he takes it.

In the only way he can think how.

Blood wells up from scratches Jon gouges into his arms, from beneath the blades of dull knives and keen razors, deep and dark and dangerous if he were human. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t harm himself enough physically, healing too fast to really feel it like he wanted to feel it and the marks never stayed long enough. Didn’t, didn’t bleed long enough, fast enough, never enough.

There’s no one left to notice the rust and ruby lining the bin so Jon doesn’t bother putting effort into cleaning up evidence. It’s around him in the florid streaks crossing the blotter, the cardinal fingerprints on old envelopes, the scarlet trails of irregular constellations mapped beneath his chair.

The answer to his problem became clear soon after. The statements. Addicted to them, it wasn’t until Basira pointed out that he should stop that he realized the easiest way to hurt was to deny himself. And they wanted him to stop. They want him to hurt and he should hurt. It’s fine, it’s okay, it’s what he’s been looking for.

Maybe when they thought he’d hurt enough, they would forgive him.

The pain was good. Every time he denied the Eye was good. Better than, it was intoxicating. The smallest act of rebellion and he revelled in it. Knowing he was weak, that he couldn’t be used for whatever purpose he’d been created for while he was like this, filled him with a perverse hope.

Restless, Jon retraced his steps through the Archives, trying to avoid Basira and Melanie where he could though they didn’t do anything more than ignore him unless he had a purpose or interrogate him about leaving, finding a victim. Compelling them against their will.

“You look shite, Jon.” He avoided their eyes, stared at their feet and watched them fade in and out, as he swayed back and forth, and he knew they were sneering because he could hear it in their voice. “Proof enough, I suppose.” Melanie lifted his face with a gentle finger placed under his chin. “Haven’t been galavanting in people’s dreams?” Back bowing under the weight of her scrutinizing stare, Jon did his best to stand straight. Removing the influence of the Slaughter didn’t make her undivided attention any easier to stomach and he put effort into quelling the ever present shiver thrumming through his bones, playing his sinews like strings.

“Uh, n’no. I don’t leave much. Or at all.”

“Mm.”

“Melanie?” Narrowed eyes stared through him, followed the quick rush through the highways of his veins. She knew where to strike to do the most damage.

Jon Knew it wouldn’t stick if she tried.

He was sure he’d seen him come this way. Martin. Whom he missed more than he ever thought one could miss someone. And, really, what did he know of Martin? Other than how best to ridicule him? He’d done this, or at the very least pushed him toward it. A victim for the Lonely. For Peter Lukas to control and manipulate and Martin assured him he was fine. He was fine and Jon shouldn’t look for him anymore because it was making it harder, it was making it worse. And Jon could do that. Could do one thing to make it easier for Martin?

But when he saw him, pale and small and Martin should never seem so small, Jon abandoned all his promises. He’d never been good at keeping them anyway. Why start now? Dizzier than he thought, the first step almost sent him sprawling and he just managed to catch himself on the wall, resting against it long enough to lose him. He pushed off, caught himself again as the hall twisted around him, spiraling like Helen’s eyes when they burrowed into his own and he followed, stumbling, a body ricocheting from surface to surface; floor, window, door, battered and bruised where no one could see. Not like the scars and the timeline they’d scripted silver and hoary on translucent brown vellum.

Martin is not there.

Jon has arrived too late.

He was good at that.

The first sob cleaved him in two, the second carved his chest clean out. Empty. Painfully empty and worse than anything he’d done to himself thus far. There wasn’t room to breathe between, there wasn’t time or space and rather than cower in the open doorway Jon threw himself into the office, crashing to his knees and pressing his face into the wood of his neatly organized desk before he gathered the wherewithal to pull himself into the chair, nicking the jumper folded over the back of it before crumpling again. Soft against his cheek, the well worn wool comforted him enough that he gained tentative control over himself again. He spent the time there dazed between bouts of crying, gradually tugged into the deep and the dark, exhausted and guilty.

He’s visited by dreams instead of nightmares. A cool palm gently coaxing the blazing, feverish heat from his skin. Stroking back tangled curls from his damp face and murmuring gentle things, lovely things, that he had no right to take comfort from. Jon dreamt of being hushed, of tears swept away by mindful fingertips, of clinging to Martin’s cardigan so tightly his hands ached. There was warmth here. Softness here. That he didn’t deserve and stole anyway, greedy and covetous because that’s what monsters did. And he took it, held it close, let it soothe the aches and the agony he carried so deep in him it hurt to let free.

Sasha.

Tim.

Martin.

Jon woke to the smell of sea air and surf.

To the last of a thick fog clinging around his ankles.

To a mug of tea, still hot.

And a statement.

[beneathstarryskies]

NSFW Alphabet: Remus Lupin

This wasn’t requested by anyone, I was just bored as hell so here we are. I hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. :) 

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Remus is absolutely the softest after having sex. You could almost say Remus loves the aftercare just as much as the sex itself. The intimacy of it, and how beautiful you look in the afterglow. 

If we’re being honest, he’s in awe of how wonderful making love to you is every single time. So, he likes to stay close to you afterwards. He’ll hold you close, and whisper quietly in your ear while playing with your hair. He tells terrible jokes because he loves to hear your laugh. 

When it’s close to the end of the moon cycle, he tends to get rather rough with you during sex. Often times he will praise you for being so good to him, and if he’s left marks on you he will soothe them. 

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He is pretty insecure, so truthfully he doesn’t have a favorite part of his body. If he has to choose something to like about himself, it would be his height. Although this is directly tied to how much you love his height. He enjoys the way your eyes widen and you look so sweet when he’s towering over you. He also loves it when you have to stand on your tiptoes to kiss him. 

“Every part of you is my favorite part,” is his default answer when you ask. However, deep down he’s partial towards your thighs. They simply offer such a plethora of delights: Kissing them, biting them, laying his head on them so you can play with his hair, burying his face between them, gripping them when you ride him. Thighs.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Remus doesn’t like to make too much of a mess, which stems from his constant fear of being a burden. He prefers cumming inside of you, as it just feels much more intimate to him. He is also deeply appreciative when you swallow during oral. 

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

While teaching at Hogwarts, he used to fantasize about you giving him head beneath his desk constantly. There’s no telling how many times he had to jack off between classes because that thought would creep into his mind.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Due to his condition, he’s not overly experienced. He’s always been rather afraid of losing control during sex.

 He does have an idea of what he’s doing mostly because Remus is such an avid learner, and so he’s done his fair share of research. 

Furthermore, if there is anything he doesn’t know he is eager for you to teach him. 

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

Remus likes for you to stradle his lap and ride him. The two of your chests pressed together so he can still kiss you easily, and he can feel your heart beat against his. 

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Before and after he is pretty humorous. He likes to see you blush and laugh. However, in the moment he is rather serious although not entirely on purpose. He just gets swept up in the moment, and he focuses so much on your pleasure.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Remus keeps himself well groomed. His pubic hair is just a bit darker than the hair everywhere else. It is rather soft and thin, so even if he doesn’t groom it’s not too much of a nuisance.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Remus is very intimate. He takes his time worshipping every inch of you. For him, sex is truly an escape from his reality. It’s a chance just to be with you and to show you how much you mean to him. 

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

He’s never really been one jack off too much, but he will most definitely do so to ease the tension. Often when he’s away from you for long periods, he will find himself fantasizing about you while pleasuring himself. 

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Remus is not too kinky. Although he does have a bit of a praise kink. He’s spent so long feeling like a burden to society. When you tell him how good he makes you feel or you voice how much you want him, he’s just absolutely weak for it. And he loves reciprocating.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Pretty much anywhere is his favorite place. He’s particularly fond of his own bed, due to the feeling of the two of you being in your own world. But he’s pretty much down to fuck you wherever you can find the privacy.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Knowing that you really want him is his biggest motivator. Remus has a huge capacity for love, but he didn’t genuinely believe anyone would be able to love him. The fact that you do love and accept him fully is a huge turn on for him. He loves being able to smell your arousal.

By nature, he does have a rather high libido. This only gets more intense as the full moon draws closer. Sometimes during the end of the cycle, it takes literally nothing to get him going. You can walk into a room, and the man is immediately seducing you. 

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He will not do anything that harms you. That’s an instant no from him. He also will not share you, and truthfully has a bit of a jealous streak. Sirius once flirted with you (before knowing about your relationship with Remus) and Remus absolutely lost it. 

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Giving and receiving are both equally wonderful as far as Remus is concerned. He’s quite skilled with that mouth of his, and he is of course eager to please. It usually takes very little time for him to have you a shivering mess beneath his mouth. 

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

He tends to be more slow and sensual. For Remus, it’s more about making it last than it is quickly reaching his climax. He loves making you climax multiple times until you’re almost overstimulated before allowing himself to cum. 

 Sometimes closer to the full moon he will become more rough, but it’s certainly not his default preference. It’s just as the animal side of him becomes more prominent, he tends to lose his self control. 

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He’s much more keen on proper sex than he is quickies. It is something that he will do if you simply don’t have the time, or as stated before as it gets closer to the full moon his libido intensifies quite a bit. So, he is definitely down for quickies towards the full moon. 

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Remus is eager to please, so anything you’re interested in trying he will at least give a chance. As long as it doesn’t involve having to hurt or share you he’s willing to try pretty much anything. 

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

In the early days of your sexual relationship, Remus had a hard time controlling himself. It had truthfully been a long time since he’d been touched in any way, so often he would cum prematurely. He would get so embarrassed with himself, but your patience made him fall in love with you even more. That being said, he made up for it by being able to go for multiple rounds. As he gains more control over his orgasms, he’s able to make things last longer. 

He very much so prefers to go longer once or twice rather than multiple short rounds.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He’s doesn’t own anything, and he’s not interested in having anything used on himself. However, he is willing to use them on you if that’s your thing. Whatever it takes to make sex as pleasurable for you as possible, he will do. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He is a bit of a tease, especially since he has the advantage of smelling your arousal. Sometimes you’ll be so desperately trying to hide it from him (perhaps during on Order meeting) and he will give you a suggestive smirk. You know you’re done for when he gives you that look. He’ll be relentless in his random touches and whispering filthy things in your ear until you’re almost begging him to fuck you. 

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Remus is rather vocal. He tends to moan quite a bit, and he likes to shower you in compliments and praise. 

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

He likes it when you take care of him after his transformations. How gently you soothe his wounds, and how eager you are to be there for him. He makes it a point to make love to you the morning after the full moon just so he can relish in how soft and comforting you are to him. You often make it a point to kiss every scratch and bruise he gets. Part of him feels guilty for getting so turned on by it, but it just makes him feel so safe. 

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Remus is about average in girth, but is pretty long. About 10 inches is a safe estimate. 

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

He has a high sex drive, and finds himself yearning for you quite often. It’s pretty uncommon for the two of you to take long gaps unless life gets in the way too much. 

You’ve joked before that Remus would be happy to simply stay in bed and fuck between each full moon. (It’s true.) 

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He doesn’t usually fall asleep too quickly. Remus loves pillow talk, so he likes to stay up for a bit afterwards with you. He also loves watching you fall asleep. The way your eyelids droop is very cute to him, especially when you fight it. You’ll often snuggle up to him to hide how sleepy you are, and soon your soft whispers turn into to even breathing against his skin as you fall asleep. He likes watching the transition, and hearing you sleep so peacefully against him is what lulls him to sleep. 

[alkae]

They Were Roommates

Chapter One

Varian was late for class. Again.

It wasn’t his fault he kept telling himself. He set alarm after alarm but he just couldn’t seem to be able to wake up early. Every morning was the same: wake up 5 minutes before class started, change out of pajamas, brush teeth in five seconds and then basically sprint across the campus to his first class. Which, by the way, was about a ten minute walk on a non busy day.

It’s been like this for a week. That may not seem like a long period of time but that was how long he had been at Corona University. And his roommate didn’t seem to care enough to wake him up for class.

Said roommate he hasn’t even met yet. They had completely different schedules. That or his roommate was purposely trying to avoid him. Varian didn’t mind. Frankly he was glad for the lack of distractions. He just wanted to graduate and then move on with his life without having anyone sidetrack him from his goals. And so far so good.

That particular day, though, completely shit on his goals. He was sprinting to class, bag half packed and hair a mess, his mind elsewhere and he wasn’t looking where he was going. That’s probably why he ran headon into someone and felt something warm spread onto his shirt. His white shirt.

Neither him nor the other person fell, luckily. Varian reeled back and looked down at his shirt that was stained with a dark liquid. He lifted it up to his nose and sniffed. His nose wrinkled. Coffee. He had hot coffee spilled onto his shirt. Great. Just great.

“Whoops! Sorry about that!” the coffee-spiller laughed. Varian glared up at the perpetrator who was about 6 inches taller than him. He had blonde hair that was long in the back and tied in a ponytail, obnoxiously green eyes and glasses that covered most of his face. He wore a green jacket and loose jeans with a smirk on his face that made Varian want to slap him. “Man that’s unfortunate.” Wonderful. He must’ve noticed the fact that Varian’s shirt was white and the stain most likely wouldn’t be easily hidden.

Varian gritted his teeth. “Yeah, you think?” He didn’t even try to wipe at it, he just sighed. “Sorry for running into you,” he muttered. “I gotta go.” He made to go past the blonde stranger but said stranger stopped him.

“You’re going to class like that?” he asked. “Do you want to be made fun of? Are you some kind of masochist?”

Varian yanked his arm away. “What other option is there? I’m already late.”

The stranger tapped his chin in thought. “I have one option.” He took off his jacket and held it up to Varian. Varian’s face scrunched up. He couldn’t be serious. The stranger seemed to read his mind because a shit-eating grin spread across his face. “What, you’d rather go into class with a giant brown stain?” He shrugged. “Okay, man. You’re funeral.”

Varian snatched the jacket from him and put it on, zipping it up to his chin. “Thanks.” He wasn’t sure if his voice was audible or not. His face felt warm.

The stranger chuckled. “No problem. You look good in it anyway.” He winked.

Oh no. No no no. He did not. Varian did not have time for this. He ducked his head. “I have to go. I’m seriously late.” He went around the stranger trying not to catch his eye and slowly broke into a run.

“Study hard!” the stranger yelled after him. Laughter followed this and Varian’s face burned further. He broke into a sprint and refused to look back.

And if in class, someone sniffed around and said, “Is there coffee?”, he wouldn’t admit it.

~~~

Varian collapsed onto his bed face first, still wearing the stranger’s jacket. His classes were one right after the other and by then it was nearly 1 and he was starving and exhausted. Plus he still smelled faintly of coffee. He needed a shower, a change of clothes, a nap and a ham sandwich.

Groaning, he rolled over onto his back and sat up as the door opened. He froze. Was his roommate really showing up now out of all days? He felt his breath catch as the door widened and in stepped… the stranger from before.

They stared at each other in silence, Varian’s jaw open and the stranger looking as if someone had just slapped him. It was 5 minutes before the stranger started laughing. “Of course my roommate happens to be the same person I spilled my coffee on! Of course!” He slapped his leg and doubled over, clutching his stomach.

Varian got over his shock and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s not that funny,” he said.

The stranger straightened and wiped at his eyes. “Yes. Yes it is.” He choked back another bout of laughter. “Sorry, sorry.” He didn’t look very sorry. “That was a poor introduction.” In a few swift steps, he was over by Varian, hand outstretched. “I’m Hugo McCoy.”

Varian took his hand warily. “Varian Ruddiger.”

Hugo took his hand back, grin still on his face. He pointed at Varian. “I see you’re still wearing my jacket, Ruddiger.”

Varian looked down quickly and felt a blush rise to his face. “Ye-yeah.” He cursed his stutter. “Well, I didn’t exactly have time to make a bathroom stop.”

His roommate nodded in an understanding yet somehow exaggerated way. “Sure sure, I get it man. I stand by my statement by the way.” He looked too cheeky for Varian’s liking. “You look much better in it than I do.”

Varian rolled his eyes. “Is that like your only line?”

“I’ve got more. Want to hear them?”

He leveled him with a glare. “Pass.”

Hugo held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, don’t get so touchy, Hairstripe.”

His eyes narrowed further. “Hairstripe?”

Hugo waved his hand up at Varian’s hair. “You got a blue streak in your hair.”

On instinct, Varian reached up like he was going to cover it. “Hey don’t be ashamed,” Hugo said. “It’s pretty cool.”

Even though he said to not be ashamed, a flush made its way onto Varian’s face. “It’s natural,” Varian said, voice low. “Don’t ask how.”

Hugo raised a pale eyebrow. “Did you just say it’s natural? What, are you part Smurf?” He chuckled. “That would explain the height.”

Now Varian’s flush was indignant. “I’m not that short! Just because you’re built like a beanpole-”

Hugo laughed. “A beanpole! Man, you’re vocabulary is massive. Did you swallow a dictionary as a child?”

What was this guy’s deal? Varian felt his anger level rise. He unzipped the jacket, shook it off quickly and then tossed it at Hugo. It hit his chest and fell to the floor. Hugo blinked. “It smells like coffee now,” Varian bit out. “I’d wash it.”

Hugo blinked again before his face settled into an annoyed look. That was new. “Don’t tell me to wash my jacket when your shirt looks like you took a bath in coffee.”

“Who’s fault is it that the coffee spilled in the first place?”

“Uh, yours. Maybe if you woke up sooner you wouldn’t have to rush to class everyday.”

Varian felt his mouth open in indignation. “If you woke me up every once in a while, maybe I would wake up sooner.”

“Yes please blame me because you don’t set an alarm every day.”

“I do set an alarm!”

“Really?” Hugo looked skeptic. “I never seem to hear one. Tell me, do you set it at a frequency that only dogs can hear?”

“You just don’t hear it,” Varian replied hotly, “because you’re gone by the time it goes off. What, do you wake up at like 5 every morning? Do you have a girlfriend or something that wants to meet before school everyday?”

“Yep you caught me,” Hugo said, voice bland. “I have a girlfriend who wakes up at 5 in the morning just so we can make out before classes start.”

Was he joking? Varian honestly couldn’t really tell. He cleared his throat. “Whatever. Just wherever you go, don’t get coffee.”

Hugo nodded solemnly. “Yes master. Anything else?”

He resisted throwing a shoe at him. He stared down at his bedspread in frustration. He was still hungry and he still smelled like coffee. Not gracing Hugo with an answer, he slipped off his bed and padded over to his closet to search for a new not white shirt. He could feel Hugo’s eyes on him. After selecting a shirt, Varian turned around. “What’s your major?” he asked lightly. An abrupt topic change but a necessary one. If they continued the conversation they’d been having, Varian couldn’t promise that harm wouldn’t be done.

Hugo seemed a bit put off but he replied, “Chemistry.”

That was Varian’s major too. He bit his lip. “Same.”

Hugo tilted his head. “Funny how we don’t have classes together then. Have you been avoiding me, Hairstripe?”

“Don’t call me that,” Varian snapped immediately. “And besides, it feels more like you’re avoiding me. It’s been a week and this is the first time I’ve seen you.” His eyes narrowed. “Why are you even here anyway?”

Hugo rubbed at the back of his neck. “My class ended early today because my teacher had a wine headache.”

Varian’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“No.” Hugo grinned as Varian rolled his eyes in annoyance. “But she did have a headache so we watched YouTube videos for half an hour before she just let us go. I came back here to get my ID to get lunch.” He batted his eyes at Varian. Varian stilled. “You could come with me. It’ll be my treat and as a payment for spilling my coffee on you. And then every second we spent talking together these past few minutes.”

Varian mulled it over in his head. On one hand, the last thing he wanted was to spend time with Hugo. On the other hand, he was really hungry and it would be nice not to have to pay for once. He clenched the shirt he was holding. “I need to change,” he said, praying his voice didn’t come out short.

Hugo beamed. “Lovely! Get changed, Hairstripe, and quickly before I lose my appetite.” He made a shooing gesture at him. Varian huffed and turned on his heel.

This was his roommate. Hugo McCoy.

This was going to be a long year.

Next

[oodlesofsnootles-main]

This was supposed to be an exercise in speed writing, but it still took too long. Anyway, here’s a small Obitine nugget:

Their eyes are fixated on the night sky; their minds roam elsewhere, to ideas less attainable than the farthest reaches of space.

“We have a superstition that falling stars are really secrets that have been confessed,” Satine shares, nostalgic for a youth that was stolen from her.

“There must be a lot of secrets in the Galaxy, then.” Obi-Wan realizes his own might never fall.

“May I tell you one? So there is one less to crowd up there?”

“Oh, uh, of course,” he tenses.

“I feel ashamed to say it, but sometimes…sometimes I wish I had a different life.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, even though he fully understands.

“That I had been born into a different destiny. Without all this responsibility,” she stares wistfully at the stars, “just an ordinary girl from an ordinary place.”

“I-I think you’d still be extraordinary, no matter what your circumstances.”

She shakes her head, thankful that the night hides her reddening cheeks. “I know it’s a rather selfish fantasy.”

“No, I think most of us dream of what could have been...what could be.”

“Do you?”

Obi-Wan hesitates. “Yes. Although, we aren’t encouraged to have such thoughts.” He crosses his arms tight against his chest. “They may become harmful.”

“Jedi aren’t allowed to daydream? Why am I not surprised.”

“It serves no purpose to mourn a life that doesn’t exist. And it can tempt us to diverge from our duties.”

“I would never be swayed!” the Duchess vows, her zeal palpable and intense. “I know what I must do. My people will no longer experience violence, war, or senseless death. That is worth far more than any frivolous, hypothetical existence I can fabricate for myself.”

“I never doubt your commitment, Satine. You are on a very noble path.”

“As are you.” She notices his hand has moved closer to her, his fingers drumming anxiously into the grass.

“I didn’t mean to imply it’s wrong to imagine anything else.” The last thing he wants is an argument; it is too perfect a night for that.

She nods and places her hand over his. “It is enticing to wonder, at times. Isn’t it? When the situation is...challenging.”

“I agree.”

Far above them, countless secrets streak across the sky, revealing themselves to those who care to watch; yet others remain concealed, waiting for another opportunity.

[wangxiangiftexchange]

Winter Solstice Gift for journalsofagoddess

Happy Winter Solstice @journalsofagoddess!! <3 I hope you like your gift!! this was so much fun to write! I tried to fit as many of the original prompts/"likes" in as possible, so in here you'll find elements of fluff, h/c, horror, humour, modern au, a sprinkling of family!wangxian...

Title is from a fantastic song by No Resolve that is very wangxian, even if it has nothing at all to do with this fic! concept inspired loosely by fleurmatisse's spooky possession fic, minus some of the spookiness? :D

Warnings: light horror, mentions of injuries.

Read on AO3

*****

dancing with your ghost

The snow is just starting to stick to the pavement by the time Wei Ying makes it home.

The sky outside has been heavy and dark with clouds since the morning, but had only broken open as he left the client’s house. He closes the door on their suddenly white-coated and wet front stoop and takes a minute to shake the melted snow out of his hair.

“Hey,” he calls into the empty hall as he scrapes his boots on the mat, “I’m back!”

He bends down to untie his laces and his wrist gives a sharp twinge. In all of the excitement of the afternoon and the unexpected snowfall, he had almost forgotten that he had crushed it beneath him when he fell. He resigns himself to undoing his boots one-handed to not agitate it any further—it’s probably nothing serious, but between regular injuries and the growing threat of carpal tunnel that comes with age, Wei Ying isn’t sure he needs to take the risk.

Ghosts are always bad, as winter sinks into the city. The short days and cold nights make up the perfect breeding grounds for things that lurk in shadows and feed on melancholy.

Wei Ying doesn’t mind the ghosts, of course: as a self-certified freelance ghost hunter extraordinaire, he has been getting more than enough calls to keep busy. His days are longer, brining him home well after dark, but only ever sweetens the coming home. Lan Zhan disagrees, of course—he would rather Wei Ying be home more often, and not take on so much, but as long as they are still splitting bills half and half, this is the best solution.

The thought of his husband is clearly enough to summon him: Lan Zhan appears at the end of the hall. He’s dressed for a comfortable evening at home. Wei Ying waves, and doesn’t quite manage to hide the wince when his wrist stings again. The small smile that had started to grow at the edges of Lan Zhan’s mouth vanishes beneath a larger frown. His gaze is unerringly focused on Wei Ying’s wrist. Wei Ying doesn’t sigh out loud—he’s fine, really, and it was a stupid injury anyway. Nothing to be fussed over.

Lan Zhan does not get his psychic messaging.

“Wei Ying,” he says. Wei Ying kicks off his boots, giving up on the laces entirely. “You’re hurt.” It’s a question, even if it doesn’t sound like one.

“Messy job,” Wei Ying tells him with a bright grin. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff these people were just letting lie around in their attic.” It hadn’t been the worst job he’s ever done—surprisingly few dead mice, and no asbestos--but also not exactly what had been described in the email. Part of the reason Wei Ying is back so late tonight were the—“piles and piles of masks, Lan Zhan,” he complains, unwinding his scarf one-handedly, “and not the nice kind. They all had bleeding eyes or human teeth.”

The actual email had just described an old costume collection and some thumps in the night. They hadn’t been wrong, exactly, but Wei Ying spent an hour clearing all of the clothing debris to the edges of the room before he could actually get a sense for the space. It had been a waste of time, and with the woman and her son standing there and watching him without lifting a finger, it had taken much longer than necessary. “It wasn’t even the masks that were haunted,” he complains. “They were just freaky and maybe a little bit cursed.”

He looks up just in time to recognize the beginnings of actual worry in Lan Zhan’s expression. It’s the face he makes when he wants to volunteer to come with Wei Ying on ghost hunts, despite his students, or ask him never to put himself in harm’s way again. Wei Ying is sure he’d prefer that he were in any other line of work than freelance exorcism, when it so often involves Wei Ying jumping in, at least a little underprepared, and dealing with everything from bathtub water ghouls to cat fierce corpses.

So, Wei Ying shuts himself up, pressing a quick kiss to Lan Zhan’s cheek. “Nothing dangerous,” he promises his husband. “I just tripped, I’m not hurt-hurt.”

“Your wrist,” Lan Zhan says, still frowning, the faintest crease marring his forehead.

Wei Ying pats his husband’s chest with the hand that doesn’t hurt, and tells him, “I’ll let you put ice on it, if it’ll make you feel better.”

Lan Zhan looks at him with an expression that says clearly that it should also make Wei Ying feel better, but he ignores it. Today’s job hadn’t even been awful—just weird, and unsuccessful for the most part. He’ll have to go back another day, at least. Just another paycheck.

“You look cold,” Lan Zhan adds as they move to the living room. He offers Wei Ying a hoodie from his collection—not that Lan Zhan wears hoodies, but he owns enough alumnus merch that Wei Ying coopts them for nefarious husband purposes such as lounging around on their couch. Between that and the fact that Lan Zhan has always had a possessive streak that liked seeing Wei Ying in his clothes… well, there’s certainly no reason not to pull it on.

“Nah,” he says, “it started snowing on my way home, though. We might have to shovel tomorrow.”

“Mm,” Lan Zhan hums, “our shovels are in the shed.”

Wei Ying still feels icky with the cloying resentful energy that had swamped the attic. It happens often when the ghosts are particularly resentful: the energy soaks deeper into him—partly his own fault, since he essentially makes himself a conduit, but hardly a pleasant sensation. On his walk home, he usually spends time cleansing himself of the dredges as much as he can, but then it had started to snow…

Lan Zhan presses a quick kiss to his nose, there and gone again. “Come warm up,” he says. “There is dinner, if you are hungry.”

Wei Ying takes stock—he’d had a hot dog from the place around the corner of his make-shift office at lunch, plus a couple of stale cookies the owners of the house had offered him before he started work. They were awful, of course, but you never deal with any hauntings on an empty stomach—that’s just asking to be possessed. His stomach is still turning, though. Probably just resentful residue, but he’s not going to chance it turning into nausea.

“Maybe later,” he says. “I’m going to shower. Choose something for us to watch?”

Lan Zhan smiles—just barely, but it’s definitely there—and Wei Ying leans up to kiss him, barely more than press of his lips against his husbands’. He’s so warm, a furnace, and Wei Ying wants to wrap himself in him and never let go. The resentment soaking him doesn’t like that thought at all-- he can feel it like something oily against his skin, slithering down his spine in distaste or maybe anger. Wei Ying isn’t about to find out, though, so instead, he smiles into the kiss so Lan Zhan can feel it, and pulls away.

Lan Zhan keeps holding his hand, their fingers intertwined. “Not too long,” he says.

“I would never,” Wei Ying jokes, and kisses him again. It’s always a little intoxicating, being in Lan Zhan’s presence, and his love of long showers won’t keep him away.

The resentment starts to slide off in the shower, pretending it was never there. The hot water pounds down on Wei Ying’s skin turning it rosy and wiping away the last bits of lingering fear and anger along with the last of the chill. He can feel his frozen toes again, wiggles them against the porcelain and watches them turn pink. He should probably buy winter boots, he thinks, if his steel-toed ones aren’t going to be warm enough to last through the rest of the winter hunts.

The last of the energy, the cloying bit that hooked its greedy fingers under his skin, swirls away down the drain. It’s invisible to the naked eye at such low concentrations, but Wei Ying can sense it. He can feel the gluiness of these residues, non-Newtonian and sticky, in ways that even most cultivators couldn’t pick out. He’s spent years, after all, figuring out how to manipulate resentful energy as best he can to help other people, and he’s good at what he does, takes pride in it. He knows Lan Zhan is proud of him, too, no matter how worried he gets.

There is a moment after he has toweled off, when he’s pulling on clean boxers and Lan Zhan’s hoodie that he thinks he sees someone in the mirror. It’s the same feeling as when the lights are turned on in a previously dark room, the moment before all the shadows are banished, when eyes can be tricked into believing that there is someone, a figure, standing there and watching you from the corner—

Wei Ying stares at himself carefully, but it doesn’t happen again. His day has been stressful and longer than it should have been-- all that staring into all of those eyeless masks--he’s probably just haunted by the contorted porcelain faces. Besides getting home late, that’s the only other problem that working in the ghost industry brings: a teensy bit of justified paranoia. He towels off his hair and leaves the towel behind.

Lan Zhan is already sitting on the couch, curled comfortably in his corner, though his eyes find Wei Ying as soon has he enters the room. On the TV, the screen is paused on the opening credits of a C-drama that neither of them watch for the plot but is perfect for the kind of night Wei Ying needs. There’s an open box of crackers and some hummus on the table; their massive first aid kit in Lan Zhan’s lap.

Wei Ying isn’t sure he’ll ever stop being struck by just how well Lan Zhan knows him. His husband, his zhiji, has proven time and time again to be the very best thing that has ever happened to Wei Ying, and he will spend the rest of his life thanking him for it. He slides onto the couch next to Lan Zhan, curling into his side, and rests head on Lan Zhan’s shoulder.

Lan Zhan turns the TV on, volume down low, and the opening theme begins to play. Wei Ying lets himself relax.

“Let me wrap your wrist,” Lan Zhan says quietly, pulling a tensor bandage out of the kit.

“Lan Zhan, it’s really not necessary—” Wei Ying starts, even as Lan Zhan lifts his hand onto his lap. He quells his token protests at the look on Lan Zhan’s face. He still looks worried and tense. Wei Ying wonders if they’ll have to talk about it after all. Lan Zhan begins wrapping his wrist.

“You should be more careful,” his husband says.

Wei Ying could protest, as he has many times, that he’s exactly as careful as he can afford to be—that sometimes, sure, he puts his safety to the side, but it’s always for a good reason. They’ve had the argument before, though, and it’s not—they don’t need to have it again, not tonight. Lan Zhan is efficient, wrapping his wrist firmly but not too tightly. He presses a kiss to the bandage afterwards, his eyes warm. Wei Ying can feel his cheeks heat.

“I feel better already,” he says, mostly joking, and gets a kiss to the lips as reward.

Like this, and in many other ways, they fit perfectly together. Lan Zhan’s hand falls on his thigh, a wide swath of warmth against Wei Ying’s bare skin. He pushes up into the kiss, not urgent, just chasing closeness. He laces their fingers together, pulls back momentarily and Lan Zhan sways toward him. In the low light, Lan Zhan’s eyes are almost golden. Wei Ying traces his features with his eyes, and kisses him again.

“Ah, Lan Zhan,” he breathes, moments later. Lan Zhan has dared to bite his lip, albeit gently. “Don’t tease me now. Your husband is too tired.”

Lan Zhan looks skeptical but hums an agreement all the same, pressing one last kiss to his pouting mouth before settling back into the couch. It’s nearing late—Lan Zhan has gotten more flexible, with his sleep schedule, since they got together and since he left his old home behind, but he still starts flagging much earlier in the evening than Wei Ying does. He will probably be asleep by the time two episodes are over. Keeping that in mind, Wei Ying settles more firmly into Lan Zhan’s side, relishing the warmth.

He doesn’t focus on the screen, not really—instead, he spends his time mapping out the well-known lines of Lan Zhan’s palm with his fingertip. Lan Zhan bears this, as he always does, with patience. There is no small amount of fondness in his gaze when Wei Ying looks up at him. There don’t need to be words between them, right now, but Wei Ying asks anyway, “how was your day?”

Lan Zhan hums, glances down at their intertwined fingers, their matching rings. There is a fond look on his face.

“Good,” he answers after a minute. The love theme of the show is playing on screen, but Wei Ying doesn’t look away from Lan Zhan’s face. “Productive.”

“Good,” Wei Ying repeats. It’s been years since they worked together as cultivators—somewhere along the line, maybe when Lan Zhan discovered a passion for teaching only rivalled by his passion for music, or when Wei Ying’s business finally took off, the places where their work lives intersected disappeared. It’s been a long time since work and obligation were the only things they lived for. That’s why he doesn’t press, now, lets the comfort of the end of day settle between them. He presses a quick kiss to Lan Zhan’s cheek, and then his lips, lingering and sweet. Lan Zhan is warm, so warm.

Wei Ying eats a couple of crackers. The characters on the screen reunite, long lingering gazes exchanged as the orchestral version of the love theme soars. Lan Zhan slumps a little against his shoulder, breaths evening out into the first stages of sleep. Outside, snow is still falling. Wei Ying gets distracted from whatever dramatic goings-on happen next—a sibling reunion, maybe? A lost identity, being rediscovered?--watching the flakes fall in the light of the streetlamp out their window. It looks like it’s gearing up to be a proper snowstorm. He might have to postpone his appointments, tomorrow, if it keeps up.

Lan Zhan’s breath puffs out against his shoulder. Wei Ying can see their reflection in the glass: Lan Zhan’s relaxed figure, his own, curling into him. Like this, no time has passed at all—Lan Zhan in sleep is timeless, the two of them could still be undergrads. He spends time tracing the sleep softened lines of Lan Zhan’s face, which is why it takes him a minute to realize that something is wrong with the picture. It’s only when he finally looks at himself that he realizes—

While he is looking at his own reflection, it is still staring down at Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying stills his thumb where it was rubbing gentle circles into Lan Zhan’s arm. In the reflection on the glass, his hand keeps moving, gently swiping across his husband’s bicep. His reflection—though there’s something wrong with it, now, something distorted, something in the eyes that is looking less and less like himself—cocks its head slightly and looks back at him. There is a smile, though not one that Wei Ying has ever worn, on its face.

Masks, Wei Ying thinks. False faces. The mirror in the bathroom earlier, the sense that had dogged him all the way home of being watched, the oily slick resentment that he brought home with him--

Wei Ying’s work bag is across the room. He doesn’t dare take his eyes off of the reflection to go get it. There is adrenaline, sudden and shocking, spurring itself through his veins.

When all else fails, get it talking.

“Good to finally meet you,” he tells it. He can’t be sure it’s actually in his reflection at all—it could be anywhere in the room, choosing only to manifest like this strange echo.

The person in the reflection smiles, but it doesn’t reach their eyes. They’re as hollow as the masks now, just empty void—completely black, not even the snowstorm outside visible behind them. The face is no longer Wei Ying’s at all, rounder and paler with soulless eyes and a bleeding mouth. In the reflection, the blood drips Lan Zhan’s forehead, marring lines on his smooth skin. Wei Ying doesn’t dare look down to check.

The voice is more like a rasp than anything, like the sound of a body being dragged on a hardwood floor. “Give it back,” it says. “It’s not yours.”

Wei Ying casts his memory back desperately. Had he taken anything from the house? Had he left anything behind? He knows better than to do that, he thinks.

“I really don’t think so,” he says, fighting down a sudden eerie chill as the room’s temperature drops, “sorry.”

The shadows in the room are growing, spilling out from everywhere the ceiling light in the hall can’t reach, playing like smoke across the ground. On the screen, in his peripheral vision, the figures are frozen in a loop, jerking like marionettes pulled back and forth. The figure hisses. Wei Ying’s eyes are burning trying to focus—he blinks, and his reflection is his own again. The dread doesn��t leave and none of the shadows recede. They grow darker.

He shakes Lan Zhan awake, gently.

“Sweetheart,” he says, trying not to let his panic run his words together, “we have a—situation.”

“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan says, a little bit sleep dulled. He blinks his eyes open, slowly focusing. Wei Ying only has a second’s warning when Lan Zhan’s eyes go wide at something behind him before Lan Zhan is pushing him off the couch and onto the floor. “Wei Ying!”

“Sorry!” Wei Ying yelps, scrambling to his feet, “looks like work came home with me!”

There’s no time for regrets, now. He’s not sure what Lan Zhan saw behind him, but he can see and feel the way the shadows in the room are coalescing, turning into something solid, building itself from the ground up. Wei Ying pushes the coffee table away—the crackers go tumbling, but that’s a problem for later, because the two of them need to be standing somewhere without shadows. Whatever this thing is, it’s powerful enough to manifest inside their wards. He thinks bitterly of the lies the woman and her son had told in the emails, how much they minimized the issue, and can only reassure himself that he can charge appropriately. This is more, much more than the measly sounds in the night he went to deal with, and it is growing.

Lan Zhan clearly has the same thought. He is no longer half-asleep, his face stony and serious in a way that makes Wei Ying shiver. He and Wei Ying stand, back to back, in the now clear floor of the living room. Only the hall light and the ghostly jitters of the TV illuminate their positions.

“Give it back,” the faceless shadows hiss. “It’s not yours!”

Wei Ying sees it out of the corner of his eye—a movement on the screen. He drops to the floor just in time for the coalesced fog of dense, dark mist to sweep over him. Its edges are too sharp to truly be vapour, its weight in the air too solid. It disperses like gas, though, sinks back into the shadows around them.

Between one second and the next, the hallway light flickers and turns off with a quiet pop, leaving them with only the flickers from the television. Lan Zhan summons his spiritual guqin—not the one he uses for teaching traditional music, but the one he uses when he night hunts. The chord he strums echoes in the small space and splinters another burst of the coalesced shade before it can attack. Whatever it is building, the shape looks more human now, albeit longer, and still faceless. Probably once an adult male, if Wei Ying had to guess, purely based on the size of all the costumes he had to move out of its room.

Whatever it is—he’s looking forward to the research, once they survive this—its hands are wicked sharp and it has too many elbows. It swipes at them, and it comes from the wrong direction, so Lan Zhan’s next chord goes wide. Wei Ying almost manages to dodge. The sleeve of the sweater is shredded.

Lan Zhan looks grim. He plays a succession of three quick chords which are quickly overtaken as the noise, just a murmur until now, grows into a roar of sound. It sounds like a thousand whispers all layered on top of each other, and it takes Wei Ying a second to figure out what, exactly, it is saying—

“Give it back,” it groans, “give it back, give it back, give it back.”

Wei Ying knows he didn’t take anything from the creepy attic, much less the house. There was nothing there to take, for one—stale cookies and awful tea, moth-eaten robes and rancid makeup, a hundred masks without eyes--but that’s not what this ghost is after. Wei Ying’s heart is pounding. He needs his exorcism stuff—at the very least his flute, or some chalk for an array.

First, liberate, second, suppress, third, eliminate, he thinks and almost wants to laugh. Too late for liberation, since it’s clearly already as free as can be-- he’d make the joke if the situation weren’t so dire. Ideally, this would be the time to offer it what it wants, but since he has no clue, suppression is the best option. He doesn’t even have talisman paper on him, since he’s still wearing Lan Zhan’s sweater.

He’s wearing Lan Zhan’s sweater.

Costumes. All of the masks. Faces beneath faces, bodies under clothes, the makeup chest and the mirrors.

Wei Ying wonders how he didn’t see it before. He should have burned all of his clothes the minute he stepped in the door because if he brought this with him, wearing him like a second skin—

He rips off the sweater, ignoring how it catches on his earring sending it tumbling to the floor—he throws it at the memory of the person, now just a mass of resentment and terror—and the sweater bursts into flames.

It’s a brief fire, but enough to light every corner of the room. As one, the shadows disperse, melting away and sinking into the floor, flying out the window. The figure, at the centre of the bright light, vanishes completely, leaving only an afterimage on Wei Ying’s eyelids. The smoke alarm wails.

Wei Ying’s heart is still beating too fast in his chest, adrenaline still racing through his veins. There is a burn mark on the carpet, to the left of the couch, a large black charred piece, that smells vaguely of burnt plastic. It’s the only sign, besides the burnt-out hall light, that anything strange happened at all. Even the reflections in the windows are normal again.

Wei Ying jumps when the C-drama starts playing behind him.

Lan Zhan doesn’t. He banishes his spiritual weapon with a wave of his hand and moves to the kitchen where he disables the alarm. The apartment is silent, and still.

“What the fuck,” Wei Ying manages. He drags his hands over his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. He’s standing in the middle of their living room, wearing only boxers, because the ghost that followed him home didn’t, what, like him dressing in someone else’s clothes? This has to make top twenty, no, top ten weirdest ghost revenge plots he has ever had to deal with. He looks at Lan Zhan, who is staring back at him across the small expanse of their living-slash-dining room, face blank. “I’m so sorry,” he tells Lan Zhan, “I can’t believe—it followed me home—I should have known—”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan interrupts. Wei Ying stops talking immediately, looks up at his husband. “There is no need for sorry, between us.”

“I mean,” Wei Ying says, staring at the mark in the rug, “usually I’d agree, but I think this kind of warrants an apology.” He digs at the mark with his toe. It’s not even warm anymore, just charred. “I destroyed the rug, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan shakes his head and flips on the electric kettle. “I disagree,” he says calmly, as though Wei Ying hadn’t just accidentally invited in a clothing-obsessed ghost and also destroyed one of Lan Zhan’s hoodies. Sure, he has never worn them, but the point stands.

He gapes at his husband. “You were worried, before,” he blusters, “Why-- how aren’t you more freaked out about the ghost in our house?”

Lan Zhan takes two mugs out of the cupboard, and the marshmallows-in hot chocolate tin, too. There is the edge of a smile playing on his lips when he looks at Wei Ying again, made soft under the light.

He says, “this is an opportune time to rearrange the living room.”

Wei Ying laughs. It’s the last of the adrenaline—he’ll be crashing quickly after this—but suddenly it’s hysterical. He laughs until he can’t breathe, and keeps laughing.

“Lan Zhan,” he manages, still laughing, and stumbles into his husband’s waiting arms. They will definitely be having a conversation about the wards on their house, and possibly about Wei Ying’s safety—but that can happen tomorrow. Wei Ying muffles his giggles in Lan Zhan’s shoulder, waits until they subside. He looks up at his husband, keeping his arms hooked loosely around the back of his neck. Lan Zhan’s warm hands are on his waist.

“I love you so much,” Wei Ying admits.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan hums, “and I, you.”