#old fics rising from the grave to taunt me

[caffeiiine]

@im-a-chunky-potato

my dearest potato, this is revenge for making me cry over a fic for the first time

[tw for implied suicide btww to everybody else seeing this <3]

He remained silent throughout the aftermath. The only thing he could force out between the static accumulating between his ears being a pathetically quiet squeak. 

 ~~~

As Nikolai attempted to recall the events as they occurred, he became increasingly aware of failures within his memory. blotches of the crash and the hours after seemingly gone from his mind.

Something had cracked in him. He didn’t know what it was, other than it was broken. Something was irrevocably damaged. 

He placed his hand to his heart, he hardly noticed the cold now. The fleshy organ of his throbbed someplace inside him.

Was it in his ears? in his head? his wrists?

This wasn’t the plan, was it?

If it were, Fyodor would have been back by now. He would’ve found Nikolai. Would’ve given him some feeble reassurance he had played his role perfectly. Something for Nikolai to live off of. Anything. Anything at all would've done by this point. Even a whispered “good job” or the brush of Fyodors hand against his own.

This wasn’t the plan. This was never the plan.

The reality sunk into his shoulders, dragging him down beneath the waves of his newfound despair.

His soul was lost.

This was the only ending he could’ve come to.

The wind bit at his skin. The sharp nips bringing rise to a gentle pink as his fingertips trembled.

Fyodor would tease him if he could see him right now, so pathetic. something about a sinners devotion to his god. or something in general about god. Something like that.

The wind whispers in a familiar voice behind him. “you don’t know?” (have you forgotten already?)

He doesn’t respond. It won’t be real anyways.

The ground is hard where he rests. (is it still resting if it’s hardly a break from the ‘fleshy hell’ of yours?)

He was the hollow shell of something. (isn't it what you wanted?)

The winds blow the rising misty airs from the rivers below past his face.

Even after his death, Nikolai still wasn’t free. Fyodor continuously tormented him, he toyed with his emotions from the grave still. He didn’t know what to do with it all. Should he go further? Lose himself wholly and completely?  or should he find out where it all went wrong. would he ever find it? or would he spiral until he finds the point of nothingness. (even if you found it, would you even attempt to fix it?)

He raised his hands to cup his cheeks as he moved to rest his elbows on his knees. The chill shivered up his body. It’s still cold.

He stared out at the cliff face just before his feet. The night sky was truly beautiful tonight. Chalky stars gave way to a big and bright yet bone colored moon. (it has the same color as my bones, don’t you notice it?)

First, Sigma. Gone. Nikolai never found the body. And he had searched everywhere for it. (Nothing to remember him by, how much have you forgotten already?)

The nausea clawed at his insides all over again.

Second, Fyodor. Dead, he confirmed it. The souvenir rested atop a red velvet pillow back in his apartment. He couldn’t be sure whether the blood had stained it or not like it did his gloves. (does the blood still gush out from between your fingers like you remember?)

Third, Fukuchi. Dead, killed by his own vice captain. (she loved him. She had gotten what you wanted.)

Fourth, Bram. left. 

One by one, they each succumbed to their own decay. It is only right that he follows suit. To end the tragic chapter the world seemed to be stuck in. (It doesn’t end with you.)

Slowly he pulls himself from the ground. 

He glances around at his surroundings. A sort of resignation fills the empty cavities of his chest.

He meets the cliff edge. It seems to greet him like an old friend. It taunts him. A flock of Doves someplace nearby in the hazy evening chitter quietly nearby. There is nothing left for him here. (This was always your fate, мой коля.)

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

2) I'm really just so glad someone put this idea to words. Also really cool that it's an AU you'd already been thinking about even before getting the prompt. I saw where you said you wanted to rework what you originally submitted and tbh I'm a little on the edge of my seat wondering what's gonna be next (this is in no way me trying to pressure you to write more of it, just to show my enthusiasm). Just whatever you feel you need to do to get the story to where you want it. :D (2/5)

The film & the original story by Angela Carter just really stuck with me and I guess hunger being somewhat synonymous with sexual awakening, I needed to see it Everlarked. Part of it was also that, much as I enjoyed the film, I was a bit bummed out Rosaleen didn’t meet her wolfman until towards the very end and I thought, okay which of my OTPs are the best candidate for a version where they’re actually together for more of the story?? And it was like K&P flashed me their proverbial (3/5)

bat signal I guess lol. Also I found it really interesting how you incorporated the death of the sister with giving Prim a twin. I’m kinda curious to know more about Ms. Third Everdeen Sister Amaryllis. As well as it being an arranged marriage where Katniss takes Prim’s place to be engaged to her sweet baker boi. The tea scene when Peeta takes a drink to show his mom it’s not poisoned is kinda my fave so far haha. Overall, just needed to shower some love on this since it was my prompt and (4/5)

that you’re so graciously committed to putting forth the best version of the story you derived from it. Also bc it’s just so long overdue…3 years…once again I apologize for that bc I really dropped the ball on that one. Anyways, I’ll stop crowding your inbox with this long-windedness now. ^_^; (5/5)

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

Hey there @codenamesailordarillium The first of these never showed up. Not sure if you just never got the chance to send it or if tumblr is still being a message munching monster. I think I’ve got a decent idea of what was in the first part, although my brain did come up with a couple options. Sorry if this answer is way more than you were expecting since I’m gonna try to address a couple options.

Anyways, I wanted to go ahead and answer what I did receive rather than keep you waiting because I was actually really stunned to receive it. You are of course, in no way obligated to send messages like this to a writer but I am beyond thrilled that you did. I don’t care how late you think it is, it isn’t. One of the really weird things about writing fanfic, at least in my mind, is that when an Anon comes to my inbox with a prompt or a request, I operate on the assumption that they already like my writing and my style, and my usual rating levels, trust me with the content, etc. So I don’t really feel guilty if I deviate from the prompt or don’t deliver exactly what they had in mind, as long as I slap the warning labels on it. Like…you knew the risks coming into my box asking for fic so here ya go! This is what I came up with. 

When it’s an anonymous prompt through something like @everlarkficexchange, I always feel a lot more anxiety about filling a prompt from an anon. This person has put out a prompt to literally dozens of writers and they may very well be someone who avoids my writing or doesn’t like it, because let’s face it, not everyone is always going to adore your (meaning mine in this case) writing. I’ve taken quite a few anonymous prompts through efe and I’ve always, always wondered if anon ever read it and liked it. You are literally the first one to come and say “Hey that was my prompt!” so this is new… and I’m still fangirling a little bit, especially since it’s about one of my much older efe fics. When was that? 2017? Man alive time does fly.

So, I’m not sure what prompted your visit to my inbox, whether it was my note on my latest efe piece, Maybe Tomorrow, or if you were actually the anon who sent that prompt in too, or if it’s me suddenly posting older stuff to AO3 because I’d been holding on to it hoping to expand but did not, EDIT: or if it’s because one of the plot points of the story is a pandemic (yikes even I forgot about that bit until i just scanned over the first chapter again). Either way, let me just go ahead and say that In the Waiting Dark is most definitely not abandoned. It’s on my list of fics I absolutely want to finish, mainly because as you’ve pointed out my saying, I’ve pretty much wanted to write an Everlark Red Riding Hood AU for ages, since about the time I discovered AU was actually a thing!

I’m actually really stoked that you sent all of this to me and it makes me feel like even though I’ve not been actively working on it lately, I had the right ideas in my head to sort of meet what you were hoping to see. Yes! for the whole movie being a metaphor for sexual awakening. It’s one of the things that drew me in so completely. And the more I dug around in versions of Red Riding Hood, the more I realized that was literally the roots of the tale. “To see the wolf” used to be an expression for kissing your virginity farewell, so to speak. And same here, the whole metaphor SC uses with “hunger” for sexual desire had me seeing all kinds of fantastic connections. 

Although, I do feel the need to say that it’ll probably take a slightly different path than Rosaleen and her wolfman do. Part of that is definitely the fact that like you, it was kind of sad to me that they only got the last maybe twenty minutes or so of the movie together. Part of it is the influence of other RRH tales.

I basically stopped working on it because I got to a point where I felt like I was being too ambitious with it? It was falling prey to a really bad case of “and then this!” So I took a step back from it. Then I started to realize just how many Everlark fics are out there involving wolves of some kind. Seriously. There’s a ton of them. And I myself fell prey to a case of “How do I make this mine?” My writing doesn’t exist well in a vacuum, I know that. It can easily be influenced by exterior factors. I’ve unfortunately been assiduously avoiding reading any kind of Everlark wolf au for almost three years now for that exact reason. :( I’m slightly terrified that in waiting this long, when I do finally post it, I’ll be alienating or angering a lot of other Everlark writers by inadvertently writing something similar to what they’ve already produced.

Weirdly enough, I’ve been kind of itching to get back to In the Waiting Dark, out of all my long neglected fics to snare my attention right now, of course it’s that one, lol. Maybe it’s because it is yet again another round of @everlarkficexchange and Waiting Dark is one of my outstanding prompts from previous years. The self-imposed guilt trips are in full force, lol.

That’s not to say that I feel pressured by your message. I’m actually kind of tickled by it. Moreover, the story will probably look a little different when I finally get around to actively posting it. Things that will not change are the core metaphor; the use of the stories, fables, and dreams (similar to what you see in the movie); the weirdly creepy/darkish vibe to parts of it juxtaposed with a more modern pastoral take on fairy tales; and the cast obvs. There are reasons for Prim having a twin in this AU, but we’ll get to that. The arranged marriage part may change, because I feel like I’ve written so many arranged marriage Everlark stories. Then again…the scene that you mentioned with Peeta drinking the tea to show his mother that it wasn’t poisoned is definitely one of my favorite scenes so far. If nothing else, I have got to find a way to keep that in the final product. 

And now I’m the one who has wandered into long winded-ness. Thank you again for taking the time to send this to me!

[mistyfoxxy]

So I saw that you write fics for ToH and I was wondering if you could write an angst fic.... about Hunter's possession, from the moment he started losing control till he woke up-

If it's okay with you that is!

whew. this took way too freaking long im so sorry *sobbing*

"Belos! He's over there!" Hunter panicked, taking off after the glowing eyes. The call of his late uncle. Leaving behind Luz. 

He wasn't stupid, he knew what he was seeing. Knew what he was hearing. What he was feeling. 

"Oh Hunter... how nice of you to follow." A familiar voice called. Taunting him as he approached a pond of sorts. Graves all around, only adding to the darkness composing around him. It sounded like he was mere inches away... 

Flapjack shuddered and buried himself into the crook of Hunter's neck. Chirping a cry of fear and telling Hunter he needed to run.

His chance was gone before he could take it.

His uncle- no. His old... whatever he was to him, stood over him now, sporting a blue jacket with golden buttons. It looked like it was made many years ago, something a historical figure, as Luz had called it, would wear. He had the form of a witch, tall and lean. No longer covered with that green goop of haunting palisman that loomed to be free. His hair was pulled back in a unitail, one short whisk of hair hanging over his forehead. 

Almost how he used to wear his own.

"Thank you for meeting me here." Belos responded, voice filled thick of something cinical. 

"what are you doing here Belos?" Hunter asked with as much aggression as he could muster, but he couldn't help the trembling in his hands. 

Belos frowned. "Always asking questions. Why don't you just let me show you?" 

Hunter's surroundings spun, everything seemed to fade further and further away from him, the sky, the trees, water, graves... and Flapjack. "No! Flap!" He quickly jerked forward, stretching out his arm as Flapjack tweeted furiously, struggling to withstand the distance. A look of sorrow flashed across his buddies eyes before everything turned to darkness. 

And then it was as if he was transported to another dimension. 

He settled down, darkness still surrounding yet he could see. There was nothing but a standing mirror.

Hunter faltered as a memory flashed across the mirror. Specifically of him and Willow. It was from the night before, she had come down to where him and Gus had been staying, asking if he could use his "amazing sewing skills" and fix up her outfit. Apparently she had accidently ripped the sleeve by mistake. He had been very excited to help her.  Heat rising to his face as she had closely loomed behind, he remembered almost feeling a tickle on his neck as she breathed softly. She watched intently, a satisfactory look on her face. 

He then took a look at the rip before coming to his own conclusion, it looked like it had been cut... with scissors? Did she do this… on purpose? He turned his head to look back at her before nearly tumbling out of his chair, their faces merely inches from each other as she met his gaze. She quickly straitened and averted her gaze, a sheepish smile on her face. "Heh, sorry, i didn't mean to get up in your bubble like that. You just look so focused and the face you make while you're concentrating is kiiiiind of adorable" 

His face had burned into flames at that.

He noticed the memory starting to fade as that green goop slowly drip down it. NO! He quickly reached for it, attempting to tug it off but instead it spread further, his hands burned at the touch and he hissed in pain.

He didnt know how... but somehow he had felt like this was from the night before? He remembered this burning sensation in his hand whenever she smiled at him like that. Was this.. was this the reason? To be fair, he hadn't really thought of Willow much after that. Or even today. Was this good the reason why?

That goop... that goop was inside of him?

Hunters heart-galderstone hammered in his chest. What does this mean? If he.. if he was watching a memory of his own, does that mean this was his mindscape? Theres no way. No no no, he had read too much to know that was not the case. This couldn't be it. so then where was he?

He reached out towards the mirror. Maybe...

"Ah!" Hunter grasped his head in pain. He felt a bit dizzy as something latched on to his arm, "No!" he yelped out, swinging his fist at whatever it was before being released and dropped to the ground. Belos stood in front of him again, placing himself between Hunter and the mirror. Frowning down at him. 

"Ah ah, you can't leave so soon brother, Im not done."

Philip then lunged towards Hunter and grippe his shoulders roughly, his blue eyes glowed and Hunter screamed out in pain as something spread over his body, burning every inch of his being fiercely.

“What are you doing to me?” Hunter hissed as tears poured out his eyes. He tried with all his might to squirm away but Belos grip was too strong.

The devil smiled. “Easy. You ruined our lives Caleb. All because that whore of a witch hypnotized you with promises of a better life. Our life was fine!" The man roared as he gripped Hunter's shoulders stronger. "We had each other! That was enough for us! You left me behind! For them. You got married to one of them. You had a child with one of them! Even killing you wasn't enough! You still chose them over me again and again!"

"You... killed him?" Hunter breathed in disbelief.

"Im a witch hunter. The second you chose them you became one of them" Belos hissed. "But don't worry, ill free you from that. Ill take care of them once and for all! And then you and me can go back to life before." He laughed, though the sound of it screamed lunatic.

Belos then let go of Hunter and walked towards the mirror and stepped through.

"Wait!" Hunter then hit the floor and everything went black.

.

"tweet tweet! chirp chirp chirp chirp!' hunter could hear the violent threats his buddy was making as he gained consciousness. What's going on?

Then it hit him like a bag of stones.

"No! Flapjack stop it! Im Coming Flap! Don't worry," Hunter pulled himself up and stumbled towards the mirror. Only to have thick green goop holding his feet to the ground. "NO!" He heard a chuckle echo around him as he watched in horror.

A green hand, his hand he presumed, held his best friend with a rough grip. The little bird tweeting helplessly in protest. Declaring Philip wouldn't win. He wouldn't win.

"Goodbye Evelyn"

And Hunter cried in pain at what he witnessed, the little red bird Hunter had called his first true friend, his first companion, the first living being he had felt actually cared for him, flapped away from the palm of HIS hand. "Flap!"

Hunter roughly jerked his legs from the goop, barely hissing at the immense pain as if he had ripped his flesh off, anger taking over all emotions.

This was HIS body. He would not let Belos hurt anyone else. In fact, he was gonna kill him!

He didn't know how, but he stepped through the mirror and stood face to face with a smirking monster. "Like what you saw?"

The devil's smile dropped when he saw the look on the boy's face. He had only seen that look once, and it was when he had tried to kill Evelyn. Why does Caleb have to take all this so personally?

Hand then threw into Philip's chest as Hunter pushed him over with brute force.

Philip stumbled and frowned. "I just want you to do what i want! I want you to stay with me! I want you to leave those devils alone!"

Hunter gripped his hand as his surroundings began to take shape and color. "You know what i want?"

[many-gay-magpies]

@loabivey @honeyseungz @angelhee @affectionaterainoflove @yixiangs @jungwon-luv-bot-pt3

so uh yeah i wrote a thing ! lulu and artzyy's discussion about vampire jungwon had me feeling things, on top of this brilliant fic i read yesterday, so... here u go hsfhchfvc

wc: .9k, tw for blood, smoke, vague descriptions of a car crash and descriptions of a dried-up corpse. other than that i think that's it, but if you see anything you think i missed let me know!

and with that i present to you: blood bonds.

He can feel the blood on his hands. He doesn't know how he got here.

The scent alone is enough to have his mind reeling again—but he's full, now, satiated, and he no longer feels the need to hunt, to feed as he once did.

Jungwon slowly blinks awake, taking a moment to survey his surroundings. Memories start to trickle back in as he does, far away and faded as if from a dream—how he'd stopped a car in the middle of a street, clambered up onto it's windshield; how good it had felt, to taunt them, to see the fear of it's inhabitant through the rain-fogged glass. How good the blood had smelled; sweet, sickening, the catalyst to his blackout.

He's in a car, Jungwon realizes. Not only that, but the car had swerved off the road some time ago, and now sits with its front properly bashed in by the post of a streetlight; an impact that had left Jungwon unharmed. He sits in the lap of a body, white-skinned, shriveled, limp; a man or a woman, he doesn't know. Two puncture marks sit on the right side of it's neck, though any amount of blood that could have been pouring from them is long gone, now.

No. Not gone. Jungwon licks at his fangs and tastes the last bitter remains; shivers, perturbed. Guilt prickles in his chest, but not nearly as much as he thought there would be.

Maybe it's the haze he has yet to fully shake, but everything feels strangely idealistic, unreal—he feels guilty, yes, but more than that he feels good; really, really good. He doesn't need to look in a mirror to know that his skin is practically glowing, his cheeks plump and eyes bright, the warmth of another's blood flowing like wildfire under his skin. He feels more alive than he's never been, and laughs at the irony of it, the taste of just how false that statement is like copper on his tongue.

He tries to reach through the haze, tries to grasp for any inch of panic he might be feeling, but the only things his fingers close around is this light, bright sensation; ecstasy and relief at the final satiation of his hunger. He's never been drunk before, or high, or any of those other things, but he imagines this is what it might feel like.

Jungwon carefully extracts himself from the body beneath him, stepping out onto the cold pavement. Smoke rises in a column from the car's front, bringing warmth to the once-chilled night, but Jungwon is warm enough on his own that he has no need for it.

A thought comes like a bolt of lightning: I need the hyungs. Because as guiltless as he is now, he'll have plenty to feel guilty about later, when his lapse in control finds them on the run again.

A few seperate thoughts turn around in his mind, old ancestors rolling in their graves in time with his quieting breath. He needs to get rid of the body, take it somewhere safe until he can figure out what to do with it, and he probably needs his hyungs' and Riki's help to do it. The consequences of someone finding it here—sucked dry and bloodless, with a human-sized bite mark in the side of it's neck—are more than any of them can afford.

A part of him knows, too, in the back of his mind, that the euphoria won't last forever—sooner or later the rush he has will drain away, and when it does, he'll need to find someone to cry on; someone who won't be crushed by the weight of his guilt.

If, a voice in his head whispers, if you even feel it. He shoves the voice away.

Jungwon looks at the corpse in the driver's seat with the same disconnected grief as someone looking into the casket of a relative they knew only distantly. It was a man, Jungwon recalls vaguely. Wearing a pressed business suit, the blazer of which now sits discarded on the passenger seat floor, the collar of a crisp white button-up stained with blood. He wonders what kind of life he'd had; if he had a partner, children he was leaving behind. Children Jungwon made him leave behind. He hadn't meant to, hadn't wanted to, but-- but.

His grief is slow, sludgy, like a pool of black tar, and the tears don't come even as he wonders if they should.

---

Heeseung knows what's happened as soon as he sees him. If it isn't the glow of his skin, the fullness of his cheeks, it's the dazed look in his eyes; the telltale dregs of euphoria that have yet to make their leave.

Although on second thought, maybe it was the blood that did it, trickling down his chin and staining his teeth and lips rust-red.

"I didn't mean to do it," he says quietly. In the background, Jay and Jake drag the body out of the car, and Sunoo and Sunghoon watch with Riki to make sure no one sees.

"I know," Heeseung says, voice soft. "I know you didn't." Then he opens his arms, and Jungwon falls in as readily as if he was born there.

[abovethesmokestacks]

Shadows and Death

Title: Shadows and Death

Characters: Bucky Barnes, young!Natasha Romanoff (referenced), unnamed Red Room trainee (referenced)

Rating: Teen and up

Wordcount: 1200

Warnings: angst, character death (non-graphic), mention of brainwashing,  Bucky Barnes is straight up not having a good time

And so Tili, Tili Bom comes back to haunt me. This is essentially a companion piece to my only Nat-fic Shadows and Reflections, but can be read on its own, although I’ll of course be happy if you decide to go read that fic. This one is a hell of a lot angstier, so care for yourself and heed the warnings before proceeding. Feel free to let me know what you thought!

Sometimes, he thinks he must be a ghost. The Asset walks the hallways, a familiar route, never specified, but somehow always repeated. He comes and goes, retreating into the unknown, dying over and over again and brought back over and over again. There is a big, gaping nothingness inside of him that he thinks must have been where his soul once was, now void and unreachable, separated from him in this limbo that he haunts.

They are times when he has to remind himself of his existence, the undeniable evidence of it. The weight of his feet against concrete floors, the width and height and breadth of him, taking up space. Hands that grip and squeeze and kill, one with more brutal efficiency than the other. Voices calling him, giving him a place, a purpose. Order in the chaos he emerges into.

But even with his form, even with every straw he grasps at to confirm his existence-

He is a ghost.

Not a trace, Soldat.

Disappear.

Take them. Take them out.

Vanish.

He is a ghost, solitary and lost, brought back in turmoil, nameless and chaotic and tamed into obedience with incantations that cut like knives into his mind, making him forget about- forget- making him focused. Making him compliant. He remembers- he remembers- He retains little, but he thinks time must still be moving forward in the slice of existence that is not his. Faces change. The words are the same, but they come from different mouths. He is tethered not to a place or an object, but dragged to wherever those words are spoken, set loose in the wake of them and the whispered orders that follow, welcomed back whether stained with blood or wrapped in shadows. Permission to speak – mission report, Soldat – and banished back to nothingness until they need him again.

He walks the hallways, an endless labyrinth that he somehow knows the layout of, but never seeks to escape. He walks past rooms where sometimes he’s allowed to participate in training. They are so young, and he only throws his punches a little, telegraphs his blows by seconds. Anything else would warrant a torture he would rather avoid, both for him and for the unlucky girl who got caught by extension. The little ones are… they have not been introduced. Not yet. He is more effective as a ghost to them, as a shadow passing their door at night, as menacing footsteps and a quiet moment outside the door that sends a flurry of heartbeats racing. The mere allusion to his existence is enough, they fall in line, they sleep like one.

Sometimes he hears the song from afar, not quite echoing down the halls, but carrying along the hallways, a melodious whisper that etches itself into his head, repeating, distorting, lingering even as he slowly freezes.

“Soldat.”

Orders are given, target is specified. He hesitates. That’s not right. They’re- That’s- She is nine years old. The click of a gun, staring down the barrel into an abyss that feels more like relief than anything else. There is only an illusion of choice. Killing him would be too kind, too quick, too easy. They won’t let him go. He is bound to them.

Mission parameters. No name. Just the number of the room, fifth row, third bed. Extract, divert, dispose. Resists training. A liability. A mistake to be rectified.

But she is just a girl.

He drags his feet, feels every pound of the body he inhabits, hears the shifting of the plates in his left arm like a nervous tic, wonders why his line of sight is blurring, why it shrinks and undulates.

She is just a child.

The songs finds him in all of it, a lone voice defiant in the silence taunting as it declares:

Он уже близко…

Their breaths are mechanical, like little dolls as they lie in bed, row upon row. They don’t fool him, he knows they’re awake, some unable to keep from trembling. He is a ghost, their ghost, their own babai slithering from under their beds, from their nightmares to claim them.

Fifth row, third bed.

Her eyes are wide and brimming when he snaps the chain of her hand cuff and she puts up only a token resistance when he pulls her out of bed, mouth set behind his muzzle. His teeth grind together because she is a child she is a child and she squeezes his hand and stop stop stop Becca you are being silly don't hold my-

A heartbeat rises above the others, slow and steady over the lightning quick murmurs. It pulls him out, the voices pushed back and he sees her. Red hair, inquisitive eyes holding his. He tilts his head, that look- it carries a defiance, a kind of foolhardy courage that makes him want to… sigh? Rub his forehead? The Asset, he is the Asset, he does not- He wonders what to do. He doesn't want her to get in trouble, he doesn't want to get in trouble. His value is as a ghost. Fear and death are the only things he can offer. Pulling the unfortunate girl closer, he raises his left arm to put his index finger over where his voice is locked away. Quiet. Stay down. Stay still, or I will have to come for you, too.

"Пожалуйста, господин." Please, sir. "Please, I'll be good, just take me back, I'll go to sleep, I'll be good."

He wants to let go of her hand, something ancient in him feeling almost embarrassed to be holding her, heat rising in his cheeks that he is thankful cannot be seen. It is- it is the little hand and the little voice and he can't- it hurts- 

She cries and sings the song, and it cuts him like knives. She cries and he says nothing, anguishing in the rapid breaths, the nails against unyielding fabric. Later when her voice has been silenced and he haunts the nearby cemetery he can still hear it. The song follows him, makes him stop to look around, listen for a heartbeat that never rises. He finds a grave with a nice name on it, digs and digs and lays her to rest. The name is not hers, he thinks, but it sounds nice. Like a mother's, an aunt's, a grandmother's. Someone to share death with. Little graces he'll never know.

The Asset reports back. His voice wavers. Their faces are grim.

"Вернуть его." Put him back.

It's futile to resist. He's led past the room where he fetched her, the room with the fearless redheaded girl. He hopes she is all right, that she was not discovered. He hopes she'll live, that she'll not break under the Red Room. The chair makes his stomach turn. He can still feel the small hand in his, the inexplicable irritation- Please, don't let go, ma said- Buc-

His mind is blank, sparking along the edges. The world is hazy, he is being put away- There is a song, ominous, distant, teasing at connections he can't make, unsettles him. He mouths the words as his veins burn, hears the melody as his mind is suspended.

[boogiewrites]

No. 9: The Body Ch. 7

Characters: Diego Hargreeves & OFC Eve Corpuz

Summary: Eve and Diego get closer, leading to the inevitable confession of attraction. Eve’s powers grow to make some new very interesting connections.

Warnings/Tags: Flirting. Dancing. Training. Sexual Content. Masturbation. 

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT! If you’d like added to the tags, just let me know. This is a multi-chapter fic.

Their lives had become a new normal the past few months. Training had become a welcome escape and focus for them both. Eve had slowly been getting stronger in physicality and her powers. She and Diego were also undoubtedly getting closer as well. 

It wasn’t just physical closeness, although there was plenty of that. Like the time she got a weird hip cramp from doing too many kicks and he had to put her on the floor and stretch her leg up and lean in. If she hadn’t been in pain she would’ve noticed the hip to hip placement and how the sounds she was making could be interpreted wholly differently. 

Eve was very busy, work picking back up and her trying to manage it all. She found time to still be with Diego on occasion. 

He’d wanted to introduce her to what he did. He called them patrols, and she called them looking for trouble. He’d help thwart muggers and she’d heal him up. She’d offer to help heal at the homeless camps and he’d be her bodyguard. They were finding they had a lot of similarities. That need to prove that they were good and make themselves useful. Despite the drastically different childhoods they’d had, they still seemed to get out with the same sort of hang-ups. It made for a deeper connection as anytime they tried to defend their decisions, the other would simply nod and say, “No, I get it.” And mean it.

This connection not only afforded them someone to share their seriousness with, their passions and motivations, it also allowed for more room in their lives to let their guards down with the built trust. It allowed them both time to do something they rarely did with others, be silly. 

She’d made him give into using her playlists since she was the one paying, she stressed. He’d not teased her too much about her music. But what he didn’t know is she had multiple ones for when she was alone. Eve loved to make a list, and playlists were no exception. Her workouts at home on her days off consisted of her dancing. Nothing fancy, just freestyling like she was back in her club days and music video choreography like she was a teen again. She still knew every move to Oops I did it again and that was a secret she’d take to her grave. 

So in the transition between takedowns, when The Weeknd comes on with his synthy beat for Blinding Lights, Diego is confused like a puppy as the single tone plays for a moment before realizing it’s something he’s heard on the radio before. 

“I like the 80’s vibes but I’ve never fought to anything this… dancey.”

“Yeah, this...isn’t the right playlist. This must be my dance workout one. I’ll change it.” she says wiping her face off with her shirt and walking over.

“You have a dance workout? Like that.. zumba stuff?”

“No.” she shakes her head and laughs. “On my days off I do cardio to music just... dancing around. Y’know a solid beat to do reps to.”

“Show me.” he says with a big teasing grin.

“Ugh.” She makes a disappointed face.

“You’re never shy, c’mon.” he motions to the center of the mat to give her the floor. 

“Put a girl on the spot.” she mumbles and starts a basic hip moving beat. “This one’s got a lot of The Weeknd on it.” she grins almost bashfully. She stretches to the beat, squats, and simple body weight reps. “See? You just do some reps and then dance when you want to.”

He comes in line with her and starts copying her. “So you start with the Carlton dance?”

“Shut up!” she laughs and claps her hands at him. “It is NOT the Carlton dance you asshole.” she laughs and gets back into her one-two-step sway to the beat that isn’t enough to wear you out but enough to keep your heart rate up.

“Nah, I’m pretty sure it is.” he says with a boyish persistent nod. 

“You want me to really dance? Like I do at home? I’ll fuckin’...twerk all over this gym, Diego.” she says it like a threat and he gives her a full chested laugh. “You want a choreographed routine?” she busts a move from an old routine from her stage days when she was younger. 

“Yeah! What you got?”

“Fine, next song…” she waits for the song to shift. Earned It begins to play and she rolls her eyes. “This isn’t a…” she snorts. “Not what I meant. Not really a workout song.”

“Then why is it on the playlist?”

“Because it IS a routine but not…” she twitches her nose. 

“I am intrigued. Understandably.” he crosses his arms feeling the upper hand. 

“You’re a dick, you know that?” she sighs and goes and grabs a fold-up chair from the edge of the room. “If I do this, you have to dance for ME. Fairs fair.”

“Oga for oga.” he nods

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s Swedish.” he grunts out with a showy shake of his head. 

“I was dancer. So this is… a routine we would do…” 

“You don’t fight like a dancer moves, no offense.”

“Not the same kind of dancer…” she grins before it comes apparent just what sort of dancer she meant. “Never done this for free. Consider yourself lucky.” she laughs as she flips her hair over in her high pony and continues spinning and straddling the chair. 

“I do. I am very lucky.” he grins and thumbs his lip. Giving her a cocky nod and up and down.

“I’m only doing this on the basis of double dog dare rules.” 

“And I respect that.” he continues his big grin and nod as he judged her playfully without a word. 

“That’s all you get for free.” she rises out of an almost split on the floor. “Fuck. Need to work on my splits.” she gives a good stretch after moving the chair. “Your turn. Better make this Magic Mike worthy.” she demands with a pointed finger to the floor. 

“Maybe not Magic Mike…” he shrugs as another song plays in, I Feel It Coming playing through. “This new?”

“New-ish.” she answers. He casually keeps his eyes away from hers as his hands move confidently to her body and yank her close, a formal stance as he finds the beat with a bobbing head. “Follow my lead.” he connects his eyes and takes her in a waltz light stride across the floor.

“What is this? Am I suddenly a duchess being courted in the 1700s?” she teases and he throws her out to spin her.

“No, because she’d know how to do this.” he taunts before dipping her. 

“I’m sorry I’m not that fancy!” she laughs with messy hair as he pulls her back up quickly.

“Oh, you think it’s fancy?”

“Yeah because it is. This is 4 different kinds of forks at dinner fancy.” she mocks. “I gave you grade A… okay grade B exotic dancer vibes and you give me Mr. Darcy who will faint if he sees my ankles.”

“Fine.” he rolls his eyes and pulls her back to his chest. Hands hard on her hips make her blush immediately, a quick beat hip sway catches her off guard. “Better?”

“Yes. Give me modern. Give me it’s early 2000’s and you’re shaking it like you don't wanna go home broke that night.” she demands playfully and they share a laugh, feeling the nostalgia for a moment and falling into a comfortable, borderline not appropriate dancing for middle schoolers. They gave over for a minute, hips and hands and him using his intense eyes that had gotten him what he’d wanted when he was younger. Eve could dance, she’d made a living out of it before and during school before things got too hectic to keep up work and study and residency. She’d danced before that with fake ID’s in clubs, she’d been around plenty of people and places, and she hated to admit that the man could move. With his almost pitbull puppy appearance she could forget that he was very in tune with his body when he wanted. She was reminded of it when she would watch him fight someone else. And she was reminded of it as he had his hands around her waist and hips with no hesitation, a confidence his usual demeanor with her lacked. They came together to sway, eyes locked and subtle smiles with competitive dark eyes watching the other.

“Eve?” 

“Hmm?” she asks with a pleasant smile as she looks up to him in the reverse embrace. 

“Would you-” he begins, his head tilted to her shoulder. He takes a low key deep breath and swings her away, taking her hands back into a much simpler embrace. “Would you wanna go out sometime?” His voice didn’t exactly crack but there was a fleeting moment of him losing his suave exterior to show the unsure boy with a crush underneath. 

“Go out?” she asks rhetorically. “And do more of this?” she asks with a playful inflection to show he didn’t need to be nervous. 

“I mean, if you want me to keep making you look bad…” he smirks and she steps on his foot and they share a hushed laugh. “We could go dancing.” he offers.

“We don’t have to,” she answers quickly and quietly. “It’s not something I do much. Well, in public anyway.” they continue a slow PTA approved slow dance stature together. 

“Yeah me either.” he chuckles back. 

“If not dancing..then what?”

“We could, uh, have drinks.” he offers with a thoughtful pursed mouth. 

“We could eat.” she offers with a wide grin.

“Always with you and food.” he teases

“Always. I’ve never seen you turn it down anytime it was offered.”

“Touche.” he narrows his eyes. “Food and drinks. Alright, we’ll go to a place that has food and drinks.”

“....a restaurant?” she asks with a bubbling laugh.

“Yeah. One of those.” he breathily laughs it out and looks away for a moment. 

He was awfully cute when he was dumb. 

“I know this place. Good burgers.” he nods. “There’s a bar and you can get food. It’s small… not very busy. Mostly working-class people y’know. Easy to have some privacy.”

“You make it sound like we’re going on a stakeout.” 

“Old habit I guess.”

“So it’s not in fact, a stakeout?”

‘No. No stakeout.” he answers enthusiastically and feeling her playful energy. 

“Promise?”

“Pinky promise.”

“Deal.” she doesn’t break from the sacred finger hold, and neither does he. “So if it’s not work…” she begins with an animated move of her neck. “Does that mean this is a date?” 

He pauses for a moment and lowers his chin to face her more head-on, speaking more quietly. “Yeah. A date.” she sees that flash of fuck boy, she’d named it. You know the lip-biting, the fingers through the hair and doing that nod your way like they know you want them. Tik tok fuck boys, the ones with 90’s teen heartthrob hair. While Diego’s hair wasn’t quite to that length yet, she wondered for a distracted second how it might look on him, or if he’d had that hair when they were that age. 

“Was it the Carlton dance?” she asks with wiggling eyebrows and he breaks his suave demeanor. “Or was it the chair dance?” she gives a goofy wiggle in his arms. 

“It was more the chair than the Carlton…” she feels that shift, his hand a bit more demanding on her lower back, keeping her close. “But I wouldn’t turn down that Carlton dance after a few drinks.” they both fall into a  shared bubble of laughter as she ducks her head to his chest and her shoulders shake. 

“I’ll be sure to wear a pastel sweater and some pleated khakis on the date.” she says with a sly grin that he answers with crinkled eyes of amusement. 

“The chair dance in THAT? Now THAT’s sexy.”

“Oh yeah, catch me three drinks deep and grinding in my fuckin’...Tommy Bahama dress slacks.” she moves her hips grinding on his thigh to call his bluff and before he can break his sarcastic bitten lip to show excessive interest in the idea - a voice breaks their bubble of intimacy they’d been working on all night. 

“Do we need a separate license to teach dance?”  The voice breaks a cozy moment between them. They both freeze and Eve blinks curiously at the short teenager with the angry face. Oh yeah, that had to be his brother.

“We have that license. And the one for the use of the songs.” Diego’s hands move away without much rush from Eve, his smile fading almost instantly. “What do you want?” 

“A word?” a cocked eyebrow from the pale and strong-jawed young man.

“We were kind’ve in the middle of-”

“In the middle of -what- exactly Diego?” Five’s head cocked the side. 

“It’s fine. I can go. It’s near the end of my session anyway.”

“Oh.” Five mumbles. “Didn’t realize you were a paying customer.”

“Yeah. Hi. I’m Doctor Eve Corpuz.” she reaches out her hand after putting on a hoodie. 

“Doctor, eh? What kind?”

“ER Doctor at Calvary.” 

“MMph.” He gives a respectful nod. “Wouldn’t be where you met my mess of a brother would it?”

“It would be actually.” she gives a warm smile as she stuffs her things into her duffle. 

“Pleasure to meet you. But I do need a word in private with my brother.”

“Family stuff. I get it.” she nervously laughs. “I’ll see you on Thursday?”

“Uh...yeah.” Diego shakes his head, obviously flustered and glaring at his brother.

“Okay. See you. You boys have a good night!”

Eve pulls up her hood to cozy against the blustery spring night. 

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

Eve had received a smattering of high energy texts from her friend when she sent, ‘I think my trainer just asked me out?😏’. 

With playful accusations of what a harlot Eve was planning on being she was also met with a new nervousness. Now the way her coworker was seeing it, her hot Personal trainer asked her if she wanted to go out. As opposed to how Eve saw it, her mentor Diego seeing if she wanted to do something besides train for once. But he loved training. Yeah, she couldn’t lie to herself. It was a date. 

Once the revelation hits her she keeps a sly smile on her face as she goes about her evening in her apartment. It WAS a date. And he HAD had his hands all over her tonight. Not that it was unusual with their new ventures into MMA, but this was different. That was for fun. Not for training purposes. They’d just been two people dirty dancing. At least for what action Eve had gotten lately, it was considered dirty. 

She turns her playlist to the one from the gym earlier over her speakers. She finds the same sultry song, the one she’d used in her VIP room lap dances. She’d loved the video for the song and made up a routine based on it. She wasn’t a fan of the movie or book it came from but it was a moody vibe setter and that’s what she liked in her work. She takes a chair from the corner of her room, in just her panties and paper-thin t-shirt, and channeled that part of her that’d been bubbling beneath the surface ever since she’d met Diego. That part of her that kept in touch with her sexuality every day. The part of her that loved moving her body to the music, audience or not. 

She admires herself in the dresser mirror for a moment. Something she hadn’t done in a while beyond the quick double-take of having her butt look good. She felt like herself, the Eve she was without all this worry about powers and careers and responsibility. That girl that loved dancing. The girl that went from town to town, loving and leaving and never staying long enough to take root. Being led by nothing but her heart. Not a thought to the future.  It was easy to miss that version of herself, but she knew she was better for having gotten her shit together. But it was nice to romanticize from time to time alone. 

He could just be a guy at a bar, and she’s an eager woman looking for something that burns so hot it couldn't last. It doesn’t take long for her to fall into her fantasy, recalling his hands on her, sweat dripping onto her collarbone from his damp hair hanging across his forehead over those dark eyes. She could smell him, feel his hands on her she knew when she kissed him she’d taste the salt of his sweat. She was in deep, just like her fingers between her pussy lips. She’d have a spicy little daydream, cum nice and hard, and fall into a heavy sleep. That was her plan for the evening.

Across town, in his apartment, Diego’s night was just getting started. He was looking over documents Five had given him, something he thought he might need to know about. But he was finding it hard to concentrate.

He thought he was past this sort of thing, some adolescent reminiscent sudden sexual urge that made its way into your head and wouldn’t get out. As his fingers fidgeted and his leg bounced, he took a deep breath and he felt his body getting warm, the blood flowing and him seeing the straining against his gym shorts. He took another deep breath and this one felt more like a sigh, a slump onto the desk in front of him as he looked down at his twitching shorts. 

“Really? Now?” He mutters to himself as he looks around as if someone could be watching, making his way to his bedroom. Wasn’t going to chance anyone interrupting him again. 

He sat on the bed, kicking off his bottoms and tossing his shirt aside. But as soon as he gave into it, it was like he could feel her hands on him, and there was only one woman on his mind. It’s like she was in his arms again, her strong hips in his hands, he could feel her hand creeping up around his neck, nails raking on his scalp and making him shiver. 

She didn’t waste much time, her clit already throbbing and aching for attention. In her mind, she finally brings those full lips to her own, hand into his pants and happy with what she finds there. 

It was as if he could feel her mouth around him, his hand and hers one of the same, her imagining him in her throat and nice and wet before abandoning the laws of physics and then suddenly laying down and her slipping him inside. 

From her leisurely position on the bed she moves on her hands and knees, a pillow a poor stand-in, but her imagination makes up the rest. She wanted to feel that broad chest under her hands and the slap of skin to skin. She felt the slip of sweat on her palms and held him by the hair as she rode and kissed him.

Diego was sprawled in his bed, hand around his cock, and pumping to try to satisfy himself. He could feel her grinding against him, that delicious weight of a woman on top of you, taking what she needed. He very easily imagined it, finally seeing her tits bounce as she moved and the never-ending expanse of her tattoos without the interference of clothes. He was happy to take a back seat for a hot creature like her but he grew hungry, nearing his end faster than he anticipated. 

Eve was at the desperate stage. So close to reaching the peak. Everything sensitive and flushed and wanting to lay back and take it. She grabs a dildo from the bedside drawer, a quick stick to the headboard, and Eve was moaning out his name to an empty room. 

With a hand hard on the headboard, his body taught and almost angry at the tension, he feels the bounce-back of her ass as he drills into her. Hands fast to her hips and back, holding her down. He let out a frustrated growl as he felt his own orgasm about to rise.

With a moan, she begs for him to go deeper and she feels the release through her body. Hands on her tits and moaningas she convulsed, imagining his cock inside her instead, his hands tight to her hip and breast just as she was envisioning. He collapsed into the pillow beneath him, panting. 

“That was… intense.” They sigh. 

Apparently, Eve’s powers growing stronger was creating some interesting connections. 

 @jaegeeeeer​ @diegos-butt​ @anglovesthis @likedovesinthewnd​

[onwardintolight]

Han x Leia, ESB, Trip to Bespin, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

Summary: ESB from Leia's POV. A journey from despair to hope, a blossoming, an opening to vulnerability and love.

Warnings: Deals with some heavy themes, incl. working through trauma, depression, self-harm, attempted sexual assault. Each chapter will be individually warned.

Note: I’m currently in the process of reposting the first nine chapters here in full, since when I first wrote this fic, I only shared links to the chapters on AO3 and FFN. I will try to post at least weekly. In the meantime, if you’d prefer to binge-read it, the entire fic is posted in full on AO3 and FFN.

Part: Masterlist | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | Epilogue

Soundtrack

~~~

Author’s note 10/2019: My take on the first “I love you.”

Warnings for Chapter 13: reference to suicide/suicidal ideation 

~~~

Leia stared at her datapad, and it stared right back. The blankness of the new journal entry she’d opened called to her—or taunted her; she wasn’t quite sure which. She twirled a finger in one of the tendrils of her hair that had escaped from its braid.

It had been two weeks since they’d left Hoth. Two weeks since that crazy, horrible, wonderful day—wonderful, eventually, thanks to Han’s return, her decision to leave with him, their conversations, the kisses they’d finally shared. Horrible, because before that, the Empire had found their base… and she’d finally given in to despair. The past two weeks had been a welcome distraction, a healing balm for her soul. She hadn’t spent much time looking back. But as she sat curled up on her (their) bunk in the crew quarters, alone, datapad in hand, she sensed that she needed to confront what had happened that day, now that there was some time and distance.

Writing it out would help, she knew. Sometimes, that was the only way she could bring any sort of sense or order to the tangled thicket of feelings inside. She’d kept a journal for years; first it had been reluctantly, as a child following her mother’s strong suggestion, but as the years went on she had clung more and more to the release that came from setting free the jumble of words caged in her mind.

She had left behind the datapad she normally used as a journal. At the time, she had assumed she’d never need it again. It wasn’t gone forever, thankfully—dear old Threepio had seen to that—but for now, she’d have to make do with the single datapad she had on hand.

It would help if she could figure out where to start. Twenty minutes ago she’d dated the top of her new entry; since then, she’d begun a sentence only to delete it again multiple times. The more she thought about that day, the more jumbled up she felt.

Well, perhaps not all that jumbled—one feeling rose to the top of the writhing heap, threatening to overpower everything else, including her will to write.

Shame.

A sick feeling rose in her stomach. Absentmindedly, she drew out the amulet her mother had given her from the pocket she’d been keeping it in. Turning it end on end, she ran her thumb over the smooth silver metal, the rough, sea-toned jewels, the delicate chain.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

There was a knock at the door, and Han came in. She closed her fist around the necklace.

“Hey sweetheart," he said cheerily. "Just going to use the ‘fresher.” A minute later he emerged. He paused on his way to the door, taking her in. “You okay?”

Leia sighed. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh, come on, it’s never nothin’.” He crossed over to the bunk and sat down across from her. “Now look, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but—”

“No, I’ll talk,” she said, though she didn’t offer up anything else in the pause that followed. As it was with her journal, she wasn’t sure where to begin.

Han broke the silence. “So, uh, what’s that?” He gave a pointed glance at the bit of chain hanging out of her closed fist. She opened to let him see.

“My mother gave it to me,” she said. “It’s… it’s one of the few things I didn’t leave behind.”

Han cradled her hand with his own, leaning over to get a good look at the amulet. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured. He looked back up at her, raising an eyebrow. “Bringin’ up memories?”

“Always.” She smiled wistfully. “But it’s more than that.” She looked down at the amulet, her smile fading. “I… I was just thinking about what happened on Hoth. How I let them down.”

“Your parents?”

“My parents, my planet, everyone. I let them all down.” She shook her head. “I abdicated my duty.”

Han frowned. “What do you mean, sweetheart? We were just tryin’ to escape—we didn’t know we’d end up floatin’ out here all by ourselves, crawlin’ towards the nearest friendly system. That’s not your fault.”

“Oh, that’s not—that’s fine—I mean, it’s not fine, but that’s the way it is. No, the problem is what happened before that. I gave up, Han. I… I was going to let myself die.” She paused, then caught his eyes, trying to steady herself in them. “I wanted to die.”

Pain flickered in Han’s eyes as they held her own. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then he changed his mind and began stroking the side of her palm instead. Leia was vaguely relieved; she already felt ashamed enough without him piling on the worry and pity.

“Do you know what my father’s last words to me were?” she continued. “He told me he trusted me, more than anyone. He said there wasn’t anything I couldn’t deal with. At the time, he was sending me on a mission, charging me with taking the Death Star plans to Obi-Wan. But ever since… ever since, I’ve felt like his words were a charge for life. He trusted me to be the person I needed to be for my people, for the Rebellion, for the galaxy. He trusted me to not give up. On Hoth, I failed that trust. I proved him wrong.”

She swallowed down the lump that was rising in her throat. “I justified it by telling myself I wasn’t going to run away anymore. That I was facing my guilt, facing my fear. But really I was just giving into those things. Surrendering to my despair. Abandoning my duty. Letting Va—the Empire—win.” Her voice broke, and she stared down at the blankets, fighting back angry tears.

“Leia.” Han spoke her name softly, searching her face until her eyes rose to meet his. “Sweetheart.” He shook his head, his thumb continuing to outline small circles on her palm. “You’re actin’ like you wanted to die out of selfishness, like you went off and abandoned the galaxy on purpose. That’s not the truth and you know it. You said it yourself; you thought you were confrontin’ things you needed to.”

“Honestly, I thought I deserved to die,” Leia muttered. “That I should. That the galaxy would be better off without me.”

“See? I’m right. Sometimes, y’know, we all get lopsided and start thinkin’ things are one way when they’re really the other. And with what you’ve been through, I’d be surprised if you didn’t get a little lopsided sometimes. Look, I know you haven’t talked about it, but I’ve heard: the suicide rate among Alderaanian survivors is somethin’ else. Losing your whole planet… kriff, Leia, that kind of thing gets to your head, even if you aren’t a princess. You know what I think?” He caught her eyes again, and flashed a disarming grin. “I think you’re really strong for holding on for so long.”

Leia huffed, looking away. The sentiment was nice, but it rung hollow. “Strong or not, I had a duty, and I failed.” She blinked back tears. “Sometimes I wonder if my parents see everything I’ve done, everything I’ve become, and regret adopting me. If being the cause of their deaths and the death of our planet wasn’t enough for them to despise me from beyond the grave, then this ought to be.”

Han rolled his eyes and threw up his hands in mock exasperation. “Okay, so you briefly tried to get yourself killed. You were lopsided and felt like you were doin’ the galaxy a favor. You know how much that changes how I feel about you? Zip. Zilch. Nada. Nothin’ like that could ever change the fact that I love you. And nothin’ like that could ever make your parents quit lovin’ you, either, not from what I know about ‘em.”

Leia’s breath caught. Her mouth hung open, speechless. Had he really just said those three words?

Han went on as if nothing monumental had happened. “You carry so much guilt, Leia, and you don’t have to. You’ve always done the best you could. You’ve fought through hell like nobody I’ve ever seen, and helped a million people while you’re at it. Believe me, Princess, you’re one of the best damn things to happen to the galaxy. Your parents would be kriffin’ proud.”

Leia sat frozen. Her arguments were being eclipsed, one by one. Finally she found her voice, quiet and shaky, but clear:

“You love me?”

In answer, Han gathered her into his arms and kissed her soundly. “Yes, your worshipfulness,” he murmured in her ear, chuckling. “I’ve been doin’ a terrible job of it, but I’ve been tryin’ to tell you that for years.” Tears sprung fresh to Leia’s eyes as he lowered her down on the bunk. With every ounce of passion and strength she possessed, she did her best to respond without words, and all she knew for a long time was the feeling of his lips on hers.

~~~

They rolled onto their sides, and Han kissed a line down the side of her neck, his fingers wound tight in her hair. Leia’s breath hitched at the sensation, and she pulled him closer, running her fingers down his spine, catching his lips again. When they came up for air Han murmured it again: “I love you.”

He looked so vulnerable, lying there beside her, saying those words over and over as if making up for lost time. She could sense his longing to hear her say them back, and she wished desperately that she could.

Because she did love him. She knew it in every fiber of her being: a love so immense it seemed like it would explode from her in a neverending fountain of light and color. A passion so deep she could fall into it forever and never return.

And that, precisely, was the danger.

Han’s face, betraying a flicker of hurt, relaxed at her expression of consternation. “Sshhh,” he whispered, and he kissed her again, more gentle this time. Tears welling once more, she leaned into him harder, trying to pour into him everything she couldn’t say, everything she hoped he’d understand. But he pulled back and searched her eyes, fingers brushing loose hair from her face. Then, tenderly, deliberately, he planted one last kiss on her forehead and rolled out of bed. It felt cold and empty without him. “Only as far as you’re ready for, sweetheart,” he murmured. He turned and left the room.

Leia wasn’t sure how it was possible for her to feel all at once so happy and so very wretched.

~~~

Han seemed glum the rest of afternoon; Leia was certain she wasn’t imagining it, despite the fact that he always flashed her a grin whenever she was near. She ached knowing that she was the source of his hurt and there was little she could do to make it better.

At first she had given him some space. She tried to write down a few words about everything on her datapad, but that was soon tossed, once again, to the side. She attempted to bury herself in another illegally-downloaded novel, but she couldn’t focus on it.

He doesn’t want space, she realized. He wants you.

Sighing, she wandered out of the crew quarters and down the corridor. The sound of welding beckoned her to the circuitry bay.

“Hey, Princess,” said Han all-too-cheerily, lifting up his goggles as he turned to greet her.

“Hey there, hot shot. Can I help?” She watched as several different emotions warred on his face, and she would have laughed if she weren’t so heart-stricken. He was never as good at hiding them as he thought he was. Affection—and the desire to have her as close as possible—soon triumphed.

“Uh, sure,” he said. “You can calibrate some of the sensors I just got back online.”

“All right.” She picked up the holo-probe from where it was lying on the floor. Han went back to his welding, sparks flying, and she went to work on the sensors.

The silence between them lay heavy. The memory of their first kiss, right here in this cramped space, made Leia ache for more despite herself.

She swallowed. Stop it, she told herself. That won’t help anything. For the first time, the thought occurred to her that she might end up being the one to break Han’s heart, rather than the other way around. He had laid his heart on the line, and if she never told him she loved him, if she were never willing to jump all the way in, if she just kept stringing him along…. I can’t tell him, she reminded herself. He’s going to leave. I can’t take another loss.

But… she didn’t want him to have to bear that pain, either. Her heart sunk.

Maybe she needed to back off. For his sake, as well as her own.

She tried to focus on her work. Too often, though, she found herself stealing sideways glances, studying him, committing each feature to memory: that mop of brown hair, as scruffy and enticing as always. His muscular arms, rippling beneath his shirt. His rough hands, so careful and precise as he set down the welder, peeled off his gloves, and sank wrist-deep into a tangle of wiring. His face, frowning in concentration, a thin mask guarding over the vulnerability that was as always hidden just beneath the surface.

Taking off his goggles with a toss of his head, Han reached up past her to activate the panel he had just finished working on. Leia closed her eyes, willing herself not to focus on the nearness of his chest.

“You havin’ trouble?”

“What?” She opened her eyes, focusing them back on her work.

“The holo-probe actin’ up?” He hadn’t moved away.

“I—”

Reluctantly, inevitably, her eyes flickered up to find his. Yes, there was the hurt she was dreading to see, and the fear, and the… fiery determination? Her lips parted in surprise. Without another word, he took her in his arms and kissed her passionately, pushing her back against the wall like he had done two weeks before. Leia sunk into it at first, desperate to close the gap between them, until she recovered her senses. She jerked her head to the side.

“Han, wait, I—”

He held a finger up to her lips. “Don’t,” he murmured. “It’s all right.”

“But I—”

“I knew when I said it that you wouldn’t—that you couldn’t say it back. Not yet. It’s okay, Leia.”

“No, it’s not. You’re—”

“Sure it is. We’re goin’ at your pace, remember, sweetheart?”

“Stop interrupting me!” Leia lashed out, frustrated. “Listen: you’ll be leaving soon. I don’t know how I’d live with myself if… if I never… but I can’t… Han, can’t you see we’re flying straight into our own graves? We’re going to lose each other. I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t—”

“Leia, I’m gonna try and come back—”

“I’m sorry, Han, but maybe we should just… stop this.”

Han froze. Leia looked away, trembling. The future once more was winding down into bleakness; she’d just have to face it and find the strength to move on, somehow.

Then slowly, Han let out a breath. “Sweetheart,” he said softly, catching her eyes again, “there are worse things out there than havin’ something great and then losin’ it. One of those is never havin’ anything to begin with. That’s the whole damn reason we decided to try this out in the first place.”

She blinked, forcing back the edge of the familiar panic, focusing in on his words.

“Now, I’m not ready to back down yet, and I don’t think you are either—and no, you don’t have to say or do anything to prove it to me. I get it. You can’t. But as for me…” he brought his hand up to caress the side of her head, tracing his thumb along her hairline. He shook his head. “…Blast it, Leia, I love you. You’re worth it to me, no matter what happens. All of the consequences, all of the whatever afters—as far as I’m concerned, they can all go straight to hell.”

She looked up into his eyes, searching. Finally, she raised a tremulous eyebrow. “You really mean that, don’t you?” she whispered.

He nodded gravely.

She exhaled, feeling a mixture of sadness and relief. Reaching up her hand, she gently brushed the hair off his brow. “You always were a reckless one, flyboy,” she murmured.

“That’s why you like me.” He grinned roguishly, resting his arm back on the bulkhead above her and leaning in closer. “Now, where were we?”

The bleakness was dissipating, replaced by cautious hope; replaced by him. While a part of her heart still smoldered with fear, she clung to the truth of his words and the sincerity with which he had spoken them.

There are worse things than having something great and then losing it.

You’re worth it to me, no matter what happens.

Somehow, she felt as if a great weight were lifting off of her, slowly fading through the walls of the ship to disperse, free, in the aether.

[alphawave-writes]

Evil actions and good intentions chapter 4: One day, three autumns Sigma x Harold Winston

Synopsis: Harold desperately tries to hide his secrets from Talon, all the while pining over Sigma. He also gets a pretty sweet shoulder massage.

Read it here or on AO3. If you want more Sigma, check out my series ‘The universe sings’. If you’re hankering for fluffy Sigma x Harold oneshots, check out my other two fics ‘It’s lonely at the top’ and ‘Under the milky way’

-

It’s hard for Harold to convince everybody that he’s fine when all known logic dictates that he shouldn’t. Given the extent of his injuries, he should be bandaged from head to toe at the very least, unable to walk or move. Yet he runs and smiles without so much as a hair out of place, no scar or wound to be seen. The biting stares once reserved for Siebren are now given to him as well. They glare at him like he is a ticking time bomb, or an omnipotent god walking amongst mortals. A freak of nature. If only they knew he would never put anyone in harm’s way. If anything, he puts himself in danger by using his abilities so brazenly.

If someone were to ask him if he regrets his decision to save Siebren, the answer would be a resounding no. He is used to sacrificing himself for others. 

He goes by his day, trying his best to get used to the eyes constantly pressed on his back. Siebren does his best to make him feel comfortable, and he appreciates the gesture, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that they’re searching him for something, stripping him down to the molecule until they find the answers they are looking for.

At least Siebren is by his side, laughing and smiling easily, grazing light touches over his skin like time doesn’t exist. Harold grins warmly as he looks up into his ocean blue eyes and feels years and years of affection well up to the surface, waiting to spill out of his lips.

One day, three autumns, his mother told him when he was young, obsessed with idioms of her homeland as he was obsessed with books. His father had flown off to America again, leaving him and his sister to stay with his mother’s family in Lijiang. She’s proud in that typical Asian tiger mom way, but beneath the surface, she missed her husband greatly.

Yí r­­ì s­ān qi­­ū, she repeated in her native Mandarin. When you miss that special someone greatly, you say this. When they go away, one day feels like the passing of three autumns. You stare out the window because every single second they are gone is too long. You cling to their memory, hold it close to your heart, and eagerly wait for their return. She clasped him on the shoulder and said, Do you miss your papa?

That was her word for his father, ‘papa’. She was mama, and he was papa—a compromise between her Chinese culture and his father’s American culture. He nodded eagerly, as all young boys did. I miss papa.

She smiled with grave melancholy. Yí r­­ì s­ān qi­­ū, she said. I miss him too.

If one day is three autumns, he cannot imagine how many eternities have passed since he lost Siebren all those years ago.

After Harold woke up from his coma, Siebren doted on his every whim and need, following him around everywhere. He makes Harold breakfast in the morning and reaches for the mugs in the high cupboard. It's all rather unnecessary but Siebren does it anyway. “You can never be too careful,” the astrophysicist tells Harold, the astrobiologist with an expert understanding of gorilla and human physiology. “I don’t mind helping you. It’s the least I owe you for saving my life.”

In the past, perhaps Harold might have told Siebren that he can handle himself quite fine, but present Harold is smarter and wiser and he also has the added knowledge that Siebren is an adept masseuse with strong fingers. A few stray thoughts of how Harold came to know this filtered into his brain and drew the heat up to his cheeks. He thinks he sees Siebren make a similar reaction when he makes the request for a massage, back when they’re alone in his bedroom, but it’s lightning fast, too quick for him to catch. Siebren quickly rounds up behind him and presses his fingers firmly into Harold’s wound flesh.

Even after all these years, Siebren’s touch is familiar. Comforting. Delicate.

Maybe he likes to get pampered, Harold convinces himself as Siebren undoes a knot in his back, drawing out a soft groan. Maybe he likes how easily he unravels by Siebren’s touch, transforming all the stress and guilt that rests on his shoulders into radiant heat. Maybe he likes the feel of hands on his body, the touches forbidden to him for so long, lighting a long dormant fire in the pit of his stomach. 

After a few minutes, Siebren speaks, curiously out of breath. “You’re enjoying this.”

“And you’re not?” Harold smiles knowingly over his shoulder.

Siebren clears his throat loudly behind his back. Harold smiles mischievously.

“I’m an old man now, Siebren. I can enjoy a massage every now and then.”

“Yes, well at our age, I think we’re entitled to it,” Siebren chuckles. “Not that I would ever force someone to massage me.”

“Why not? I basically made you do it now.”

“It’s different when it’s you,” Siebren admits quietly.

Harold’s eyes widen. There’s a spark in Siebren’s voice, a breathy quality Harold catches that conjures memories of silken sheets and soft pillows and warm skin, all made more potent on the dark expanse of the moon. Harold keeps his gaze forward, a dark blush betraying his otherwise neutral expression.

Siebren uses the silence to concentrate further on the massage. His fingers tap out rhythmically on Harold’s skin, a piano tune playing on pliable skin. Siebren begins to hum under his breath, a ragtag jumble of discordant notes that make no sense on their own but nevertheless sounds beautiful from his lips. It’s strange yet haunting and very very Siebren.

“What song is that one?” Harold asks quietly.

Siebren stops humming altogether. He coughs loudly. “N-nothing.”

“I’ve heard you hum that one before,” Harold comments. “New song or new formula?”

Siebren goes unnaturally quiet as his hands retreat from Harold’s shoulders. Harold turns towards him only to find Siebren staring at the dust molecules in front of his face. His lips are pursed tight. He’s floating higher, eyes wide and haunted.

Harold cups Siebren’s face, steadying him as he floats down to the ground. He sees the clarity dawn slowly upon Siebren like the birth of a sunrise,  gravity shackling him once more to Earth. The expression Siebren gives him is not a familiar one. His face speaks of ghosts, nightmares, and sleepless nights.

“Harold…do you trust me?” He asks slowly.

“Of course I do.” Harold doesn’t even hesitate. “Tell me.”

Siebren gazes deeply into Harold’s eyes for any signs of doubt but finds nothing but warm and summery emotions, kept tempered and dormant by the forces of Harold’s willpower. With a final nod, he summons the hyperspheres.

They float idly around his right hand, spinning in circles before fusing into one being. The dark matter within has coalesced into a bigger sphere, the components that hold them together crumbling away like dust in the wind. Harold stares into the void, sees time and space fold into itself.

Harold frowns. “What am I looking at?”

“Sshhh,” Sigma hushes. He brings it closer to Harold’s ears.

It’s only then that he hears the music, a violent clash of thudding pianos and dark whispers and Shepard tones constantly rising to the heavens.

“What…what is this?” He gasps.

“The universe’s melody,” Siebren replies. He stares at the orb, watching it hover above his hand. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

It is, Harold admits to himself, but not as magnificent as Siebren right now, vulnerable and gorgeous at the same time, familiar and unfamiliar in every right way. “Is this what you hear all the time?” he asks.

Siebren nods. “This was all I heard after the accident. For years I thought it was the universe taunting me, enslaving me to be servant to its whims. Alone in my own mind, I was trapped, fighting for release. And then one day I saw it. The bridge between time and space, a wormhole tearing the fabric of reality apart wide enough that I may glimpse through. And there I saw infinite realities, infinite versions of myself warped and changed through the efforts of infinite realities. But it was only for a second. And it never happened again.”

Harold stares at the dark orb in front of him, his breath disappearing into the mist. Slowly, shakily, he raises his fingers to touch it. Pain spikes when he touches it, fading away rapidly when he retreats his hand.

The orb harmlessly floats from his hand into Harold’s. Siebren tilts his head to the side, eyes wide in rapturous adoration. “So you see what I have to do, right? If I can just figure out this melody, if I can just find the formula, I might be able to prove the existence of multiple realities. I could see far into the past and future, and glimpse at the beauty the universe hides from us. I could learn so much more.”

It’s times like this that Harold wishes he shares Siebren’s passion for the mysteries of the universe, but their ultimate goals always differed. Siebren searches for the unknown far off into the galaxy, while Harold searches for the hidden potential lying dormant within all living creatures. Siebren sees the beauty in everything that he can’t see and touch, but Harold sees the beauty in the present, the sunlight in an excited grin, the dazzling stars behind sky blue eyes, the supernovas that explode from a gentle caress.  

It takes Siebren a moment before he catches himself. He hides his shy smile behind a closed fist. The orb dissipates into thin air. “I-I know this sounds like I’m insane. I know my mind is no longer whole, but I just know the answer lies here somewhere.” He stares forlornly at Harold. “I understand if you don’t believe me. It sounds ridiculous.”

Harold smiles as he places a hand on Siebren’s shoulder. “Of course it sounds ridiculous," he says before chuckling. "But then again, people thought Copernicus was ridiculous when he said the Earth revolved around the sun back in the day.”

“So you believe me?” Siebren asks, hopeful.

“If you believe it, I believe it,” Harold says. He squeezes Siebren's shoulder lightly. “I trust you.”

Siebren takes Harold’s hands into his own, gazing down with childlike eyes. Harold can feel the gentle hum of power within Sigma’s palm, waves pushing and pulling at invisible strings. He doesn’t pull back when Siebren places a quick kiss on his cheek. The patch of skin where his lips left their mark fizzled pleasantly with electricity.

“I needed to hear that,” Sigma admits with a whisper. “Verdante, Harold.”

Harold blushes as he glances down at their entwined hands. He wants more—tender kisses, small touches, soft words—but he doesn’t have the courage to ask for more. He sees the way Siebren brightens in his presence, the joy and relief of knowing a long-lost love has been resurrected. He doesn’t have the courage to commit and break Siebren’s heart again when he returns to the grave, even if it means he must deny himself his own selfish wants.

He is used to sacrificing himself for others. It’s familiar. Normal.

“Come on, tough guy,” Harold smiles. “I think I owe you a massage after all that.”

Siebren protests loudly, but it falls upon flat ears. He isn’t going to get away that easily, Harold smiles to himself.

 Moira catches him when Siebren is away on a training exercise. An additional check-up, she claims, though Harold is quick to narrow his eyes. It’s been more than a week since that fateful mission, and she only approaches him now when Siebren must temporarily leave his side. The timing is almost a bit too convenient.

He’s not usually a cautious person, but Moira rubs him in all the wrong ways. There’s a coldness in her stare that speaks of cold clinical data and complete detachment. Years ago, he wouldn’t have thought anything about it because he intrinsically trusted people to be benevolent and kind. A lifetime’s worth of betrayals have finally taught him otherwise. Not a day goes by when he wishes to see the world in rose-tinted glasses once more.

“All my medical tests have been up to date,” he says slowly. “My last checkup was two days ago.”

“Ah, yes, but this is a psychiatric examination,” Moira says. “You have been through a rather unfortunate accident. It is standard practice here in Talon to perform psychiatric examinations of all our personnel after any traumatic event.”

“Siebren hasn’t had an examination,” Harold points out.

“He shall have one after you. Now, if you will please join me?”

He’s got no choice but to follow. The choice she gives is an illusion, he thinks morosely.

She doesn’t take him to the medical bay where Dr. Irvin Laszlo’s office is. She doesn’t take him to her own office next door, pristine and professional apart from a few anime figurines on her shelf. Instead, she leads him down to the lower levels, past keycard-encrypted doors to a single, dark room.

It smells of decay and disuse, bringing back memories of Horizon One and the torturous loneliness he felt at Horizon Two afterwards. There are no windows, the only light coming from LED lamps above. The only items in the room are three plastic chairs, two facing the third, which stands beneath the spotlight. Moira takes her seat on the first. The second is occupied by a man he’s never seen before with sandy skin and a short spiky haircut similar to Harold’s own. She gestures for him to sit in the third, already scribbling notes on a clipboard with her other hand.

He glances into the shadows and thinks he spies a pair of eyes gazing upon him, but Moira clicks her fingers impatiently at him. The mysterious man presses a button on an old tape player. It’s analogue. Antique. Untraceable.

“This is the psychological examination of Subject: 31,” the mysterious man speaks with a British accent. Tones of his native Indian can be faintly heard. “We are here to examine his mental wellbeing after the failed mission at Cape Town.”

Moira steeples her fingers. “Tell me, if it’s not too much for you, what happened that day?”

There’s something wrong about all this, but he’s not sure what. Is it the stranger, Moira, or that insufferably dehumanizing nickname? He suppresses a frown and wills himself to sound calm. “I was on the mission with Siebren. The men in our contingent had killed all the poor omnic soldiers.”

“You feel sympathy for them?” She asks.

“Well, they are people, even if they’re not necessarily living.” His lips pull tight as he remembers the explosion. “Even if they are criminals, they didn’t deserve to die like that.”

Moira makes a note, scowling to herself. The stranger perks up. “So what happened after?”

Harold frowns. “I would think that’s common knowledge. The omnics all suddenly blew up after a countdown. If Siebren didn’t react fast enough and shielded the both of us, I would’ve probably perished with the rest of the team.”

He hopes his lie goes through undetected but the stranger glares with the intensity of a solar flare. “Surely that wasn’t all that happened, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, thinking about it logically, the omnic corpses were found scattered all over the base, meaning you would have been engulfed by flames on all sides. And even if you happened to be in an area where it can be easily blocked in one direction, that doesn’t explain how you got all burned up and Sigma escapes without a scratch.”

“I can’t answer that,” Harold lies. “I’ve never been in combat before. I was disorientated to say the least.”

“So why did you offer to go anyway? Talon gave you no combat experience. You had no reason to go.”

Harold bristles. “Siebren could have been in danger.”

“So could you.”

“Rather me than him.” Harold feels his face go flush with worry. He lowers his head. “Or anybody else for that matter," he quickly adds. "I know I’m living on borrowed time. I might as well give that time to someone who needs it.”

The stranger leans back in his chair, his posture casual but his eyes firm. Moira scribbles something. “We have reason to suspect Subject: 31 has been involved with Sigma in the past, Sanjay,” she tells him.

The stranger known as Sanjay smiles, as fake and plastic as the chair he sits upon. “So that’s what it is.” He turns to Harold. “Is this true?”

The realization dawns upon him far too late. He stands up from his seat, eyes wide. “This isn’t a psychological examination, this is an interrogation!”

“Sit down, please,” he orders.

In the darkness, a shadowy figure is disturbed from their place by the wall. The dark shine of a pair of shotguns stares back at Harold, crossed menacingly over the figure’s chest. In the back of his mind, Harold recognizes something about this person, but he doesn’t want to test his luck. He lets out a breath and slowly sits down, keeping his gaze firmly on Sanjay.

“Would you like me to repeat the question?”

“It’s fine,” Harold sighs. He glances at the section of the wall where the dark figure once stood, now gone without a trace, a dark whisper in the wind. He turns his head to Sanjay, his eyes still fixated on the wall. “…A long time ago, before the incident at Horizon One, we were…in a relationship.”

“Could you clarify?” Sanjay asks.

“Do I have to?”

“Only if you want to.”

Harold takes a quiet breath. “A romantic one,” he admits. “But that was only back then. Not anymore.” The words sting far more than any flesh wound.

“But you would say you are still close?”

“I think so. We are friends.”

“And you’re sure Subject Sigma—sorry, Dr. Siebren de Kuiper—” Sanjay says the name like it’s a foul aftertaste, “—you're sure he feels the same?”

His whole life has been built on him being observant and perceptive; he’d be a fool not to notice Siebren’s actions recently. He notices the secret little glances when Siebren thinks he’s not looking. He notices the soft smiles, sweet words desperate to escape a warbling throat. He notices the tender affection in Siebren’s touches, full of love and hesitation. He knows Siebren is falling for him again, but he doesn’t do anything about it. A part of him wants to be the one to capture Siebren’s heart all over again.

“I’m sure he does,” Harold says finally. As something more than friends, he wordlessly adds.

They ask him a few more basic questions about his stay, but everyone knows they won’t get anything out of him. He’s given a short debriefing, which is essentially an official reprimand for illegally accompanying Siebren on the mission. Fortunately, Moira has mercifully handwaved the incident away, not that Harold feels very fortunate. He really doesn’t want to owe anything to her.

He slowly stands up from his seat and is escorted out by Sanjay. In the middle of the hallway Siebren leans besides a wall, wearing a blue and black bodysuit that clings to his form. It’s athletic gear, Harold’s mind explains, even as his eyes inevitably trail downward. The bodysuit leaves very little to the imagination. It takes all of Harold’s willpower to keep his gaze level on Siebren’s face. 

“Did it go well, Harold?” Siebren asks expectantly.

He wants to say something, but Sanjay is next to him, and the door is still open behind him. Moira waits within the room, pen primed in her hand. Harold forces a smile. “Nothing special,” he lies. “Just a standard psych examination.”

Siebren smiles, none the wiser. “Good to hear. I’ll see you for dinner after, correct?”

Harold smiles back, faltering when he feels Sanjay’s presence beside him. He turned to him. “Could I have a word alone with Siebren? Just for a second.”

Sanjay gives a look to Moira, who only tilts her head. He nods slowly. “Take your time,” he says, before returning to the room, closing the door behind himself.

Siebren frowns when he sees the stern expression on Harold’s face. “What happened?”

“Don’t…” Harold pauses, before adding, in a whisper, “don’t tell them how I saved you on the mission. Just say you put your barrier out. I did nothing.”

“Harold, you want me to lie?”

“Please, trust me,” he pleads.

Siebren’s eyes search Harold’s, for what he doesn’t know. Answers, Harold guesses. Clarification, Harold hopes. Whatever Siebren sees, it’s enough to make him frown. “If you say so,” he whispers, patting Harold once on the shoulder before opening the door. He takes a step forward, pauses in the doorway, and looks over his shoulder. “Take care, Harold."

Harold lets out a breath he doesn’t even realise he’s holding, brushes his hands on his clothes, and heads for the elevator. He presses a button on the wall, waits for the door to close. His heart pumps wildly in his chest, not in excitement or love but in fear. Thinking back on the previous few minutes during the interview fills him with a deep feeling of dread, but even he could not point out what made him feel this way. 

 Harold waits patiently in his bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed, staring into his worn and wrinkled hands. He pulls the sleeve higher, gazing at the veins and arteries that runs down his arm. He flexes his arm, squeezes his fist tight, and watches as his blood vessels begin to glow. He stretches his hand out wide, shaking with effort, the glow dripping up his palm to his fingertips. He tries to maintain the light but the cold chill crawls under his skin as fatigue sets in. After three seconds, his arm drops limply to his side. He props his left arm up with the right and tries again and again to maintain it. With every attempt, his flesh loses a bit more colour. After the tenth attempt, he's forced to stop.

He asked Siebren to meet him here after dinner—to talk, he said. To tell the truth of his abilities and give some clarity for what happened that day, Harold wanted to say, but he feels the eyes on his back with every step he takes. It has to be here, where privacy is as assured as it can be.  

Maybe while he’s at it, he can tell Siebren that he knows how he feels about him. That he feels the same way. That maybe they can start their romance anew.

The time that they agreed upon came and went, and Siebren was nowhere to be seen. The clock ticks on and Harold can’t help but wonder what happened. Siebren is usually a punctual person, and always leaves a message of his whereabouts on the few occasions he is late. Impatient concern grew in his lungs. His mother’s words flutter in his mind. Yí r­­ì s­ān qi­­ū, she whispers to the wind. One day without him feels like three autumns. You miss him.

I love him, his own voice corrected. He’s surprised by the conviction in the tone, like it's an assured fact. A universal truth.

Half an hour later, the door slides open. Harold sits up expectantly, his heart leaping out of his chest. Siebren’s smile is soft and full of relief and breathtaking. Harold is ready to hold Siebren tight and kiss him fully on the lips, but he falters when the door opens fully to reveal the forms of Moira and Sanjay.

“Subject—Dr. Winston,” Moira corrects, “we’ve been looking at your scientific work, and after some discussion, I think we can offer you a full position in one of our sister organisations.”

Sanjay pulls a piece of paper from a folder and hands it for Harold to read. It’s a pamphlet for a shining metropolis. Young adults frolic about, carrying books and computers as they sit in the shade of a tree or walk by the many stone paths. They smile widely to the camera, the rest of their faces hidden behind intricate golden masks. The writing is all in Arabic, but he recognizes it to be a university. 

“The Ministries of Oasis have been looking for new scientists to join its legion. After seeing the research you two have been producing here both in the present and the past, I think you both shall be a good fit.”

“Both?” Harold asks.

Siebren smiles. “There is a position open for me at the Ministry of Physics. Who knew that Dr. O’Deorain is the Minister of Genetics for Oasis? How funny the world can be sometimes,” He chuckled. “I must say, I’ve always wanted to visit. And it certainly beats being holed up here, does it not?”

Harold cannot respond. Sanjay is staring at him intently with the kind of withering gaze that unravels weak men. He turns his head to Moira, forcing a polite smile on his face. “I'm afraid you have a misconception about my career. Though I also have a background in physics, my specialization is in biology and animal science.”

“The Ministry of Biology is also looking for new recruits. I believe you will work quite well there,” Moira states. “Of course, these positions I’m offering are not for free. You will have to compete with other scientists with equal pedigrees for these positions. It is highly competitive. I can give my recommendations to help you out, but the rest is up to your skills and intellect, and of course how well you do the interviews. But I can safely say you have a very good chance of getting in should you take this opportunity.”

“It sounds too good to be true, doesn't it?” Siebren smiles.

Harold cannot smile back. In the past he would leap at the opportunity, but he’s not blind to the world anymore. He sees the glimmer in Moira’s eyes, the tight jaw on Sanjay’s face, and knows they see something he doesn’t. They see the bigger picture, the grand scheme of things. Him and Siebren, they are just cogs in a machine, chess pieces in a game.

Every bit of self-preservation tells him to refuse but one glance at Siebren quells their reservations. If this really is danger, he won’t let Siebren go alone. He will protect Siebren however best he can, even if it means going into the belly of the beast. He’s spent a lifetime away from Siebren, and he can’t bear to be apart from him. Not again.

“A wonderful opportunity,” Harold says blankly. He turns to Moira. “Do I need to prepare anything for the trip?”

Moira smiles genuinely for once, her eyes crinkled with what appears to be amusement. 

It's not long before Moira and Sanjay finally leave. As soon as they’re gone, Harold shuts the door behind Siebren. He opens his mouth to say something, but Harold approaches him swiftly and holds him in a crushing hug. He feels Siebren stiffen for a few seconds before relaxing. Harold feels a hand trails tenderly over his upper back, mapping stars and constellations. His eyes flutter from the sensation.

“What’s with you, Harold?” Siebren asks, concerned. “Are you alright?”

Harold doesn’t respond. He just clutches tighter, burying his face into Siebren’s shoulder, inhaling that deep scent of sugar and pine nuts that clings onto Siebren’s clothes. As Siebren chuckles quietly, a ditty hummed under his breath, all Harold can think of is the strength of the arms holding him, safe and strong and warm.

Just this once he’ll be selfish, he tells himself, as he nuzzles into the junction between Siebren’s neck and shoulder and feels a lifetime of autumns shed their leaves beneath his feet.

[mundane-pleasures-are-best]

Just Another Day

Happy 8/1, Master!Isa AU world. Concept by @saixbosom on Twitter, continued from IsaXig fic by @thoughquaking . NSFW. Murderclown Norted!Axel warning.

Ships:AkuXem, heavily implied XigXem and Akusai.

Summary: Axel finds that if he can't keep his old friend out of his head after their recent encounter, then filling the time with nothing is the next best thing. Even if nothing is a pit of ego and zealous perfection.

The flame nobody knocked once before swinging open the door to Xemnas's office, not feigning the fear the others had for him when he entered and making his way to the large desk at the center of the room. The heart-shaped moon hung over, its rays spilling through the window and illuminating Xemnas poised at his desk. He was writing a list of possible missions for Xigbar to consider upon, even if the Freeshooter simply agreed without much fuss. Axel slapped his report down on the desk, skipping Xigbar in the chain of command due to a lack of respect for the aging nobody. The Superior's eyes didn't leave the paper he was working on until he was done, then he lifted the charred report and glanced at it, never once looking at Axel.

"Disappointing."

Newly-turned yellow eyes narrowed, a hiss threatening to escape his mouth and flames tickling at his fingers. He calmed himself considering the nobody might mean the results themselves, not his own abilities-

"Are you trying?"

Axel met the darker orange eyes of Xemnas and glared, the smell of sulfur briefly wafted off of him, a smell most members feared due to his impulsive nature and clicking fingers. He spit out, "No, I was having a party."

Xemnas hummed, crushing the report in one hand and tossing it into the trash. "Number VIII I am starting to believe you are incapable of producing results, has your mind been distracted lately? Do you not know of our true goal?"

The redhead bit his lip, so Xemnas was aware of Isa's pursuit of him and his missions sliding down on the scale of his priorities. If Isa was on the world he was sent to, he finished the mission quickly, even sloppily, and then left. It wasn't effective for the Organization but it kept him from wasting time talking to something used and broken, “I’m aware, you want a big fluffy glowing heart in the sky yeah?” He waved his hand in a goofy gesture, arms drawn out towards the window in a mockery of Xemnas on the roof. 

“Cute.” The deep voice was curt, not feeding into the anger Axel was trying to provoke. He was like an overgrown child, not able to play with his favorite toy and lashing out at everyone around him instead, pathetic, emotions only bred weakness, and Axel was swimming in them. 

Axel’s eyes narrowed, his nose crinkling, “Is that a compliment?”

Xemnas went back to the paperwork on his desk, ignoring Axel’s presence completely as he hummed to himself, trying to resist a smirk as he heard the snap, and the paper started to curl and char under the sudden flames, turning into ash within seconds, “You’re still here?”

“You’re right,” Axel swiped his hand and knocked objects off of his desk.

“Oh, I often am.”

“I was distracted, I am cute, and I am bored.” He reached a hand across the desk, his lanky arm gripping a silver bang and yanking the other’s head forward and up to meet his burning eyes, “and I can see you are bored too.” 

The tan nobody did not shift, not faltering in his expression of blank interest, nothing made a person who craved attention like Axel more angry than ignoring them completely. It was a little fact he had learned from Xigbar’s daily observations. It was also the reason why Axel hated Vexen with every fiber of his being. The scientist simply thought the flame nobody was below him in rank and intelligence, to be fair, Vexen wasn’t wrong to Xemnas’s knowledge. Axel was easily provoked, manipulated, encouraged, and led. He was a fox in the hen-house, overwhelmed with choices and his mind only leading him to utter destruction.

He hadn’t named him Flurry of the Dancing Flames for no reason after all, Axel was a flurry of wanton destruction that would leave everything in his path ash, even his friends. 

“Am I now? How do I seem bored, Number VIII?” Xemnas slowly rose out of his chair, making Axel have to strain against the other’s height and bulk to maintain his grip on the dangling silver bangs. Axel let go. 

With a quick lunge the assassin was over the desk and tackling Xemnas to the chair, he didn’t have enough weight to stun the larger male, but he did have enough surprise on his side to make Xemnas land on his ass on the chair and blink, “My, what a grave you are digging.” He chuckled despite himself, watching Axel’s eyebrows knit in confusion, Xemnas rarely laughed, and this one sounded chilling. 

“You know what? I think I’m going to dig it a little deeper.” Axel placed his hand on the leather chair, burning away a strip of leather then cooling it, when Xemnas opened his mouth to ask what he was doing now he shoved it in there and tied it behind his head. He made short work of burning the chair to bind his arms as he felt Xemnas kicking his legs to avoid the metal curling around the rest of his appendages. The ginger grinned like a cat, pleased at his work as he leveled his eyes with Xemnas, waiting for the nobody to make a move to counter him. But he didn’t, Xemnas just stared back at him, waiting. Then he raised both brows at Axel with a clear look of ‘And that’s all you got?’ 

Challenged by the look the redhead tugged at the other bang, “I have to ask, but Superior are you a virgin? I mean, I think you might not want me to pop that cherry first.” He waited in anticipation for the fear, but the other appeared even more bored. What the actual fuck was wrong with this man?

The Superior maintained a blank look, calming his body as he tried to feign disinterest, it took a person very familiar with him to see past the charade. He cocked his head in a mocking gesture at the other, watching flames flick from his loose hand as he began to melt away the zipper of his Organization coat, what a waste. Xemnas wondered how long it would take to find another replacement, they didn’t grow on trees. 

A sharp tug on the fabric and the chains fell loose, again Xemnas was aggravated as he watched the metal beads scatter. This better be worth it, or he would destroy the other himself, even if he made a good vessel. 

Axel took a moment to admire the toned abs and chiseled chest as he burned away sections of fabric and ripped the rest, scorching the other’s skin in places and making Xemnas bite on the leather between his teeth, “Well well, so you do go outside your office and do physical work, and here I thought you sit on your ass all day. Surprise Surpriiise.” He purred the last word, repeating it in a taunting way that made Xemnas raise a brow. Honestly what did these idiots think he did all day? Yes he was in the castle, or a split shadow of him was to keep them on their toes, he had other duties to a higher power than himself. 

The flame nobody ran a warm hand up the other man’s chest, watching the rise and fall quicken as Xemnas panted, his fingers poised over the dusky nipple; with a hard and very warm poke he began to twist one, rolling a thumb over it until it hardened, then leaned over him completely to nip at the other. A muffled noise gave him what he wanted, unbeknownst to him it was also exactly what Xemnas wanted. In a very simple game of reverse psychology he found that acting displeased with any action Axel did would make him do it more, giving Xemnas the pleasure he wanted. He wondered if Axel was always a terrible lover, or if he was simply too hard to read for normal people. Something to ponder later....

Axel bit down and amber eyes rolled in pleasure, a happy noise escaping him as he took a foot, his toes curling, and used it to kick at him, trying to remove the thin male from his immediate proximity. The ginger put an end to that immediately by gripping him firmly between the legs, his hand tightening in a display of power and control. It took all of Xemnas’s willpower not to moan in delight. It was so pleasant when someone knew he liked rough play and he didn’t need to state it, well, Axel was using it a threat, but it was the same difference.  

The younger male was smirking more, as he loosened and dropped the other’s pants, sliding down the boxers and gripping his length firmly in one hand. Axel chuckled, “So you’re superior in one aspect, it doesn’t really matter.” He slid his hand down to the shaft and back up, toying with the foreskin as he began to pump the organ as it rose due to stimulation. “I never thought you’d be uncut though, seems you can be surprising.” Xemnas closed his eyes, feeling the other’s hand mercilessly squeeze at his testicles to gain his attention back to him, “Ah ah ah, pay attention Number I, are you too distracted to perform your duties?” He smiled, mockingly repeating Xemnas’s own words back at him. His eyes were back on Axel as he watched him drop down his pants and boxers, not bothering with his shirt. Rude and disrespectful. 

Axel followed the disapproving gaze and chuckled, “You think you’re worth me getting completely naked for?” He lifted a leg to show the pants and boxers around his ankles and boots still on, “Please, you know we’re not going further with this. Why the act?” He reached for the gag and pulled it down, “Do you want me to kiss you too? Declare my nothing-love for your nothing-ass?” He looked up at Kingdom Hearts and grinned, “I do hope she enjoys the show.” 

Xemnas was less bothered by the display than Axel would know, he didn’t think love would be involved in a fuck, simply some level of logic. Eventually positions would change, and someone would move, and Axel would trip over his own damn clothes during the fucking. That would be humorous, and maybe that story would top some of Luxord’s drunken tales. 

The flame nobody started to melt the chair anew, letting the base sink to the floor as he melted the frame, moving Xemnas’ hands and legs apart in a conventional position of submission, one Xemnas disliked for the lack of class involved in such a move. The material quickly cooled and held him in place, as Xemnas sighed, “Are you going to do something or taunt me? Spare me your trivial threats and insults. I highly doubt you have the ability to maintain my stamina, given your pathetic shape and weight.” He smirked to himself, glad Axel couldn’t see it as he heard anger drive the rational side of the other’s brain out as the primal side took over, nails raked along his hips and sides, Xemnas bit down on his lip. There were bites on his back, the lips leaving a singe along his flesh, his panting now uncontrollable. He felt the other’s cock against his ass, warm but not as hot as his lips and fingertips, sweat starting to layer his skin as his body shuddered in anticipation. 

Axel’s voice was at his ear, purring now, “ H̱̣̭̗͑̇̂̾m̰̃m̟̫͠͠m͔͂,̬̋̃͢,̮̝͋͘,̠̇ .” The tone had changed, it cracked in the middle of a sentence or word and sounded jagged, unnatural. Xemnas was fond of it now, Axel rarely hit his breaking point. He bit the pointed tan ear, tugging as he started to grind his length between the other’s cheeks, moaning as he did, his nails in the other’s hips,  “͚͇̀͒Ÿ̩̣́̈ö̜̲̗̺̊̒͘u̬͈͊̕ ̮̑w̼͚͗̅oư̳̲̖͆̀͐͟l̥̹͍͒̍̿ď̛̹̜͎͊̍͜n͎̗̰͆͌͠’͎̠̰͊͛͞t̳̔ ̠̓h̦̓a̠̩̩̅̅̑p͕̞̼̝̏̏̄͘ṗ̤e̺̜͓͒͊͋n̥̓ t̢̧͓̮̠͗́̚͠͡o̳̯͌̂ ̧̧͖͈̖̏̈́̈́̃̚h̫̤̳͖̓̒̅̕ä̱̱́̑v̼̗̓̉è͎͓͂ ̛̦͕̋̂͟l̰̭͎̒͒͠û̢̮̟͈͔̆́̿̕b̩̜̑͛e ̤̓ŵ̺o͕̻̿͛u̧̅ld̗͓̀̓̈́͟͝ͅ ̠͙̔͘yo̞̮͖͈̍̅͛͘̕͢ṵ̧̑̀?̳͉̂͠”̜͍͖̗͂̔̄͐

The lanky male reached into the back of his own pants in a bunch against the floor and pulled out the liquid, “Guess we’ll just have to use m̸̙͔͎̞̝̤̀̾̍́͐͆̋̍i̴̧̧̗͉͙̯̣̫͔͗̃̃͛̈́͝ņ̷͈̱̰̗͚̫̝̟̽̅̍͆ḛ̴̖̫̯͍̿̈͛͠.” 

The Superior jumped a little at the cold liquid being applied with a warm finger, the sensation causing him to shiver as his hairs rose and a shiver ran up his spine, “How convenient. Almost as though you planned this.” 

The finger pushed inside and coated his insides, he tried not to squirm as he heard Axel chuckling in delight. 

There was a sudden uncomfortable sensation, as Axel pushed in without warning and Xemnas had to control his instinct to tense immediately, which would only result in pain for him and pleasure for the other. He relaxed his body, shifting what little he could with his hips and arching his back into the other nobody, hearing the pleased groan in response. When Axel began to pump faster he kept rocking his hips in opposite rhythm, feeling the annoyance building up from his subordinate as Axel grabbed his hair and pulled, using one arm to hold him down and his body weight to lean into him as he thrust harder and deeper, Xemnas trying to control himself from moaning with glee. Another yank on his hair and his eyes rolled, his fingers gripping the ground and jerking his hips back aggressively to receive the thrust. 

The redhead seemed to not expect that, pushing the older male’s face into the ground as he fucked him harder, steam rising from his back as burn marks appeared on Xemnas’s sides, another hard bite at his throat and he felt it, the intense burning of another sort as his climax blurred his vision and attention. Xemnas gave up the charade, placing his hands down flat and rocking back as hard as he could, challenging the other male as Axel decided to fully dick him down as flat as possible, ignoring his Superior’s throbbing erection and leaving it it unwanted in the stagnant air, his thrusts becoming maddening as he too felt the tightening in his gut and the impending end. One more hard thrust and Xemnas cried out, no names just a guttural moan, and Axel slammed against him, burying himself balls deep as he came, shivering in delight as he imagined another burned form below him, breaking the pale form and pulverizing his insides with fertile seed. 

Axel panted, Xemnas had made a mess on the ground and he was going soft, pulling out and looking at the sweaty form with a mild look of disgust mixed with pride. 

It was a fuck, nothing more. He stood, tripping over his tangled clothes and gripping the desk for balance, yanking his boxers and pants up, tugging his cloak on as he gave Xemnas a curt wave before disappearing into a portal. 

The Superior caught his breath when he heard the portal close, letting his knees sink as he used his thorns to bend and break the chair to free him. He reached for some of his tattered clothing and wiped himself off, looking at the burn wounds with a sigh. He began the tiring work of a Curaga spell and sat there waiting before he was restored. A mild limp, more than he expected but less than he had received from previous lovers. He stretched one leg then the next as he rose, yawning a bit as he summoned a dark corridor to his bedroom and warded off the office, having dusks clean up the mess. 

----

The dark corridor to his room closed and Xemnas moved under the covers of the bedspread, feeling the crisp sheets against his sweat-covered body and shuddering. He heard a snap, and two feet landing beside the bed with a predictable soft tap. The Superior flipped over the covers as he watched one boot then another get tugged off before the cloak was left on the ground next to the bed.

"Now look at you having fun, I thought we weren't allowed to play with the other vessels?"

The Freeshooter slipped under the covers in his boxers, stretching in the king-size bed without touching the other man, their familiarity unseen in the quiet room. Xemnas looked over, watching in an amused way as Xigbar unfastened his ponytail and shook his hair loose with his hand.

"That was never an explicit rule, now was it?" The taller male started to sink into the pillows and yawned. His nose crinkled when the sniper shoved two fingers under his nose and the distinct smell of arousal filled his nostrils. Xemnas looked the other male in the eye and sighed, "Wash your hands II, you know basic manners, don't you?"

Xigbar wiggled the fingers once more before laughing, rolling out of the bed and going to the bathroom to wash his hands. He returned with the dramatic flourish of the accompanied bathroom door whipping open and doing a bow, "Aren't you proud of me Boss?" He waved his hand and smirked, "Little Master was quite the vocal one, if you catch my-"

"So you managed to 'get' the Master to our side? I do not see him. And you wouldn't be here if the arrangement had been mutual, now would you?" The amber eyes twinkled in amusement, the implication that Xigbar had been pleasuring the blue-haired keyblade master and not the other way around. The Freeshooter sneered at him, looking at the other’s still healing form with a condescending look.

"And you?"

Xemnas blinked slowly, the way a cat does when it's pleased, "I got what I wanted, I never try to play with my food too much or it grows stale. If you continue this little game of yours with him, we might not have the future vessel that was promised. Do not be dependent on the whims of a lonely man desperately clinging to the fantasy of a friend and lover long past."

As long-winded as usual Xigbar snorted, "Thanks Mom." He placed his hands on scarred hips and looked at Xemnas for a moment. The Superior always seemed to radiate during the afterglow, maybe due to its rare occurrence and unbridled pleasure that joined it. He felt something, jealousy? No. Their relationship, if one could call it that, was wide open. It was the instinctual urge to claim and mark over the ginger's lingering presence on the other. This was twice now Axel had been the focus of attention. He was a little disappointed Xemnas hadn't shared, but he was greedy, and Xigbar had found that out firsthand.

"Is he close to being ours?"

The older male scratched his neck and stretched his back, "No, not unless we let Flamesilocks dangle in front of him again." Their disgustingly needy dynamic let a bad taste in his mouth, thankfully he had washed out his mouth in the bathroom. He tried to forget the name moaned that was not his, his eye flicked back to Xemnas watching him, his amusement heightening when he smelled the weakness permeating from his second.

"I see. Didn't go as you had hoped, now did it?"

He waved his hands dismissively, "Whatever." He crawled back under the covers and leaned on the other's muscled arm, his toes seeking out the warmth of the other's, chuckling again when he heard Xemnas make a displeased noise at the cold digits touching his own. Xemnas wrapped the arm around him, shifting as he burrowed his head under the sniper's chin, no one but Xigbar aware or having experienced this side of him. The need for affection saved only for the other, but usually only after a heated session before in the other's office.

"Now now Kitten, you didn't think I had replaced you huh?" He raked his fingers through thick silver hair, almost envious of how soft it was despite everything.

"I cannot be replaced, so no, I did not think a needy virgin could compare." Xigbar smirked, the other's confidence was infectious and somewhat flattering, if only for the fact he had sole access to the nobody over everyone else. He waved away a few sniper nobodies gathered in the corners, noting the sorcerer nobodies’s lack of movement without a direct order from their leader, it was funny to him how Xemnas kept those worshiping things so close to him. Only things he trusted ended up being around him while he slept. He watched the other's chest rise slowly and fall as he drifted off, working an arm loose of the other's weight to hook around the wide chest.

The Freeshooter looked out at the glowing moon, contemplating why exactly Xemnas was stupid enough to let him be that close. Or maybe that was it, the empty vessel next to him acknowledging his rank amongst them and lacking the true ability to fear the unknown thought process of his partner and second. Perhaps, although he knew this thought might be pushing even the largest of assumptions about Xemnas's intelligence, but perhaps Xemnas was aware of everything and simply ignored it, feigning stupidity to convince even himself of his own worth in the grand scheme.

[quatschmachen]

Reconcile

This follows Deliverance.

1980s fic. Masterpost.

XXXXX

“Étienne.”

“Édouard!!!” his name had become a whoop as Étienne forcefully pulled himself up onto the table, his boot thunking onto the heavy wood tabletop. With a feline like grace he stood and took the two direct steps across it to Edward, crouched down, looked him directly in the eye. His eyes had a slightly manic light to them as he leant forward and cupped Edward’s face; he studied the man intently, almost as if he half expected it not to actually be him. Étienne’s hands were warm, pressing into Edward’s cool cheeks a little too firmly.

“It is you!” He turned to his group of friends, “I’VE FOUND HIM!” who in turn cheered. With little to no grace, Étienne slid off the table and onto Edward’s lap, his bony ass digging into Edward’s thigh, with a plop. Back pressed into Edward’s side, sitting sideways, legs slightly sticking out from the booth, Edward instinctively wrapped his arm around the man’s tiny waist, feeling how his bones prominently pressed into him.

Turning back to Edward he began to excitedly babble, his words almost not processing in Edward’s daze as he was still trying to catch up on finding Étienne again. “I saw you were having a lot of fun with Albert at the orgy --- how was it? I assumed you left with him, and you know how it goes, figured I too would have fun,” Étienne cast a glance at a handsome fellow sitting across from them, “Gregoire is quite an ample lover, spent the rest of the night and morning at his place, I strongly suggest him as a good fuck if you wanted to try. Hung like a horse and knows what to do with his mouth.”

Tuning in more, Edward frowned slightly, “You left the orgy?”

“Of course, why not?” Étienne laughed, “You know how to take care of yourself, you had disappeared as well… might as well have fun while we’re still young right?”

Looking at his sharp profile, Edward felt a torrent of emotions swirling inside of him, the questions heatedly bubbling inside. If he waited too long, he felt like all the words would get sucked down into the watery grave of Charybdis, the yapping dogs of Scylla in the distance echoing all the words he should have said. Words like ‘why did you leave me’ seemed insufficient. He had planned to yell at Étienne, to ask him why, to question the abandonment. A part of him wanted to make Étienne feel just as shitty as he had felt over the past 12 hours or so. Another part of him cautioned that if he were to act like the stroppy boyfriend now, Étienne would never invite him again. Étienne did not want someone who wanted to hold him accountable, and Edward was terrified if he let the other man know how upset he really was, his entire heart would be laid open, beating in the cold night air, steam rising with each thud,  thud, thud, only to be scraped raw by the snowplough of Étienne’s indifference, covering the raw bleeding organ with the dirty icy shards of the road, the salt burning holes into nothing would be left.

Suppressing his boiling feelings, realizing that even if he were to bring it up, ask about the abandonment, it wouldn’t matter. Étienne had simply assumed he had gone off to have his own fun, a situation that was not out of the norm. Étienne was not his keeper, lover, or parent. Simply a friend. An old friend. One who seemed to think that Edward Augustus Murphy had enough suaveness to pull off getting taken home by some dude whom he only had indistinct memories of. The green in Étienne’s eyes caught in the changing club lights, easy to see as the other man was not wearing his glasses, and Edward realized how absolutely tired he looked. If Étienne opened up a couture shop, he could sell the bags out from under his eyes. His cheeks were pale, and his body was trembling with drugs.

“Yeah you’re right,” Edward managed to grin, his gaze lingering on Gregoire in what he hoped could be read as desire and not him wanting to simply tear the man apart. Good time, huh? Étienne looked like shit. Once he was certain he could have his emotions under control, he nuzzled Étienne’s neck, feeling the man shudder, as he murmured, “Don’t want to be a drag, but do you have anything to give me a really good buzz? My coke’s wearing off…”

“You’ve asked exactly the right person,” Étienne purred.

XXXX

In between here and there was simply sensations; the light on skin, the salted taste of a kiss, the ache in the calves from dancing, and a warm hand on his ass. The room of the club seemed to expand and contract, becoming a space of echoing noise where whatever was spoken was lost in the fray. Edward found himself out on the street calf-deep in the continually falling snow, dragging the scarf tighter around his neck. Étienne was next to him, humming some tune that was so out of date Edward could remember how to play the fiddle to it.

“Do you think we should cab it or walk?” Edward slurred, as Étienne finally seemed to focus back on him.

“Seeing as we do not have the devil around to make any deals with to fly home, I suppose a cab would be best,” Étienne stated, as he started humming again, the tune infectious. Edward found himself humming along, until at some point, neither of them knew when, they were singing the lyrics, arms linking, partially to be steady and partially for warmth.

Étienne’s voice abruptly trailed off as he flagged down a cab. Clambering into it, Étienne gave his address, and the vehicle after a moment started slowly down the snowy street.

If his brain was functioning properly Edward would have rebelled against Étienne’s arm continuing to be linked in his, inside the cramped space of the cab, but with the snow falling, the radio inside the nicotine interior of the cab softly playing, and the smoke curling from the cabbie’s cigarette, he found himself not caring.  He shifted his fogged-up glasses, irritated at the condensation, knowing that if he were to rub them it would only leave a smear, so he compromised by moving them to the top of his head, leaving the world with the soft edges of his imperfect sight. This was nice, this moment in between, where he could let his brain go blank as he looked out to the moving city, the lights twinkling in the distance, the other vehicles of the night moving past. In the distance the mountain loomed, dark enveloped in the snowy cover, the top hidden by heavy clouds and the inevitable invisibility given by the fat flakes falling out of the sky.  Glass cold against his cheek, Edward could feel Étienne shift, head resting on his shoulder, his body going loose in sleep. Tilting his glasses down, Edward looked down at the man, the vision still slightly hindered by the condensation, but he could see enough. Enough to look back out the window, until finally they pulled into smaller twining streets, where the houses connected and whose metal staircases spiraled up, icy steps of death, beautiful in the falling snowlight.

Paying the fare, Edward roused Étienne. Getting out of the vehicle was the awkward dance of trying to open the door being unable to due to the giant snow mound, the cabbie having to pull off more to the middle of the road, opening the door again, and setting foot down into more snow. Étienne had perked up at the freezing cold air, stepping out onto the road, scolding Edward for paying, and then with balance that shocked Edward, leaping over the snow pile, and then letting out a shriek of surprise as the snow puffed up his pants.

Laughing, Edward more carefully crossed the snow mound, enjoying the string of swears issuing from the other man.

Étienne scowled at him and with inhuman speed bent and threw a spray of snow at Edward, letting out a laugh as it hit him in the face.

“Hey!”

Étienne was already trying to quickly move through the snow towards the door as Edward bent and picked up the snow, knowing it was not the right type of snow to be formed into a snowball, but trying anyways. With a disappointing puff it missed Étienne by a wide margin.

Spurred on by the other man’s taunting laugh, Edward hurtled through the snow, and tackled him into the nearest snow mound, Étienne shrieking in surprise and laughter, the actions knocking Edward’s glasses askew, as they each began to pile snow into every open crevice possible, wrestling and rolling, the snow falling down the exposed necks, and shifting up the untucked pant legs. Washing Étienne’s face in the snow, Edward gave an ‘oof’ of surprise as Étienne flipped him, returning the favour.  Squirming and trying to escape each movement managing to get more snow up and down his jacket, he finally pleaded defeat.

With triumph Étienne let him go and flumped on his back onto the snow beside him grinning. “You should know better than to even challenge me.”

Raising his eyebrows at that, Edward shifted and swiftly jammed a large fistful of snow up Étienne’s jacket, aiming perfectly to not only get it under the jacket but under the man’s shirt.

Shrieking bloody murder, Étienne struggled, his sounds of protests turning into rather hysterical laughter, which Edward answered, as their frozen red hands continued to try to smother the other in snow, until finally, exhausted they lay there tangled, Étienne’s curls tickling Edward’s nose, the only sound an occasional bubble of laughter.

“My god I can’t feel my hands… or my face,” Edward murmured.

“I think my entire ass has frozen off,” Étienne replied.

“We should probably move.”

“Are we physically capable of such a feat?”

Edward attempted to shrug, and then, with a groan, managed to lift himself up. “We are capable of anything if it means I can pee without freezing my dick off.”

“That is the most common-sense thing I’ve heard all week,” Étienne responded as he sat up, and then made grabby hands at Edward to help him up.

Managing to pull the other man up and not entirely losing his balance, Edward leant on Étienne as they made it the few final steps to the man’s front door.

Struggling with the key, Edward helped steady Étienne’s arm to get the key into the lock. Together they unlocked the front door and pushed inside the warm habitation.

Edward’s glasses immediately fogged up as the door shut behind them. Stomping and knocking the snow off his boots, he began to undo the zipper of his jacket, his cold fingers not easily following his commands.

“Let me help,” Étienne’s hands somehow were slightly warmer, and together they unzipped his jacket.

There was a silence, one which Edward was not sure how to interpret, he could barely see the frown on Étienne’s face through the tiny defogged portion of his glasses.

“Edward… why are you wearing two jackets?”

“Hm?” Looking down he frowned, lifted his glasses so he could see, squinted.  “Where did my jacket come from? Why am I wearing it?”

Étienne’s fingers had grabbed onto what was visible of the grey wool jacket, “You’re wearing one of my jackets! How? What?” “Well I stopped by today and got a jacket because I lost my jacket, but you haven’t explained why I’m managing to wear both of them?”

“Shit, it was dark in the bar and I gave you your jacket and you put it on…”

Edward attempted to think back to the bar, it was simply a blending of situations, where at some point the two of them had decided to leave, getting the jacket from the check, and then simply taking the jacket Étienne handed him, actions he hadn’t even thought about, his mind swimming with alcohol and drugs, simply accepting things without question.

“But how…”

“Because I had it?”

“How the hell did you have my jacket? I thought I’d lost it.”

“I had it. If I had it, I would find you again,” came the simple answer. “How did you get into my place? What happened to Albert?”

“Oh y’know I woke up and wanted to go back to your place so I did… Élyse was here…” Edward avoided Étienne’s probing gaze as he continued to undress, “It worked out.”

Shrugging off his jacket he hung it on the hook, his cold fingers grasping at the buttons of the other one.

“Hm. Good thing Élyse was here…” Étienne made a low hmming sound as if he was trying to think of something, “I should see if I have a spare key for next time in case we get separated again, I don’t want your ass frozen to my front step.”

“Yeah I s’pose,” Edward yawned as he struggled to get out of the second jacket. Étienne helped him out, and then finally hung that one up.

As they finished undressing, Étienne kept frowning slightly, as if the words he had said weren’t the ones on his mind, and as Edward moved out away from the front, he wondered if he should bother asking. Sometimes with Étienne it was better to leave things unsaid.

[novantinuum]

From Gallifrey, With Love

Fandom: Doctor Who, 11th Doctor era

Rating: K

Words: 3100~

Story Summary: The Doctor genuinely didn't expect to leave Trenzalore alive, that long night. Doctor's POV of the clocktower regeneration + missing scene.

It's hard to find any fics that go into much detail about regeneration and that's a shame really, because I love weird alien biology stuff like that. So I got really indulgent and wrote one myself.

Far above the clock tower, the Dalek flagship hung in the lower atmosphere like a hunter crouching in the brush, waiting for its prey to die.

“Sorry I’m a bit slow,” the Doctor said as he hobbled up the last of the stairs, clinging to the railing like a lifeline. His right knee protested, having not exerted this much effort in a very long while. “I may not be at my best right now.”

Drones identical to those he remembered from the Time War whizzed around the tower in an endless threatening display of might. They fired upon the small town as he watched, powerless to stop them, decimating homes and shops and gardens in a blaze of ash and smoke. Screams cut through the night. They sliced directly into his weakening hearts, already beating slower with every day. His body was shutting down, and he genuinely didn’t know if it was due to age or guilt. He leaned into his cane as he lowered himself onto the chair he’d placed up here years back.

“You are dying, Doctor!” one of the Daleks broadcasting from the flagship proclaimed, as if he didn’t intimately know that fact already.

He grimaced as a dull spike of pain radiated up his thigh from his other knee, from where the rest of his leg had been severed centuries earlier. “Yes, I’m dying. You’ve been trying to kill me for centuries, and here I am,” he declared, voice dripping in cynicism, “dying of old age. If you want something done, do it yourself.”

“You will die, and the Time Lords will never return.”

A younger man might have rolled his eyes at this. Daleks, they never ceased to state the obvious, now did they? He almost felt disappointed that they hadn’t killed him yet. “You still can’t work up the courage to shoot me, can you?” he mumbled, growing louder with every word. “You’re still worried I’ve got something up my sleeve!”

For once, his arch enemies restrained themselves to silence, taunting him by cutting circles around the tower. He huffed, dropping his head in failure.

“Well, you knock yourselves out, boys. I’ve got nothing this time.”

The Doctor sniffled, despite himself, and prepared for the end. Below, children were crying. Wailing. The sound of gunfire split through his ears, a gift from the last remnants of the resistance. Explosions rang in response as the Daleks ruthlessly attacked the populace. He aimed to die, the last time he was caught in a war with an impossible end. Perhaps in some twisted, poetic way, he’d finally gotten what he wanted. At least this time around he wouldn’t die committing double genocide.

He thought of Clara, standing somewhere below. Probably outside, because she was never one to do as he told. He sighed heavily. At least this time, if he had to die, he wouldn’t die alone.

All fell to silence, beyond the Daleks’ fury. The universe beyond their stars, holding her breath. And then… a roaring clamor as loud as thunder split the skies of Christmas in two. His hearts seized as he whirled around to look, to seek out the source of this disruption.

Impossible...

His eyes blew wide. Far above this petty skirmish, the crack in time opened its gaping maw. He squinted in confusion, knowing this was the Time Lords’ doing, but not knowing why. Why would they risk their safety now by revealing themselves after over 900 years of trying to quietly wait this threat out? Stupid, stupid! He didn’t spend all his lives working to save Gallifrey for them to all but commit suicide!

Admittedly his sight was far from adequate these days, but he could swear he saw something emerging from between the milky white light of the crack, something tangible. Something… gold and fine as silk, and gliding straight towards him. He didn’t dare move. His joints locked in place, he watched it advance with a sort of mesmerizing wonder, watched with eyes nearly crossed as it passed between his lips. It settled within him much like the warmth of a satisfying supper, much like— oh. Oh. The Doctor knew then in his hearts exactly what this offering was, even if he still couldn’t explain to himself why.

He splayed out his hands in front of him. His double heart rate increased as that hauntingly familiar golden glow spread through his varicose veins, excess energy wafting like dust off his skin, the telltale sign of impending regeneration. But this was impossible, absolutely impossible. He was dead, he saw his grave, he was—

“You will die now, Doctor. This is the end of you!” the Daleks above taunted.

—he wasn’t going to die today. The realization hit him with a bit more numbed shock than he anticipated, nearly knocking the breath right out of him. When had he grown so complacent in his supposed destiny that he’d forgotten how to hope? He slowly rotated his wrist in front of his face, feeling the Time Lords’ miraculous gift resurrecting him moment by moment.

“The rules of regeneration are known. You have expended all your lives!”

It was making him more than a little giddy, coursing through his tired body like a maelstrom of lifeblood. Suddenly he could stand without pain radiating in his joints, without his remaining leg weakening under strain of supporting his full body weight. He could think without his mind growing cloudy and distant, lost amongst centuries of stagnant memory.

“Sorry, what did you say?” he said, rising to his feet once more. “Did you mention the rules? Now, listen. Bit of advice! Tell me the truth if you think you know it, lay down the law if you’re feeling brave, but! Daleks never,” he punctuated his words with a tap of his cane, “ever tell me the rules!”

He lifted his closed fist, still grasping the cane, back to the sky, allowing his enemy to see the impossible golden energy brimming under his skin. Below, the clock struck twelve, its bell tolling the first chimes of midnight.

The hoard of insolent metal drones seemed to swell in panic, picking up speed as they buzzed about the town. “Emergency! Emergency! The Doctor is regenerating, the Doctor is regenerating!”

“Oh, look at this! Regeneration number thirteen,” he exclaimed, swinging his cane as he gaily traipsed atop the platform. “We’re breaking some serious science here, boys! I tell you what, it’s gonna be a whopper, ho ho!”

“Exterminate, exterminate the Doctor!”

He paused for breath, for a moment drinking in the scene, drinking in his surroundings. The Dalek force reduced to pleading desperation, pathetic creatures, and not even one brave enough to face one ancient, solitary Time Lord. His body, surging with a fresh-from-Gallifrey cocktail of power he hadn’t felt washing over him in a thousand some odd years. These were impossible circumstances, but the first impossible he’d played company to for over half a lifetime.

“You think you can stop me now, Daleks? If you want my life,” he bellowed, and threw his arms outwards, letting his cane drop from old, weathered hands, hands that glistened mischievously with the light of renewal. “Ha, ha! Come! And! Get it!”

He sucked one final breath between his chapped lips. Digging his feet— both flesh and prosthetic— into the dense concrete of the clock tower’s platform, he willed the dam to burst. This time, however, he wouldn’t allow the explosive mixture of hormones and artron energy running rampant through his veins to progress on automatic, oh, no, no, no. The Daleks were still advancing, faced with the prospect of a regenerating Time Lord in the middle of their battlefield, which— so shoot him, it couldn’t be helped!— one should never do in any circumstances if they valued their continued existence. His one advantage? They still expected a standard regeneration. Instead, he was about to do something far, far worse. He clenched his fists in solid determination.

The Doctor swung his right arm in a fast, wide arc as if fancying himself an air guitarist, mentally willing the energy pooling under his skin to surge towards his extremities. He partially let go, shooting his fingers outwards and allowing the golden light to surge outwards in a dense, fiery fury. His teeth clenched together so hard they ached as he desperately attempted to channel this wayward energy through the ashy sky, directly at an advancing Dalek drone. It didn’t take more than a split second for the strike to hit, instantly reducing the rust-gold drone to burning shrapnel plummeting towards the shingles below. Emboldened laugher bubbled up within his chest despite everything else, despite the mortal danger of this whole scenario.

He’d seen other Time Lords carry out this sort of weaponized regeneration before, of course. On the front lines of the Time War, in the heat of battle, there was often no alternative but to regenerate out in the open, under fire. In such a scenario, one could theoretically push their regeneration to become dangerously explosive, and in doing so neutralize advancing enemies while healing oneself. It was a risk, though, oh golly was it a risk. A very grave one. He himself had never needed to take it, always lucky enough to drag himself to the TARDIS or another safe place before finally succumbing to death. Stubborn, stubborn man he was. But even a thousand years past the War, memories of young Time Lords regenerating in the open only to be gunned down dead by Dalek fire in the middle of it still haunted him. Only luck would keep him from facing the same fate. Well, luck and the fact that this was no ordinary regeneration in the first place.

Hearing the whiny approach of another small Dalek craft to his left, he threw his other arm to the wind, using his fingertips as a sight as he willed the energy buzzing with an almost electric tang in his veins to burst forth. It flowed off of him in violent waves, dense droplets of gold spilling from his hands almost like liquid. Another direct hit. His eye tracked the descent of the burning Dalek shell to the square of the war ravaged town below. Time seemed to creep at a maudlin pace as he drank in the scene one last time. One last time, with these old eyes. The townsfolk were screaming in panic, advancing to any shelter they could find amidst the chaos. And amongst the faces, dozens upon dozens of faces he knew he’d seen every day for decades but had failed to remember in his advanced age, there was one he knew he could never forget. One woman who would always keep a tight hold on his hearts, for all the sacrifices she’d sewn through the threads of his time stream. Her hair pooled around her face in smooth ribbons as she yelled for the others to take shelter. His focus jittered at the sight of her, regeneration almost tussling conscious control from him.

Clara.

He— his breath hitched, and his nerves tingled as he wrestled to retain restraint— he couldn’t, no, no, no, not yet. He had to give her a few more seconds. A few more seconds to lead the rest of the children inside, before he let go completely. Wise, clever Clara, of course she’d understand what he was about to do. Daleks whizzed in circles in an endless gamble, none daring to cross too close in the wake of the power threatening them should they edge just a few meters more towards the clock tower. Once more, giddiness over the sheer impossibility of this scenario hit him with a vengeance, teasing his mouth into a devilish grin. He laughed without abandon, arms spread wide in the fires of renewal.

Echoing far above the roar of regeneration and the chaos of the Dalek hoard he head the front door of the church slam shut. Time enough to let go.

“Love from Gallifrey, boys!” the Doctor proclaimed at his lifelong foes, voice steeped in contempt. He swung his arms and hands inwards, folding into himself, and then gave up his last shred of conscious control.

From there, caught in the throes of biological process, his memory of what happened was a bit sketchy. He recalled surrendering himself to regeneration, feeling every cell in his body flooded with the explosive mix of hormones and artron energy all at once. A peculiar tingle ran from his left knee down, as he regrew a limb he’d learned to live without for centuries now. Somewhere along the line, he must have gnashed his teeth together.

The burning intensified. The Doctor could feel new hair follicles growing from atop his scalp, muscles tightening and regaining strength. And then, as unexpectedly quick as this limit breaking regeneration had emerged from the crack, the energy bathing him in an ethereal glow of gold and orange grew thin and dissipated into the night. He stumbled backwards, nearly blacking out from the repressed shock of all that had just happened.

When he finally came back to himself, to the world at large, he was met by smoke, and rubble, and… confusion. His ears rang, a high pitched whine that threatened to snap the last threads of cognitive thought currently cartwheeling through his mind in free fall. But no matter to that, no matter to the state of his own physical condition— somehow he’d blown the entire roof of the bell tower to smithereens with the sheer destructive force of his regeneration! A small part of him— the part not currently fussing over the shrapnel from the Dalek craft that was still plummeting from the sky, impaling roofs and making a disastrous mess of the streets— silently thanked the stars that he hadn’t regenerated inside the TARDIS for once. She’d likely never forgive him.

Speaking of the TARDIS…

His hearts seized as he nervously eyed the wreckage of the buildings around him and desperately tried not to imagine his old girl in the same state. Tough as she is, even she wasn’t fully immune to shocks as rife as that. Far past thinking first and acting later at this point in his life, he climbed over what was left of the stone balcony and lowered himself to the roof. He needed to check on his ship, to ensure she was all right. He slid down the shingles, as delicately as one could. When he reached the lowest point of the eave, he ground his heels to slow himself down, and then slung himself over the edge, dangling only a measly few meters in the air.

He let out a shallow huff as he dropped to the ground, distantly acknowledging with a jolt of surprise that the timbre of his voice was the same, that his hands were smooth but his body was the same— centuries younger, but the same. Absolutely identical. What was up with that, hmm? Why hadn’t he changed? He carded his fingers through thick locks of hair, no longer scarce and paper thin. Was it because this was the start of a brand new cycle? Whole new set of regenerations, a whole new set of silly Doctors? Set… A reset. Brow creasing, he brought his hands in front his face, flexing his digits as gold dusted his skin. He swallowed hard, trying his best not to feel a rush of disappointment over this revelation. So that’s what it was, what all this must be. Not a get out of jail free card. Not a bargain. A good old fashioned factory reset.

The Doctor skirted to a stop in front of his TARDIS, reaching out with a shaky hand. He inhaled, deep. Pressed his palm to the blue stained wood. She thrummed under his touch, reassuring him. Not damaged. A tough girl, see, exactly like he said. Well, like he thought. But then, he’s always getting those two mixed up.

“How ‘bout it?” he whispered, gently stroking her outer shell, affectionately, reverently. “Time for our last hurrah, eh?”

He reached for the cord strung around his neck and pulled it free, slotting its key into his ship’s lock. The door swung open. Her engines hummed in a baleful sigh as he crossed the threshold, recognizing the presence of artron energy within his system. He felt her presence brush against his mind. A delicate whisper. What might she say if she could talk, he wondered? They’d talked once before, hadn’t they? Long time ago...

Both feet inside the TARDIS. A gasp for breath, as if awakening from an impossible dream. Over nine hundred years, taking the slow path on the same demure planet, growing old, growing frail. God, how he’d missed this— the promise of tomorrow, a doorway to all of time and space. He glanced back once, only once, at the ruin he’d brought to the town called Christmas. He never looked back. Almost never. The Doctor, weary warrior, let the image of this place burn itself into his mind so that he’d never forget it. Not ever. Not for a second. His parting burden was that he would always remember those days, each battle, the full weight of his struggle. The reason he did it, the reason he stayed for years and years and never gave in, not even if it killed him… the trusting smiles of the children he failed to save, the keening sobs of villagers who’d suffered losses far beyond what any of them deserved...

Because sometimes, on his very good days…

Everyone lived their lives, and they were all happy. And after what he’d done today, they’d be able to live those silly little lives for as long as they pleased.

His fingers trailed across the inner door frame, twitching to slam shut the doors and whisk himself into the greater cosmos. A soft hum from his old girl reminded him of why he had to wait, just this once.

“Clara,” he breathed, peering at the church the townsfolk hadn’t dared emerge from yet. She’d be the first to dash into the square, to search for him. His impossible girl, still looking out for him centuries later. “My Clara…”

Suddenly he gasped, clenching his teeth to ride off a wave of discomfort rippling through his body. His hands flared with gold, the shimmering energy wafting off his skin.

“One last bow,” he murmured, exhaustion catching up with him again. Didn’t have long. Not long, before—

He opened the cabinet housing the phone on the TARDIS’ exterior and dialed her mobile. If he could only hear her voice, one last time with these ears, then-

The Doctor pulled the corded phone through the doors, shut his eyes as it rang through, and waited.

[goforwardgreenwriter-blog]

The Worm Reads: Empire of Storms, Ch 32 - 33

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Aedion had been up half the night, debating the merits of every possible place to meet his father.

I am such a sucker for good parent/child relationships in fiction (extra bonus points if it’s adopted parents/child relationship) but honestly Assdion needs to stay the fuck away.

Beforehand Assdion put Lysandra to bet after she shifted back from some other form.

[Aedion] flipped back the crisp cotton sheets with one hand and then laid [Lysandra] down, her once-again long hair covering her high, firm breasts. So much smaller than the ones he’d first seen her with. He didn’t care what size they were—they were beautiful in both forms.

Uhhh does SJM not get how creepy this sounds? Lysandra is asleep and Aedion is staring at her boobs thinking about how beautiful they are?? God damnit SJM just stick to erotica if your characters are gonna be horny 24/7.

Lysandra made [Aedion] change out of his dirty travel clothes, barged into Aelin and Rowan’s room wearing no more than her own bedsheet, and took whatever she wanted from the Fae Prince’s armoire. Aelin’s barked Get out! was likely heard from across the bay, and Lysandra was smirking with feline wickedness as she returned, chucking the green jacket and pants at him.

This sounds like the beginning of a college fic where all the characters live in the same dorm. Not a fucking epic fantasy series constantly compared to LOTR. Tolkien must be rolling in his grave.

Dorian stirred, a cool breeze fluttering in as if his magic awoke as well, squinted at them both, then at the clock atop the mantel.

WHAT. Is this a medieval settings or not? The characters all use swords and bow and arrows and there’s hints of medieval Britain monarchies everywhere but the characters have clocks? What is this word building?

Gods, the females in his court ate more than [Aedion] did.

This is prompted after Lysandra eats breakfast. After we have already been told she burns a lot of energy with her shape shifting. Go fuck yourself, Assdion.

Aedion opened the door, finding the cadre precisely where he’d guessed they’d be at this hour: eating breakfast in the taproom. The two males halted as they entered. And Aedion’s eyes went right to the golden-haired man—one of two, but … there was no denying which one was … his.

I am actually so stressed. Either A) Aedion is gonna act like a dick to his poor father and be treated as right for it, or B) SJM is gonna turn Gav into a dick just so Aedion can angst over his daddy issues. Place your bets, folks.

“You look … ,” Gavriel breathed, sinking into his chair. “You look so much like her [Aedion’s mom].”

HHHHH SJM STOP I HATE THIS SHITTY BOOK AND ASSDION I DON’T WANT THESE FEELS....

“They could have cured [mama Aedion] in the Fae compounds, but she wouldn’t go near them, wouldn’t let them come for fear of Maeve”—[Aedion] spat the name—“knowing I existed. For fear I’d be enslaved to her as you were.”

I wish Assdion’s mom could’ve been a character, but nope, gotta kill off potentially awesome characters for the sake of main character pain. I know that’s just a thing that happens in 95% of stories at this point, but SJM literally only brings these dead characters up once or twice and it has no other impact on her main characters or the plot.

“I’m sorry,” his father said, those Lion’s eyes full of such grief Aedion wondered if he’d just struck a male already down. “I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” he said, turning toward the door.

Am I a dumb dumb, or... who the fuck is Assdion talking about? Is he talking about apologizing to.. Assdion’s mom? I’m so confused.

Assdion stomps out after his little tantrum. I mean, I understand why he’s upset, but... I need context? Was Gav forced to take the blood oath to Maeve, or was it his own choice? ‘Cause if it was the latter yeah he’s kinda a shitty dad, but if it’s the former, it’s not his fault??? This series is batshit confusing.

“We need them to work with us. I might have made an enemy of him.” [Lysandra] tucked her hair over a shoulder. “Trust me, Aedion, you have not. If you’d told him to crawl over hot coals, he would have.”

HHHH FUCK IT GAV IS A GOOD DAD..... I just feel so so sorry for him. He’s just a punching bag for everyone else. Protect Gav 2k18

He laughed, surprised he could even do so. “He’s a handsome bastard, I’ll give him that.” “I think Maeve likes to collect pretty men.” Aedion snorted. “Why not? She has to deal with them for eternity. They might as well be pleasant to look at.”

I mean a lot of those men have confirmed that they were forced to take the blood oath and are now basically slaves to her but sure, tee hee oh Maeve that slutty bitch, collecting only the hottest young men to enslave! Fuckin’ end me.

Bearing both Goldryn and Damaris for once, Aelin walked into the Sea Dragon two hours later and wished for the days when she could sleep without the dread or urgency of something pulling at her.

Greaaat, back to Alien’s POV.

A grand total of five minutes before Lysandra barged in, Rowan had awoken—and begun the process of awakening her, too. Slowly, with taunting, proprietary strokes down her bare torso, her thighs, accented with little biting kisses to her mouth, her ear, her neck.

EWWWWWWW if I wanted to read this shit, I’d go look up fanfiction. Preferably fanfiction with characters I’m endeared to and actually ship. Skip!

Gavriel and Fenrys were now sitting with Rolfe at the table in the back of the taproom, no sign of Aedion, both a bit wide-eyed as she swaggered in.

This is a nit pick but Gav/Fenrys always being described together irks me. They have the literal same reaction to everything. Like, are they doing this all in unison? Actually, that’s a pretty funny mental image.

Rowan took up a spot beside [Aelin] his knee brushing hers. Like even a few feet of distance was unbearable.

GDI. It’s a meeting. With a Pirate Lord. And all Rowboat can think about is getting his dick wet inside of Alien. I’m almost ready to tap out.

“What is this,” [Aelin] said, stabbing a finger near the main line of figures stretched across the middle of the continent. “It’s the latest report,” Rolfe drawled, “of the locations of Morath’s armies. They have moved into position. Aid to the North is now impossible. And they stand poised to strike Eyllwe.”

Ooo, action scene? Please action scene, I cannot handle any more scenes of these assholes being horny around one another.

Next chapter!

“Eyllwe has no standing army,” Aelin said, feeling the blood drain from her face. “There is nothing and no one to fight after this spring—save for rebel militia bands.”

Starts right where the last one left off, as per SJM’s protocol

Rowan said to Rolfe, “Do you have exact numbers?” “No,” the captain said. “The news was given only as a warning—to keep any shipments away from the Avery. I wanted their opinions”—a nod of the chin toward the cadre—“for handling it.“

??? Is it me or is this expression really fucking weird? Was “a nod of the head” not good enough?

“Why attack Eyllwe, though?” Fenrys asked. “And why move into position but not sack it?” [Aelin] couldn’t say the words aloud. That she’d brought this upon Eyllwe by mocking Erawan, because he knew who Celaena Sardothien had cared for, and he wanted to break her spirit, her heart, by showing her what his armies could do. What they would do, whenever he now felt like it. Not to Terrasen … but to the kingdom of the friend she’d loved so dearly.

Once again, we’re about to witness the destruction of a kingdom and all Alien cares about is her stupid feelings. Go fuck yourself Alien.

“You are the heir of the Mycenian people,” Aelin said. “And I have come to claim the debt you owe my bloodline on that account, too.” Rolfe did not move, did not blink. “Or were all the sea dragon references from some personal fetish?” Aelin asked.

SJM JUST USED THE WORD “FETISH” IN HER EPIC FANTASY SERIES. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

[Aelin] allowed a flicker of her magic to rise to the surface then, allowed the gold in her eyes to glow like bright flame. Gavriel and Fenrys straightened as her power filled the room, filled the city. The Wyrdkey between her breasts began thrumming, whispering.

I’m sorry, lovely readers, I keep ragging on about this, but holy fuck. I hate it so much. SJM wants this scene to be all epic and show what a special snowflake badass Alien is but then she undercuts all that supposed tension by drawing focus to her boobs I just. ajhdafdfagfds dj hdsa im b rea kin  g

Alien lets loose some of her power that literally shakes the world and rings bells or some shit? idk i guess its 2deep4me

“What the rutting hell was that?” Rolfe at last demanded. Fenrys and Gavriel became very interested in the map before them. Rowan said smoothly, “Milady has to release bits of her power daily or it can consume her.”

ROWBOAT CONFIRMED FOR NICE GUY HOLY SHIT

Aedion and Lysandra arrived after some time—and her cousin only spared Gavriel a passing glance as he stood over the map and fell into that general’s mindset, demanding details large and minute. But Gavriel silently stared up at his son, watching her cousin’s eyes dart over the map, listening to the sound of his voice as if it were a song he was trying to memorize.

Gav deserves a better series than this. I want to take him, Manon, Darrow, and Rolfe away so they can be at peace. How does Darrow/Gavriel sound to everyone? Pure old dads who rule their kingdom fairly, bringing peace and prosperity forward. What a lovely image.

SJM described the meeting rather than shows. It’s basically 90% everyone gushing over how powerful Alien is. Skip!

“You once said I would pay for my arrogance. And I did. Many times. But Sam and I took on your entire city and fleet and destroyed it. All for two hundred lives you deemed less than human. So perhaps I’ve been underestimating myself. Perhaps I do not need you after all.” [Aelin] turned again, and Rolfe sneered, “Did Sam die still pining after you, or did you finally stop treating him like filth?”

Dick move, maybe, but I mean... he’s not wrong. The Assassin’s Blade is literally just Alien being pissy towards Sam for no reason and then he gets angry when their master beats lAlien’s face in (you know, what any normal functioning human being would react like) and she’s suddenly frothing at the mouth to fuck him. Maybe I should review TAB next.........

Rowboat chokes Rolfe and throws him down, and everyone smirks. How are these characters adults? They’re all written like immature teenagers. Anyways, a bell rings out, signifying something bad.

Aelin watched as black - darker than the ink that had been etched there - spread across [Rolfe’s] fingers, to his palms. Black such as only the Valg could bring.

Please action scene I can’t handle one more “witty’ “banter” conversation between these assholes

The door banged open, and Rolfe’s towering figure filled it. “You.” Aelin put a hand on her chest. “Me?”

Pfft. I hated that I snickered at this, but I always laugh at the “dramatic hand on chest” joke.

“And what of your idealism—what of that child who stole two hundred slaves from me? You’d leave the people of this island to perish?” “Yes,” she said simply. “I told you, Rolfe, that Endovier taught me some things.” Rolfe swore. “Do you think Sam would stand for this?” “Sam is dead,” she said, “because men like you and Arobynn have power. But Arobynn’s reign is now over.” She smiled at the darkening horizon. “Seems like yours might end rather soon as well.”

Sam deserves better than this. He was an okay guy to my memory - not a poisonous fuck boy like Rowboat.

“Eight warships teeming with soldiers —at least a hundred on each, more on the lower levels I couldn’t see. They’re flanked by two sea-wyverns. All moving so fast that it’s like storm winds carry them.”

FUCK YEAAAH SEA DRAGONS LETS GO

Rolfe finally breaks down and agrees to join Alien’s war effort. Love it when one of the few good characters is kicked and beaten down to prop up the despicable protagonist. Then we swap to Dorian’s POV.

Aelin was insane, Dorian realized. Brilliant and wicked, but insane. And perhaps the greatest, most unremorseful liar he’d ever encountered.

Dorian, honey, you okay? Blink twice if Alien is holding you captive.

This war would not be won on smiles and manners. It would be won by a woman willing to gamble with an entire island full of people to get what she needed to save them all.

Yeah, doesn’t that make Alien likeable! I know war involves sacrifice and death but Jesus, could she feel even a little remorse? Innocent people may die today but Aelin’s head is so far up her own ass she doesn’t even care.

Fenrys kept at a distance from the others, but Gavriel remained close, his gaze still fixed on his son. Gods, they looked so much alike, moved alike, the Lion and the Wolf.

Stop ittttt Gavriel deserves better.....

Aelin tells Dorian to stay behind and the chapter ends. God, that was a lot of bullshit in two chapters.

[paintingraves]

Only Human

Ever since hearing Rag’N’Bone Man’s Human a few months back, I’ve been craving a fic in which Percival just snaps. Before, or after Grindelwald, but the latter makes more sense.

-

He’d been captured. Grindelwald had been clever, dangerously so. He'd conjured the image of a No-Maj couple, rounding the corner of their alley and coming to a halt at the sight of them, bolts of lightning crackling through the air, threatening to wipe them both. Percival had shouted, had looked at them, had wanted to protect them - and it was all Grindelwald needed. A split second of distraction and Graves felt a searing pain in his spine spread through him, enough to make him collapse on his knees. His wand clattered to the ground as Grindelwald stood above him. The No-Majs were nowhere to be found. Graves’ last thought before fainting was that he truly hoped Grindelwald hadn’t killed them.

But they were never real. He’d cared too much, lost in the midst of battle. He’d failed to recognize the obvious flaws of a human illusion through the dust swirling in the air around him and his opponent. He’d played right into Grindelwald’s hand, and he hated himself for it. But could he truly be blamed for caring? For wanting to uphold the statute of secrecy?

“Fucking asshole,” he spat, tasting iron in his mouth. He could hear Grindelwald’s laugh as surely as if the man were still standing in front of him. “Don’t you fucking dare ruin my city.”

-

Days passed. Grindelwald wrecked the city. Graves was left, upon his discovery, to pick up the remnants of his old life. What little was left of it. He'd lost everything.

Rumors and whispers now follow him wherever he goes. Sometimes, the words are thrown straight to his face, and all he can do is grit his teeth. He does his best to respond to the taunts calmly. It takes will he wasn’t aware he still possessed. His lip is still split from where Grindelwald bit him hard enough to take a drop of blood, necessary to his transfiguration. There is a jagged, white scar left, running down his chin. A pale thing, for someone who Grindelwald held for a month. He’d seen much worse in reports. They’d all seen much worse in reports. People talk about that, too.

He’s made it out alive, with information, scars and a testimony. It’s not enough. They talk, they talk, they talk. He insists on going back to work; they give him work, far more than he should have since his demotion. They sneer at him, non-content to find themselves above him for once. He has a boss now, an insufferable Auror he never liked for his sole arrogance. Was he like this, too, before? Had Grindelwald been like this? He hates that the last image they have of Percival Graves is of the dark wizard prancing around in his clothes.

A made-up picture of a man who was real, who existed, who was trapped somewhere no one knew, because they hadn't bothered to look.

Was Percival Graves really so forgettable? So insignificant? Did he matter so little?

-

Grindelwald escapes. Of course he does, the bloody bastard, Graves thinks as he flips through the reports. Fucking asshole, sick son of a bitch --

“Graves.”

He looks up. “Abernathy.”

The man clears his throat, embarrassed. “You are not supposed to be looking at those reports.”

It takes all he has not to throw them in his face, and scream that he could make a difference. He’s utterly wasted in this place; the fact that his magic has weakened since Grindelwald does not change that. He is still stronger than the majority of the people inside this building, and they all know it. “Of course.”

He hands the files to Abernathy with a smile.

“Another thing,” Abernathy says when Graves makes a move to settle down at his desk again. “You’re expected to attend the meeting regarding Grindelwald taking place in -” He looks at his watch. “Ten minutes. They want you here.”

Graves stares at him. “For what?”

“You were the closest to Grindelwald,” Abernathy explains, as if him and Grindelwald had been best pals who fell short. The short man winces, clearly bothered by his own choice of words. “It’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure it will,” Graves says dryly. He straightens his tie, smooths his waistcoat and makes his way to the door. “I’m sure it will.”

-

It is not fine. It is the least far from fine Graves has ever been since he came back, and that's saying something. He is livid. His expression must look murderous, because the foreign speaker swallows audibly. But he does not look down.

“You are implying that I helped him escape,” Graves says slowly, softly.

“Listen, Mr…”

“Graves.” Graves glares. As if the man didn’t know his name perfectly. “How could you possibly think such a thing is --”

“Mr. Graves,” the man sighs, shifting in his seat. “You escaped from Grindelwald’s hold unscathed. No, let me take that back : first, you were defeated by him. Your reputation is known worldwide, yet you let him beat you -”

“He had the upper hand,” Graves growls, fingernails digging into the palm of his hands. “I have explained how he won this fight many times, and I am sure you’ve read my interview in the newspaper, Mr. Hawkins. I made a simple mistake, one he calculated.”

“A mistake which caused the death of several No-Majs and enemy infiltration inside the US government, several thousands worth of property damage in the city! A mistake, Mr. Graves,” the man says with indignation,” is misplacing the salt for the sugar and pouring the first in your tea. A mistake is not letting Grindelwald win a fight, then take on your image when thousands of people count on you to keep them safe!”

Silence falls.

Graves rises up. Emits a low chuckle. The man imitates him, spreading his finger in warning, palm facing Graves - ready to fire a spell if need be.

“I’m out,” Graves says.

Nobody answers, so he says it again. “I’m out. I'm done. With all of you. I dedicated my entire fucking life,” he says, one hand over his chest, “to keeping this nation safe. I made one mistake. One. I find it really fucking funny that you all should talk about mistakes and consequences when you attended multiple meetings with Grindelwald himself, and failed to notice anything was amiss.” Mr. Hawkins’ mouth falls open, but Percival holds up his hand to stop him. “No, let me finish. I made a mistake that could have easily been settled if either of you had bothered to look past the end of your own noses.” His voice is cold.  “And now that he’s escaped again, because you failed to hold him, because he’s Gellert fucking Grindelwald, you look for someone to blame and turn to me! Don’t!” Percival’s breathing is ragged. He slams his hands down on the table, looking for an outlet. “Don’t! Don’t put the blame on me! Not for his escape. You can blame me for ‘letting him’, as you so cleverly put, win the fight. You cannot blame me for failing to notice a wolf hiding inside our ranks when you laughed with him as he made his plans. You cannot blame me for simply existing inside the same building as him when he was still a prisoner here. I’m just trying to do my job. I do what I can.  You cannot blame me for your utter failure at keeping him under lock when time came to bring him to Azkaban, Prime Minister. These,” he waves to the room at large, “are blames I won’t take. I do not fucking deserve them. I’m only human. I make mistake. Don’t put the blame on me.”  

[liketolaugh-writes]

Deliver Us from Evil

Author: liketolaugh Summary: Cross had known that he would lose Allen from the beginning. He hadn’t quite registered that even after that, he’d have to keep looking his old apprentice in the face. Fic for @kokoko-sir‘s drawing here!

For a moment, Cross hesitated at the door, the fingers of one hand lingering on the doorknob without grasping it. Then, decisively, he wrapped his hand around it, opened the door, stepped through, and declared,

“It’s about damn time, you lazy bastard.”

And then he let himself look over the room.

It was a regular inn room – two beds, one window. Leverrier’s dog, Link, sat on one of them, which was only a slight surprise; the trails Cross had been following (the benefit of Allen’s resources being the same as his resources) had mentioned another man.

On the other sat Allen, bolt upright now, wide-eyed look of silver surprise already twisting into an irritated scowl. Without conscious thought, Cross felt an answering smirk curl his mouth, and he relaxed, a knot in his chest loosening.

“You asshole, I thought you were dead!” Allen spat, rising to his feet with both ungloved hands clenching into fists.

Cross tipped his head arrogantly, opening his mouth to reply, to taunt his stupid, stubborn apprentice out of noticing his relief-

Allen continued.

“What the hell happened, Cross? Allen is decades too young, and he had a godforsaken Innocence! And where’s your Innocence? Where were you, dammit?”

Only years of practice kept the cocky smirk on Cross’ face as the warmth blew out and the cold blew in.

“I was busy,” he dismissed carelessly. Busy cursing his life, busy securing his place in the Order, busy growing his information network and drinking away his grief and the knowledge of the Order’s foul deeds- He waved a disinterested hand at Link. “Do you really want this guy listening in?”

Link’s surprise had faded as well, and he was staring at Cross with a mixture of sobriety and reproach that sparked defensive irritation in Cross. Still, when Neah ordered him, “Leave,” he did so with only a quiet promise to return with food. The back of his hand brushed against Cross’ when he left, and he wondered vaguely if Link was as much of a passive-aggressive bastard as Cross suddenly suspected.

That, of course, left Cross alone with one of his least favorite allies, occupying the body of one of the few people he’d liked in decades. In Allen’s body.

Fuck, he needed a drink. A lot of drinks. Later.

Cross moved to collapse beside Neah on the bed, staring at the floor as Neah started to rant at him – a tirade of complaints in the hissed, high-strung tones he took when truly stressed and taking it out on some other poor bastard.

Cross lit a cigarette and brought it to his lips.

He was such a moron. He’d known from the start that this would happen – hell, ‘this’ was the whole reason he’d taken the brat in at all. There was no way to combat a Noah transformation, either. Cross had made sure of that himself.

Not even for a brat as stubborn and clever as Allen.

He discarded the first cigarette and lit a second, letting the remains drop to the ground lazily.

He considered, for just a moment, whether he could have found a way, with a decade of warning. If he would have thrown away the world’s one chance in exchange for his apprentice’s continued life. Cross Marian was a selfish man, after all. A very selfish and hedonistic man. And the world was shit anyway; he knew that better than most. Even outside of days like these, he often wondered if it was worth saving at all.

Discarded the second, lit a third.

“Cross, are you even listening to me?”

Cross dredged up a smirk from somewhere, tilted his head so Neah’s irritated face was in view, and felt- nothing. Nothing but exhaustion and a distant, tight squeeze, like Grave of Maria, like the Earl of Millennium.

“Fuck, you’re behind, Campbell,” he said nonchalantly, eyes on Neah’s. Silver, not gold. Or brown.

“And you’re old,” Neah sniped back – which was easy for him to say, being immortal and unaging and also missing a solid thirty-five years – and then, eyes narrowing, “And you’re being strange. What’s up with you?”

Fuck, he’d noticed. Of course he’d noticed; Neah was a perceptive son of a bitch when he was paying attention.

Cross hesitated, his first and only mistake. There were just so few things that could plausibly throw him off to such an extent that another would notice. A beat passed, and Neah’s eyes widened, and then his mouth curled into an unfriendly and jeering smirk.

“Geez Cross,” he said, far too cheerfully, leaning back with his hands still pressed to the bedspread. “I knew you didn’t like me, but I didn’t think you’d replace me with the first sniveling brat who came your way.”

Cross snapped, quiet and tight and too goddamn old for this shit.

“I didn’t replace you,” he said sharply – too sharp, too harsh, never reveal weakness to Neah. “I kept to our plan exactly, as much as circumstances allowed. I made sure he knew the score and how to use it. I kept him safe from the Noah. I kept him from getting access to a single goddamn chance of escaping the transformation, and I made sure he didn’t know until it was too damn late.”

In for a penny, in for a pound. Cross leaned in close to Neah’s startled face, spitting out his words like venom.

“And now that you’re back, you’d better do this right and prove that it was fucking worth it.”

Too late, Cross jerked away again, teeth gritted and grinding, turning aside so he didn’t have to watch Neah’s alarm turn into a delighted, mocking smirk. He was already regretting his outburst; he was sure that Neah would get a whole hell of a lot of mileage out of that one.

After a long moment, he rasped, “Where’s Timcanpy?” He’d have expected the little golden golem to greet him by now, nuzzling up to him and still mourning Allen.

The bitterness was audible in Neah’s voice.

“Weren’t you listening, Cross? He’s dead.”

Cross stood up, twisted, and a moment later, the wooden wall splintered around his fist.