#when his face is limned in firelight like this?

[wildsaltair]

[osunism]

Daughter of Disgrace

"Is there any place where Heaven's bastard daughters are welcome?"

🔞 Rating: Explicit [MDNI] ❤️‍🔥 Pairing[s]: Satoru + Sundari || Nadja + Sukuna ⚠️ Warning[s]: Explicit sexual situations, graphic depictions of violence, major character death[s], as well as some toxic relationship elements. Spoilers for the manga. Sukuna is his own warning but there is cannibalism, abuse, body horror, and mild torture in this fic. So canon-typical violence. 🪧 Summary: In the aftermath of Satoru Gojo's sealing, Sundari must choose rebellion in order to free him. Lucky for them both, rebellion has always been her preferred modus operandi. 🎧 [ godslayer principle ] -- Sundari's Playlist

⚠️ Be Advised: This is the sequel to Beast of No Nation. It's recommended that you read that fic first to get the context of this one.

⛩️ AO3 𑁍 FFN 𑁍 Parallax OCs 𑁍 Sonder OCs 𑁍 Headcanons & Meta ⛩️

𓃰 Chapter 11: Godslayer

“There is an ocean of silence between us …and I am drowning in it.” ―Ranata Suzuki

Zenin Estate, December 20, 2018

     Nadja takes her claim on top of Sukuna, straddling his hips, which may as well be her throne despite her disinterest in ever being a queen. His lower hands immediately settle on her hips, cupping the glorious curves of her rear and giving them a firm squeeze in greeting. One of his upper hands is occupied examining one of her blades, a slender one-sided blade honed to an edge as fine as his cursed technique. It glints in the firelight, and Nadja keeps her eyes on his, the main which are focused on the play of the knife in his hand, and the lower set on her.

     There is no surprising the King of Curses.

     “Are you still afraid of me?” Sukuna asks in a bored tone, but Nadja can hear the blur of pleasure in his voice. They’ve been making love most of the afternoon. The hands on her hips pull her forward, forcing her thighs wider as she is forced to straddle the mouth on his belly. She gasps when the lips part and she can feel hot, moist breath on her bare cunt.

     Fuck.

     “I was never afraid of you,” she murmurs, tilting her head. Sukuna is twirling the knife with a consummate precision, a skill from a life a thousand years gone by. Since perfecting his jujutsu, he has had no need for edged weapons, but Nadja’s arsenal has always fascinated him. He has never seen her use anything else in all the time he has known her.

     “Oh?” Sukuna’s voice is amused. “Then why does your soul tremble in my presence? I can feel it.”

     The mouth below her grins, the tattooed tongue takes an experimental swipe, parting her easily and making her gasp and tighten her thighs around him. Sukuna smirks in smug satisfaction.

     “We spit in the face of the gods every day I do not kill you, Sukuna,” Nadja replies, and he pauses, all four of his eyes now focused on her. She reaches down, traces the black in limned into his skin. The muscles tense beneath her expert touch, and the tongue continues its tireless effort, swiping slowly back and forth. Nadja’s soul isn’t the only thing trembling now. Sukuna can feel the slick heat of her dripping onto him as he continues to torment her.

     He brings the knife to her throat and watches as that predatory mien returns in a heartbeat. Suddenly there is tension in her, leashed and coiled in on itself like a spring condensed to its absolute limit. Sukuna chuckles, the mouth on his belly meeting her cunt in languorous kisses. He can feel the tension in her building, promising violence or the dissolving force of an incredible orgasm.

     Sukuna trails the knife down slowly, gently so as not to part her beautiful umber skin. He traces the contour of her collarbones, the swells of her breasts, and laughs when she arches as he pricks her nipples gently with the tip of the blade. It is fascinating to use her own weapons against her in this way.

     “The pair of us are at an impasse, hm?” Sukuna asks. Nadja’s hips begin to rock against his belly’s mouth, the soft sucking and slurping sounds filling the silence. The knife trails down the taut planes and curves of her belly, towards the source of those erotic sucking sounds. His lower eyes flick down briefly to take in the sight of her cunt practically drooling over his mouth. His hands on her hips help guide her even as she lets out a keening moan, throwing her head back.

     “Yet,” Sukuna says, tracing the sensitive region around her cunt with the blade, mindful of her undulating movements. “I cannot take your life either, can I?”

     Nadja looks down at him, her angelic face framed by a cloud of black curls, and for a moment he thinks she is worlds away, but he sees the clarity in her gaze.

     “Come for me,” Sukuna orders, and she does for the simple fact that he told her to, even though she wants nothing more than to prolong this pleasure a bit longer. He always knows how to make her heart race in so many new ways. She shivers as his tongue laps up every drop of her mess, makes a bit of a mess of her some more, and he tosses the blade aside, drawing her down into a four-armed embrace.

     “I would let you,” Nadja whispers, pressing a kiss against his mouth, her hair falling around both of them, curtaining them from the outside world. “I would let you because I love you.”

     Sukuna holds her close, an easy feat because Nadja seeks that closeness without shame, now.

     She is in love. How foolish, he thinks. How foolish, and yet his pulse races at the words he’s longed to hear since the first moment he took her into his arms a thousand years ago.

     How foolish.

Zenin Estate, December 24, 2018

         It is dark by the time Sukuna returns to the Zenin Estate, his heart crushed in so many ways that he thinks his soul spills out of the cavity Satoru put in his chest, and every part of him hurting in ways he had forgotten were possible. Gojo Satoru was a magnificent opponent—is a magnificent opponent—in every sense of the word. Twice-blessed with gifts beyond the comprehension of the average sorcerer, and so like him that Sukuna wonders if he hallucinated the entire ordeal. He longs to match himself against the brat again. His daughter’s choice to love him is understandable, he’ll give her that much.

         The sheet-covered remains of Nadja’s corpse are heavy in his lower arms, and if his heart were still intact, it would break anew. It feels like it’s been shattering endlessly inside his chest since that awful, awful moment. His ears are filled with the sound of shattering, and Nadja’s choked gurgle as she tried to say his name.

         This is the third time Nadja has hurt him in the only way he cannot protect himself from, and worse yet, she will never wake for him to shake the answers from her. She will never wake again. He finds the Zenin morgue, lays her down on one of the cold metal tables. He won’t take the sheet off—he can’t. He doesn’t want to remember Nadja frozen in death, no matter how many times it had come by his hand. This one is real. This one is permanent.

         This one hurts.

         Sukuna has spent a majority of the ages in a state of distant awareness through the severed parts of his soul around the country, and in that time, he realized that one darkness was like another, only because he had nothing he left behind, and everything to look forward to.

         I would let you.

         And she had.

         Sukuna is not sure how long he stands there, holding a dark vigil over Nadja’s body like some disturbing eidolon. His gaze focuses on the bloodstained sheet, and he can make out her shape beneath it. His fugitive of heaven is dead. The realization hits him again and again as he strains his senses to their limit for a sign of breath, a whisper of a pulse, knowing he is being greedy, knowing he risks cursing her soul.

         Part of him wants to curse her, if only to never be parted from her again. Take her into himself, consume her, and never let her go as he should have a thousand years before. He should not have let her go, should have done more to make her stay; to convince her—

         Eventually, however, his torment is silenced. There is only a vast ocean of nothing, calm and deceptively serene. In that silence, in that serenity, he must trust that her soul is on the Wheel again. He has to hope he can find her again and tell her that he never meant for their story to end this way. But it could not have ended any other way, could it? He is a curse, and she the instrument of Heaven sent to pierce his heart.

         Well, you’ve accomplished your mission, haven’t you? He thinks bitterly.

         Sukuna opens his eyes, the lower ones cutting their gaze toward the door.

         “You’ll have no better opportunity to come for my head, whelp,” he says, his voice flat and inflectionless. He sees his daughter step out of the shadows, tall and proud and world-weary. He does not turn to face her, even as she comes to stand by his side, her eyes on the bloodstained sheet on the table.

         “Any other time I would relish the opportunity,” Sundari says, and Sukuna hears the husk-hollow strain in her voice. She’s been weeping. “But that’s not the only reason I’m here.”

         Sukuna reluctantly tears his gaze from the woman who should have been his wife, and stares instead at the culmination of them both, distilled into the strong and insolent brat brimming with so much potential it gives him pause.

         “What do you want?” He asks. He already knows.

         “I want to bury my mother,” Sundari says, and her voice is toneless, empty as if everything inside of her has been scraped out. He feels very much the same. “And then I’m going to kill you.”

         It doesn’t sound like a threat, and Sukuna refuses to take it as one. There is no anger in this space, no hatred, not even love.

         Only the cold, ceaseless maw of grief, gnawing at both of them, growing fat off of their loss.

         “Ready when you are, whelp,” Sukuna snorts, and he swears he can almost hear Nadja’s simmering and amused laughter in the negative space where she should be standing with them. Sukuna finds it unnecessarily cruel that the only time he has the closest thing to blood and covenant as he dares, is when one of them is dead and the other has decided to kill him. How cursed is he that even this small bit of humanity is ruined by his very touch?

         In his mind’s eye, he sees Nadja dying over and over again, cut down by his hand. He feels the thrill of victory seeping from him, and Satoru’s shocked expression as he’s covered in her blood, holding her up as her soul flees her ruined body. In his mind’s eye, this moment is refracted and replayed over and over, endlessly with no resolution in sight. He knows this is also a side-effect of bearing the weight of Unlimited Void. If Sundari chooses to make good on her promise she will undoubtedly kill him. He will make her work for it—his pride demands nothing less—but grief makes him weary and his fight with Gojo took more from him than he’ll ever care to admit. He almost wishes she would at least try.

         And yet, the pressure of her cursed energy is steady, even as grief eats her as surely as it eats him.

         Sundari reaches into her pocket, withdraws a small silver case embossed with filigree. She opens it and produces a single, rolled joint. Without waiting, she lights it, taking a deep inhale.

         “Fuck her for dying like this,” Sundari says suddenly, her voice cloudy as she exhales smoke. Sukuna’s eyes narrow. Ganja? With surprising speed, he snatches the joint from her, takes a drag himself. If they aren’t going to fight about it, he might as well partake. If for nothing else but to take the edge of the pain from the hole in his chest. Begrudgingly, he passes the joint back to Sundari, who takes it.

         For a long stretch of moments, they simply stand there, letting the weed hit them. It hits Sundari faster, and Sukuna feels his frayed nerves settling and smoothing over. Even the grief in his soul feels somewhat less consuming. Perhaps his daughter has the right idea after all.

         “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way,” Sukuna says slowly. “I never intended to kill her. I never even thought I would be able to. That slash was meant for Gojo Satoru. And after—”

         “I know,” Sundari says, taking another drag before passing him the joint. “That’s why she intervened. I don’t think she thought it would kill her either.”

         They are silent at that. Sukuna is angry, now. If she didn’t know if that slash would kill her, why would she—

         Ah. Of course. She is—was—familiar with Mahoraga, even before the shikigami was yoked to the Zenin Clan. The shikigami had given her a piece of itself in the form of a cursed tool, allowing her to see and track cursed energy. Sukuna admitted it was a brilliant little tool, and she’d cleverly concealed it behind an eyepatch made of cursed seals to hide its cursed energy until she was ready to use it.

         She knew what Sukuna’s strategy had been the moment she saw the wheel appear over his head. Sukuna goes over the battle in his mind. She couldn’t have intervened during the domain clashes, or she would have been killed by his domain since it attacked everything in range whether or not it had cursed energy. She’d waited until Mahoraga’s adaptation was sure before she acted, and neither of them had been in the shape to sense her until it was too late.

         And Sukuna severed her divine soul.

         His lower hands ball into fists beneath his haori’s massive sleeves, his brow furrows, and the bridge of his nose wrinkles as he battles the tide of his emotions to a pained and steamy gridlock.

         “Did you love her at all?” Sundari asks quietly, her gaze still on the bloodstained sheet. Neither one of them want to lift it. Neither one of them wants to see her that way.

         Sukuna thinks about the question, thinks about the time in which he and Nadja had been their happiest together. She’d haunted his temple like a deadly apparition, a slip of a woman with the strength to rival a herd of elephants, and a ferocity that matched his own. He thinks about that first winter night when she first came to him, and how they’d toyed with one another, endlessly fascinated.

         He thinks about the look of her in the hot spring, when she moved with a serpent’s lissome grace to come to him as surely as if he’d summoned her from the steaming waters. His.

         And the nights that followed: the joy, the laughter, the blood, the fighting, the arguments.

         The joy, the joy, the joy.

         Yes. Yes, he’d loved her. His funny, deadly, beautiful, seductive divine-sworn fugitive of heaven. He’d loved her in the only way he understood how to express his love: through strength. And if he learned to love her tenderly; to be soft with her in the night’s depths, whose business was it but theirs? But it isn’t just anyone asking if he loved Nadja Hikmat, whose vividness had ablated his iron heart to rust: it’s Sundari. Their daughter. The baby he’d told Nadja he wanted with her because he could see no one else worthy of bearing him an heir.

         Sukuna meets Sundari’s gaze, saying nothing. The answer to the question is too vast for mere words, but too simple to leave unsaid.

         “Yes.” It is all he can give her; if he gives her anymore, he will pour out all of himself and there will be nothing left for him to savor as the wound a thousand years gone by bleeds from the fissures Nadja’s death has left behind. He says nothing as tears silently roll down Sundari’s face. She seems to get ahold of herself when she notices him watching her, blinking rapidly and dashing them away; sniffling before that fierce determination cements itself on her face. Sukuna takes a deep breath. It will still be some time before he can recover his burned-out technique. His head is pounding, and his thoughts feel cloudy, the results of Unlimited Void.

         “Let me take her home,” Sundari says, willing the warbling note of grief from her voice. It bleeds through anyway, thick and cloying and threatening to choke them both. “Let me do the final rites and let me light her pyre. She deserves that much. She’s not yours to mourn.”

         Sukuna bristles, his eyes flaring brightly. “She was always mine, whelp,” he growls, a warning in his voice and a threat not far behind. “Even when she ran, even when she hid you, she was mine. She was made for me.”

         “She was made to kill you,” Sundari snaps and Sukuna’s gaze cuts to her sharply. “She was a dagger throw through time aimed at your fucking heart. She wasn’t made to love you.”

         Sukuna chuckles. “And yet, she did. Does that make you angry?”

         Sundari’s mouth opens and then closes sharply with an audible click of her teeth. Sukuna isn’t done being cruel, because it is all he knows: he hurts, and so too must the world around him.

         “If your mother hadn’t loved me, and I hadn’t loved her, she would have stayed and fed you to me,” Sukuna says with a grin. “I would have devoured you still fresh from the womb, blood and all. If she hadn’t loved me and I hadn’t loved her, she would have torn you out herself rather than ever let my seed take root inside her.”

         Sundari’s eyes are wide.

         “You’re a horrible fucking person, you know that?” She grouses, and Sukuna realizes he finds pleasure in this. This is the reaction he’s used to; this is familiarity. Anything but this hollowing spear of incomprehensible grief in his gut. “Maybe she loved you, but you didn’t love her. Loving you destroyed her.”

         “What’s stopping you from carrying out your vengeance, whelp?”

         Sundari hesitates, her hands flexing, her cursed energy flickering like a disturbed flame in a sudden gust of wind, but her lower eyes flick to the corpse of Nadja before them. Sukuna follows her gaze, and he feels something foreign and spindly behind his eyes, making his stomach twist into knots. Of course. He takes a deep breath and exhales, schooling himself to calm. Sundari does the same.

         “She’d probably think it’s funny, us fighting in front of her dead body like this,” Sundari says. Sukuna thinks of Nadja and her smug smirk, hiding a dainty laugh behind her hand like some amused courtier. Yeah, she would think this was kind of funny. The ganja helps support this theory. He allows himself a dry chuckle.

         “Sukuna,” Sundari says but at his sharp look she looks slightly chastened. “Dad. Let me take her home. You know it’s the right thing to do. If you do like, one right thing in your life, let it be this. She deserves a proper send-off.”

         Sukuna doesn’t want to give her up, not because Sundari is his enemy [and he is not so sure of that either], but because if he does then he will have nothing left of her. Nothing that was as immortal as she had been. What changed? Why had she been cut down? He hadn’t even been aiming for her. He had assumed her safely ensconced elsewhere. He told her he’d find her after he’d finished killing everyone else…save Sundari. That had been his promise to her.

         And now she is dead.

         “We will cremate her here,” Sukuna says and at Sundari’s mouth opening to protest, he holds up a forestalling hand, crossing his lower arms in pensive thought. “The others do not—did not—know her as we did. What connection she has to them is tenuous at best. But you are her daughter, and she was my…”

         My wife. At least, she might have been had she not fled him. How different things might have been had she stayed. How different he might have been had she stayed. Why did she leave him? Damn her.

         Sundari swallows and nods, understanding. A private ceremony, then, with the only people alive Nadja could call family. Sundari thinks of Yuji, Yuta, and Maki, knowing that they had grown attached to Nadja in their own way while training under her. But still, she understands her father’s meaning. If Nadja is to be sent off, it must be by blood, not covenant.

         Together, Sundari and Sukuna prepare Nadja’s body for cremation. It is silent work; bitter work; and they say nothing as they stitch her body back together by hand, each carrying the lodestone of grief in their hearts as they build her pyre and place her upon it, clad in funerary white. Sukuna hates how peaceful she looks in death because nothing will open those beautiful eyes again. Nothing will curve those pallid, ashen lips into a smile ever again.

         There is only this ocean of grief between himself and who he must become to finish what he’s started.

         “Can you open the Furnace?” Sukuna asks when they stand before Nadja’s pyre. Sundari swallows.

         “Not yet,” she whispers. Sukuna shrugs out of his black haori, handing it to Uraume, who holds it solemnly. Sundari hasn’t spoken with them extensively, but they have been deferent to her once realizing she is Sukuna’s daughter. In another life, they might have been her tutor and attendant. Now, they are simply another enemy locked in a truce of complex circumstances.

         Sukuna does not scold Sundari for her lack of ability, not like he did in Shibuya. He understands now what was done to her was more than just a sealing. Her very Self had been fractured and sealed away. He knows she can open the Furnace, but she has not tapped into that part of her abilities yet, and he is still too weak to do so himself.

         That is why he arms himself with a bow and arrow, its tip dipped in pitch. Sundari lights the arrow with a match. She watches her father draw the bow, his shoulders perfectly level, his eyes focused, his breathing stilled as he takes aim. He looks like a deity out of the old legends, four arms and two faces, his visage serene as he lets the arrow fly.

         Nadja’s pyre goes up in a blaze and Sundari almost loses her nerve, but there is still more to be done.

         She forms a mudra with her hands and begins to chant the sutras to ensure her mother’s soul is consigned to Samsara once more, to be reborn in a better life. It is what she hopes for, at least. Sukuna watches as she does this, marveling at how she channels her jujutsu through foreign words and hand signs.

         He cannot help but be proud of her, and of Nadja for seeing to it that their daughter flourished into someone strong and independent. Sundari is a miracle, but Sukuna knows that come dawn, they will see who throws truer: the original, or his scion.

         As the pyre blazes, sending embers into the dark, moonless night sky, Sukuna retrieves his haori and puts it back on. Sundari watches as the pyre burns, strangely at peace. There is only a solemn silence, now, as father and daughter watch the woman they love burn.

         “Sukuna-sama,” Uraume murmurs, and his lower eyes shift to them. Uraume bows, eyes downcast. “Will your honored daughter be staying the night? I can prepare a room if need be.”

         “No,” Sundari says curtly. “I’m just here to get mom’s ashes and bring them home.”

         Sukuna doesn’t want to know why her words sting so badly. He clenches his jaw to keep from reacting. Sundari isn’t looking at him, all four eyes focused on the flames of the pyre, which collapses in on itself as it is reduced to ash.

         Later, when the fire is out and the remaining embers have died, Sundari and Sukuna pick Nadja’s bones from the ashes. Uraume has been sent to fetch something that can pass for a suitable and secure urn.

         “You can keep half,” Sundari says, her voice drained and weary. “It’s more than you deserve, but she loved you despite everything. And I like to think in your own fucked up way you loved her too. So keep half.”

         Sukuna snorts. “You’re awfully magnanimous, daughter. Why the sudden change of heart?”

         Sundari’s lower eyes are on the task at hand, but her main eyes look up at him and he sees the accusatory intent there. Ah, yes. At the end of the day, Nadja’s death is his fault. Sundari is a creature of retribution, and he has taken the only being who shares the burden of immortality with her. She will outlive her comrades, even the Six Eyes she loves so much. And she knows at the end of everything, it will just be her…and her father who cannot truly die either.

         What a cursed and bleak future. In another life, he can see himself as the father she deserved, and the husband worthy of his divine lover’s spirit.

         Uraume returns with a black urn, and Sundari begins to scoop the ashes into it.

         “My condolences, my lady,” they say in that gentle voice and Sundari doesn’t have it in her to hate them. Uraume is her father’s loyal companion and servant, but there’s something about them that is…she cannot bring herself to hate them.

         “Thanks,” she mutters. “I hate war.”

         Sundari catches Uraume’s pale gaze and sees a trace of sympathy within the normally cool and distant depths.

         “I hate it too,” they whisper. “But it cannot be avoided.”

         Sundari looks down at the urn in her hands, the divine and preternatural greatness of her mother reduced to ash.

         “Can’t it?” She asks. “What even is the point of it all?”

         To that, Uraume has no answer, or rather, they remain reticent.

         “It is not for me to dictate to Sukuna-sama,” they say instead. “However, he has requested that you join him for a late meal. You are also welcome to stay here and travel in the morning when you have rested. I understand this has been a difficult day for you both. It may be that a hot meal and a good night’s rest will serve you both for the challenges ahead.”

         Sundari huffs. So perfunctory and professional. Like a little assistant. One wouldn’t think Uraume a life-sworn companion, but a mere underling were they not privy to how Uraume seemed to know Sukuna’s mind before he even formed thoughts. Sundari sighs, wondering if it will matter.

         “Yeah,” she mutters quietly. “I could eat.”

         Uraume offers her a small but pleased smile.

         “Very well,” they reply. “I will see to it that all is in readiness. You may join your father in the gardens should you wish. And I can store the urn—”

         At Sundari’s startled and withering look, they stop speaking, sensing her irritation and anxiety.

         “Of course. Please, forgive me for being so thoughtless. I did not mean to insinuate anything. Only that you would want the urn stored during the meal.”

         Sundari seems to relax. “Yeah…yeah since I’m staying the night, I guess so.”

         Reluctantly, she hands the urn to Uraume, who ghosts from the room, leaving a lingering chill where they once stood. Sundari feels lost, and she searches her memories for comfort, finding only jagged bits and pieces of a mind toyed with by a sadistic sorcerer. She can’t even remember Vanhi’s face anymore, and her death had triggered a rage and grief so profound she’d left an entire town full of corpses in her wake.

         What will she do now that her other mother—her true mother—is gone; cut down by her own father, no less?

         Sundari doesn’t know, and her mind shies from seeking an answer. She leaves the room, trying to summon her appetite as she enters the main dining chamber. It is a traditional setup, with a low table, and cushions for sitting on the floor. Sundari spies her father—impossible not to, he’s so massive—seated already, pouring himself warm sake, his expression pensive and shuttered. His lower eyes flick to her, and she sees something in his expression shift…almost daring to be soft…or surprised?

         “You decided to stay after all,” he says, offering a thin and half-hearted smile. Sundari doesn’t return his smile, sitting across from him in uncomfortable silence.

         “Yeah,” she mutters sullenly, the ink stripe along her nose crinkling in a frown that Uraume has seen countless times before on Sukuna’s own face. Seeing him in his true form and his daughter across from him, the resemblance is unmistakable. Even their cursed energy burns with the same oppressive malevolence, though hers seems…softer, somehow. “I guess so. And I have your word this is not an attempt to play me false?”

         Sukuna’s crimson eyes widen slightly and Sundari suspects that she has done what few can claim and hurt his feelings. She feels a twinge of regret. They are mourning her mother, and she can only think to be petty and cruel. Even he has stowed his usual dismissive vitriol in favor of a tenuous but sincere truce.

         “No,” he says. “There is no reason to, really. I have no quarrel with anyone.”

         “Except Satoru,” Sundari says in challenge. Sukuna tilts his head slightly, making a quiet hum in thought.

         “I’ve no quarrel with him either,” he says at last. “Not truly. But he is an arrogant brat, and it would please me to lesson him in why hubris will be his undoing by simply…undoing him.” He grins and chuckles, amused by his own dry wit.

         Sundari stares at him, incredulous that he can be so callous. “What’s your endgame? Seriously. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out your motivations but none of it makes any sense. You say you’ve got no beef with anyone—including Satoru—but you’re going to kill him for…being cocky? That’s stupid.”

         Sukuna narrows his eyes. Sundari frowns and continues.

         “No, this is so stupid. It’s childish. Why are you like this? I’m your daughter and I’m not even like this. This can’t be part of your curse because why am I not lashing out at everything around me?”

         Sukuna does not say anything, but Sundari feels the sudden weight of his cursed energy and his gaze. Before he can answer, however, Uraume arrives with trays to serve their late meal. It’s simple fare—comfort food, really—a hearty vegetable soup cooked in beef bone broth, and chunks of braised beef. Sundari finds that once she begins to eat, her appetite gets the better of her and soon she’s asking Uraume for seconds and complimenting their cooking.

         Sukuna hides a smile in his next sake sip.

         “Your existence is a miracle, Sundari,” he says suddenly. Sundari pauses mid-bite, and her chopsticks nearly clatter onto the table.

         “What?” She asks, her voice tremulous. Sukuna sips his sake. His resistance to poison and disease makes the alcohol slow to circulate his system, but he can feel the comforting warmth in his belly.

         “When I asked your mother for a child, neither of us thought we’d be successful,” he tells her. Sundari’s brows furrow. Her father seems almost shy…sheepish? It is something to see the infamous King of Curses be somewhat out of sorts. Nadja wasn’t even his wife.

         “I told her to wed me before her damnable divine mandate marched her off to gods-knew-where,” Sukuna continues. Sundari resumes eating. She’s listening, now.

         “I’d spent all summer campaigning, playing godling to witless peasants and sniveling government officials. And the Fujiwara were breathing down my neck because I was taking over more territory than they were comfortable with. So, I asked your mother to accompany me on one final mission. I did not know at the time that she was pregnant with you. She acquitted herself well on that battlefield, and even slipped away before I opened my domain and finished it.”

         Sundari listens, setting her bowl down. She has a feeling that Sukuna has breathed not a word of any of this to a single soul in a thousand years. Unless Uraume was privy to a side of her father few ever were. Save her mother.

         “We returned victorious and celebrated. We were to be wed three weeks after. Your mother stole off into the night three days after, and I never saw her again until that night in Shibuya. Even as disembodied Fingers, I never sensed her presence or what should have been yours. It was as if she’d died in truth.”

         Sundari swallows hard. She understands now why her father and mother reacted to one another the way they did.

         He had been heartbroken. He wouldn’t say it—probably couldn’t even say it or recognize what it was—but Sundari had been in enough relationships to see heartbreak and recognize its ghost in her father. Her mother had left without a word, and hidden in India for centuries to raise her, and she remained as ignorant as a pig farmer to Sukuna or the legend he was.

         “She…” Sundari doesn’t know what words she can say to defend a woman no longer alive to defend herself. “I didn’t know, dad. And it’s not like you have the best reputation for me to come running to find you.”

         Sukuna smiles thinly, but it never reaches the crimson of his gaze.

         “No,” he says softly. “I suppose I don’t. Still, it was unfair of her to hide you from me. I would have liked to…” He trails off, looking away, as if he is staring at some far-off point in time and space. Sundari swallows again, then pours herself a cup of sake.

         “I suppose it no longer matters,” Sukuna says at last. “We are here now, at odds.”

         Sundari sets her cup down with a definitive clatter.

         “We don’t have to be!” She snaps and Sukuna’s gaze sharpens. He doesn’t lift a hand to harm her, though, and Sundari realizes that he must have undertaken a binding vow to prevent impulsive outbursts. At least with her…for now.

         “We don’t have to be at odds, dad,” Sundari says, and Sukuna raises his brows in twinkling amusement. “I don’t know what this compulsion is you have that drives you to destroy everything and everyone you come across, but it doesn’t make sense to me. It feels…” She struggles to find the word, fidgeting and resisting the urge to get up and pace.

         “It feels like rage,” she says softly. “It feels like there’s some ceaseless fury inside you that you keep…spitting out in all directions. I saw what you did in Shibuya. I saw what you did to…”

         She doesn’t say it, and she sees the muscles of Sukuna’s jaw tense, sees something flit across the human half of his face that can almost be mistaken for guilt.

         “What will do when you’ve destroyed everything and everyone around you, dad?” Sundari asks. “What will you have after a thousand years of waiting?”

         Sukuna decides he’s heard enough.

         “Enough,” he says, the weight of command making his deep voice resonant. Sundari startles, all four of her eyes widening slightly, but says nothing. Sukuna rises from his seat with unnervingly smooth grace belied by his size, looking down at her.

         “You should head to bed and get your rest. You’ll need it for your journey back to your companions and the fight to come. You will be my enemy come morning.”

         Sundari draws back as surely as if he has slapped her. Then, she recovers, climbing to her feet to look at him, trying to will away the tears threatening to well up in her eyes, and the burn in her throat that wants to become a sob.

         “You are still my enemy tonight, dad,” she says, her voice wavering. “But even enemies can show compassion for one another. You just killed my mother in front of me. The least you can do is hear me out.”

         Sukuna doesn’t like this. Doesn’t want to be reminded that his hand struck down the woman he’s chased across the sea of time.

         “I have heard you, daughter,” he says, and there is a weariness in his voice that feels as ancient as memory. A bone-deep ache born from grief. And rage.

         “I have heard you and your mother both, and I’ll hear no more. Go to bed.”

         Sundari can taste the heartbreak in his voice, buried beneath a thousand years of exhaustion and ennui. Neither of them wants to confront the fact that they will never hear Nadja again. Sukuna doesn’t look at his daughter as she leaves the room, taking what’s left of Nadja’s memory with her.

         The room feels colder.

“There are neither the strong nor the weak. Can anyone say that the weak do not suffer more than the strong?” ― Shusaku Endo, Silence

Zenin Estate, December 25, 2018

         Sundari steps out into the gray and muted dawn, her mother’s urn in her hands. It hasn’t been long, but the sickly malaise of the Zenin Massacre mixes with her father’s cursed presence and makes her queasy. Dinner had been difficult for more reasons than the obvious, and sleep came in fitful spurts. She feels agitated and unrested.

         She makes it to the soribashi before she feels her father’s gaze boring into her back. She briefly shuts her eyes, taking a deep breath.

         You will be my enemy come morning.

         You are still my enemy tonight.

She barely has time to react before she moves. In a blink, the soribashi shatters into kindling, partly from Sundari launching herself into the air, and mostly from Sukuna’s Dismantle. Sundari’s path is arbitrary, and she moves with an acrobat’s explosive grace, fleet and sure of foot, buoying herself with her own immense cursed energy. She rolls out her extra arms, tucking the urn under one as her belly splits into an additional mouth, chanting sutras as she ventures deeper into the forests of the Zenin estate grounds.

         Sukuna is on her heels in an instant, and she barely has time to stuff the urn in a knothole of a mighty oak before she turns to meet him.

         He’s big. Bigger than she expects him to be. He looks frightening in the broad light of day as opposed to the contemplative effigy he’d been under the glow of lanterns and the fire of Nadja’s funeral pyre. Sundari has always been the tallest woman in any room—and the tallest person, really, until she met Satoru—but her father is a titan, and every blow feels world-shattering even when she blocks them. Sundari has fought Gojo Satoru as much as she’s fucked him, and it’s the only thing she can compare it to. She wonders if he held back.

         Her father accords her no such niceties, blood or no. The one he loves is dead, and there is only her likeness in the contours of their daughter’s face, and cold fury in her eyes, so much like his own.

         Eight arms wage war in the dawn, each blow setting the trees to shuddering, their cursed energy lashing out like cyclonic storms, curse against curse.

         Sukuna can scarce believe it, really. Here, the child he demanded of Nadja, and the only remaining vestige of her he has left [because what can he do with ashes, truly]. She bears his curse and bears it well. Sukuna despises her for the years he never got to know her. What circumstances shaped the steel of her soul? Had she been loathed as he was? Does his curse twist in her guts as they do in his own? What put that fire in her eyes? Is it his blood or is it her own flame, destined to burn brightly against the darkness of his legacy? Sukuna has so many questions, many that cannot be answered, and many more that no longer matter.

         He told her he would kill her, and Sukuna keeps his promises.

         But she is a magnificent thing, he thinks. He is proud of her as she misses a strike with her fist, but extends her claws to rake at his throat, shearing away his cursed energy to devour it. He has plenty to spare.

         He is proud of her, when she blocks two blows aimed at her ribs, and shifts her secondary mouth to snap at his hands before returning to her belly. She uses the curse of their physiology with an enviable skill. His daughter is strong. Gods above she is strong, and she is willful and stubborn, spitting blood when his blows take her across the jaw in a shower of black sparks. She stumbles but recovers instantly. His wolf of a daughter is a tenacious fighter, like him. Like the fucking brat who once caged him.

         So, her life wasn’t always easy. She has the grit of a survivor in her soul, and Sukuna wonders if Nadja was hard on their girl.

         Their girl.

         Sukuna’s fists spark black again as another blow lands, and Sundari tumbles, shattering trees along the way. She processes the pain, having reinforced herself with cursed energy, but the black flashes ate through, and she can feel the internal pain as blood trickles from her mouth.

         Sukuna stands over her, his face as impassive as a god’s.

         “You chose this,” he says, his deep voice cold.

         Sundari spits blood at him, climbing to her feet, and beginning the battle anew. Her reversed curse technique cycles through, and she notes the hole in his chest where Satoru landed a black flash.

         “Having a bit of trouble there, old man?” Sundari taunts as they circle one another like a pair of jungle cats preparing to spring.

         “No more trouble than you’re about to have, whelp,” Sukuna replies and makes a mudra with one hand.

         Sundari’s eyes go wide, and she forms a mudra, preparing to counter. The mouth on her abdomen chants, and she mouths a single word with her main mouth:

         “Now.”

         Sukuna is not a man who is often surprised, nor has he often been taken by surprise. He can count on at least two hands when he has been genuinely shocked. Meeting Nadja had been one of those moments. Finding out they have a daughter is another. Discovering Megumi Fushiguro was still another.

         His daughter playing against the few emotions he had left and staging an ambush is this one.

         He shifts, bringing his hand up as Yuta’s katana connects with his forearm with a metallic screech as Sukuna shields himself with reinforced cursed energy. His face is contorted in a rictus of rage and fury, and Sundari finishes her sutra in time to restrain him.

         Alright, Maki, she thinks, let’s see if my mom’s lessons stuck.

Maki descends like an angel of death, and in the sea of cursed energy she is a shark cutting through its waters, invisible and ferocious and hungry. In both hands she brandishes Sundari’s trishula, Lalita, and the look on Sukuna’s face is one of horror.

         Maki will remember this moment for as long as she lives as she hurls the trishula with horrifying accuracy. Sukuna fights against his daughter’s binding sutras, but without Mahoraga he must rely on his on-the-fly analyses of her techniques. He deduces that this is some manner of barrier technique. He has to feel where it connects with him in order to take it apart.

         There. Right at the border between his soul and Megumi, who lays curled in the darkness, unmoving.

         Sukuna inhales and severs Sundari’s arms with a flick of his fingers. She doesn’t even cry out, her breath stolen from her in shock as she struggles to heal as Sukuna breaks free.

         Lalita strikes the empty spot where Sukuna once stood, and Maki lets out a hiss before she draws the Split Soul katana in time to block Sukuna’s next attack. They crash into the undergrowth, the sound of cursed steel grinding against Sukuna’s raw cursed energy tearing apart what should have been the serenity in the forest in the morning.

         Yuta lands, sprinting to Sundari, who bears scars where her arms have regrown.

         “Hikmat-san,” Yuta says, unusually intense. “Are you alright?”

         Sundari frowns, her four eyes focused on the battle that has moved away from them.

         “Yeah, I’m good,” she mutters. “What a fucking dick.”

         Yuta agrees, though he still feels bashful admitting it. He is Sundari’s father, after all, despite her own misgivings and lack of care for how she addresses him. He just counts himself lucky that she had the good sense to call them in on her way here. With Gojo out of commission, it’s on them to finish what he began. Yuta has trained with Sundari for weeks and is intimately familiar with how to use his cursed energy efficiently.

         Maki’s blade collides with Sukuna’s claws in a shower of sparks.

         “You think you’re just like her!” He snarls. “But you’re only human! Only flesh and blood with no divinity to protect you!”

         Maki has never wanted to be like anyone. She’s only ever wanted to be better: and she is. There is no barbed chain of love to stay her hand, to cloud her mind, or weigh down her heart. Maki’s mind is quicksilver; a slipstream of instinct honed by years of determination, drive, and devastating focus. Every blow is the killing blow, every clash makes it clear that while Nadja was devoted to never killing Sukuna if she could help it, Maki has no such reservations. Her heart is laying amidst the ruin of her clan, buried with her twin. Love does not live here.

         She is not like Nadja. She is just like Nadja. She is better than her predecessors.

         “And you think we’re going to just let you go and meet her! You’re going back to hell, Sukuna!” Maki says back, her voice cold as the sword cuts through the shield of his cursed energy, sheathing itself in the cavity in his chest. Sukuna coughs wetly, his senses singing with the familiarity of loathing. This is familiar. This he can do.

         Snck-snck-snck.

A sound like scissors slicing through fabric or paper, and Sukuna swears he sees the ghostly trail of dotted lines across his vision.

         Snck!

         He feels like he is being torn apart, and he realizes with a bitter irony that this technique is his…or a take on his, at any rate.

         Insolent fucking brat.

         The border between his soul and Megumi’s frays at the edges, and he feels the boy stir, like any pitiful creature fed scraps of false hope. But Sukuna has not survived this long for lack of tenacity. The brat’s newly acquired cursed technique may cut at the soul, but he’ll need a lot more power before he can begin to loosen his grip on Megumi’s entire being.

         And he will make sure they are all bled like pigs in a slaughterhouse long before he lets that happen.

         Sukuna makes a binding vow, feels the chains linking around his soul as the conditions are laid out.

         The brat’s hand comes for his heart as he lifts one of his remaining hands, looking down at him.

         “Yuji!” Sundari screams the boy’s name as Sukuna says, “Ryōiki Tenkai…”

         There is a sound in Sundari’s ears like the distant, discordant and brackish ringing of temple bells. Hollow and raspy and coppery. There’s an acrid burn on her tongue as she realizes what’s happening, why it feels so familiar.

         “Yuji!” She screams. “Run!”

         Sukuna’s domain, Malevolent Shrine, is one of the largest domains ever encountered. Worse yet, Sukuna has accomplished the feat of casting it with no barrier, bringing it to existence without enclosing it. Sundari has had time to study since Shibuya and she concludes that a binding vow is why there is a path of escape, which is no path at all, but a slaughterhouse.

         The shrine manifest behind him, true to its name, menacing and evil. The singularity of his cursed energy grows dense as the radius of his domain begins to come to bear in every direction around him.

         Sundari reaches Yuji first, her lower hands casting the lotus mudra.

         Lakshmi’s Lotus.

The barrier blooms around them both as Sundari shields Yuji with her own immense power.

         Sukuna’s domain seals its radius with a high keening sound, and the brackish discord of malevolent temple bells accompany the hissing sound of endless slashes raining down, turning everything to mince.

         Lakshmi’s Lotus holds, and Sundari pours all of her power into maintaining the barrier, watching as Sukuna’s power tears the petals apart, layer by layer. Yuji clings to her, wishing he could help, praying that they can outlast the duration of the domains relentless attacks. They are torn bloody, but Sundari knows what she must down, shifting the gears and flow of her cursed energy.

         Can you heal others?

As they are torn apart, Sundari reforms them. Again and again, the agony of being sliced to bit and being reformed by reverse cursed technique until finally, the hissing stops, the temple bells fade, and all that is left around them is desolation. Everything has been destroyed: the forest, the compound—

         The forest.

         Sundari remembers her mother’s urn, and suddenly her cursed energy spikes as Sukuna spreads his arms. He hasn’t dismissed his domain, but Sundari doesn’t care, because her fury and rage burn with the same radioactive fury of a neutron star. Yuji looks up in shock as Sundari’s found hands open, and he sees what he is sure are flowers of fire blooming in her palms.

         Sundari’s eyes glow white as she opens her mouth, and cursed energy empowers a single word.

         “開”

         Sukuna’s eyes go wide as Sundari opens the Furnace before him. Flames from the First Fire—the spark that breathed life into all things—dance in her palms, and he understands why his daughter was worshipped as a goddess. But scenting new blood, he grins with malicious glee.

         “Now it’s interesting!” He cries, and watches as Sundari moves with a dancer’s effortless grace, and a preternatural speed. He is shocked when her fist destroys the Malevolent Shrine in one blow, dismissing his domain and freeing her friends from its effects in a shower of flame. Sukuna has never seen anyone else wield this technique as it is his own. But Sundari is his blood, and he has known it was engraved on her from the moment they met. He could see it in her eyes, which even now burn with hatred for him.

         The flames do not dismiss after the initial blow, and Sukuna realizes she can wield them as continued weapons. He also knows the amount of cursed energy needed to maintain the divine flames is astronomical. It is why he imposes the binding vow to only use it in the direst need. And here is his daughter, treating it like a plaything. How insulting.

         But every hit is devastating. What Malevolent Shrine did not shred, Sundari’s Kamino technique burns, and she is wild and angry and enraged like before she was sealed. She will stain this ground with her pain for Sukuna has committed a grievous and unforgivable sin.

         The flames sputter out, but her rage does not, and she and Sukuna engage one another in a bloody battle, tearing wounds into one another with every strike. Sundari shatters the hardened mask on the side of his fast, blinding him on one side, and he slashes the corner of her mouth down to the bone, revealing her gritted teeth.

         It is only pain. It is only vengeance.

         Yuji prepares his attack.

     Snck-snck-snck!

Sukuna, now blinded on one side and contending with the relentless grief of his daughter, does not see the ghostly dotted lines appearing around him.

     Snck!

He stumbles as his soul is hit again. That cursed border he’s erected between himself and th Fushiguro boy frays.

     Sundari lands a blow to his injured chest in a shower of black sparks, driving the King of Curses to his knees.

     Snck!

The threads binding him to Megumi severe one by one, until suddenly—

     “Stop it,” Megumi’s voice sounds as broken as Sundari feels. She and Yuji stand over him as he curls in on himself. This place Sukuna has cast him is dark and bleak and void of everything. Sundari can only imagine the cruelties her father has subjected the boy to keep him suppressed. Is there no depth to which Sukuna will not sink?

     “Fushiguro,” Sundari says, her breath winded. “You have got to get up. I know it’s rough, but if you don’t get up, he wins.”

     “He’s already won,” Megumi argues, and he sounds shattered. Sundari understands more than he realizes. It’s why he must fight.

     “Hikmat-san,” Yuji says, and his voice is unnervingly calm. Sundari’s eyes cut to him. “We can’t…we can’t ask this of him. Can’t ask him to live when so much has been taken from him.”

     Sundari wants to protest. She’d heard about Tsumiki, and the incarnated sorcerer that had taken her body. She understands that Megumi was awake and present when Sukuna took the girl’s life with no more thought than he’d give a pestering insect. Sundari is angry because it is a death her mother could have—and should have—prevented.

     “No,” she says bitterly. “But…he is your friend, Yuji.”

     Yuji nods, smiling at Megumi and crouching down to meet the boy’s haunted green eyes.

     “I won’t ask you to fight, or even live. But it would be so lonely without you, Fushiguro. There’s still so much about sorcery I don’t know, and you were the first person to bring me into it. I can’t imagine going on without you, not without trying to save you.”

     Megumi is silent in the wake of Yuji’s words. And then—

     Sukuna feels his control slip as one of the shadows beneath him turns to liquid, staggering him as Sundari rains down blows on him with all the aching fury of her heart.

     Snck!

Sukuna cries out as the last threads of the border are severed and Megumi Fushiguro’s consciousness bleeds to the foreground, inky darkness purer than the corrupted prison Sukuna had subjected him to.

     Yuji glances at Sundari, and Sundari nods. It’s now or never.

     “Ryōiki Tenkai: Tripura Purification.”

     Sundari’s domain floods the landscape, but unlike her father’s, she withholds her attack. Above them, a starry night, and the silhouette of a four-armed goddess swimming in the vast darkness betwixt the stars above.

     “You think you have it in you to kill us both, whelp?” Sukuna taunts through a mouth full of blood as his wounds slow him. Sundari is sad that it must come to this, but her father has caused enough grief, and her mother’s cowardice has shamed her.

     “Hanten: Divine Mandate.”

     Sukuna’s taunting dwindles on both his tongues as the domain shifts. He feels his cursed energy being drained, forming something—he can sense it: an altar. Sundari’s domain is an altar, and he begins to panic as his cursed energy dwindles. An altar to whom?

     Sundari doesn’t speak, both mouths occupied in chanting a mantra in a haunting harmony. Yuji stays near her, protected by Lakshmi’s Lotus, which she maintains with her unoccupied hands. With her sacrifice prepared, Sundari bangs on the door she should not know exists.

     Time seems to stop. The world feels like it sucks in a collective breath, and all trapped within Sundari’s rapidly inverting domain are made aware of something vast and incomprehensible turning its attention toward them. Sukuna feels it, can swear he almost sees it—a massive, cosmic eye blinking with a slowness that only a creature like Nadja could have understood were she here. He looks at his daughter, who sits in a pose that tells him she may be a bodhisattva in this lifetime.

     The gods are watching them. Waiting. An offering has been prepared, and Sundari makes her request, chanting in a tongue that tolls endlessly across the universe without beginning or end. Sukuna is awed by it, for he never imagined such power could ever exist in a human. Well, half human. Even though her mother’s divine spirit was trapped in a heavenly pacted form, her union with Sukuna managed to produce this being capable of grasping the livewire pulse of the divine lifeline of the universe itself, if only for a brief time.

     Sundari’s request is heard, and everyone remains frozen, even Sukuna, who does not dare move with the eyes of the cosmic powers beyond mortal comprehension scrutinizing them all. It is perhaps the first time the King of Curses has ever truly been humbled.

     Sundari’s eyes glow white.

     The gods consider her request, the great cosmic eye blinking in the span of time it takes entire galaxies to be born and to die. Sukuna stares upward in shock and realizes belatedly that time has not frozen for any of them. Sundari’s domain has placed all within it in a state of quantum uncertainty. Sukuna is alive and dead at the same time. His daughter communes with the very powers that be for the fate of her accursed father.

     And as Sukuna is peeled from the mortal plane, his last sight is of Sundari engulfed in the flames of the First Fire, and yet her flesh does not burn. Yuji cries out in anguish, but Sukuna sees the cursed ink of his tattoos being stripped from her flesh, even as Megumi is separated from him. This is a power beyond any of them, and Sundari is merely the conduit for it.

     Sukuna’s world is thrust once more into perfect, utter darkness.

˚⊱🪷⊰˚ Masterpost || Previous Chapter || Next Chapter ⤳

© 2024 Hajara Asiri. Do NOT copy, translate, plagiarize, repost anywhere without permission [reblogging posts is okay]. This includes copying my masterlist format or feeding ANY of my writing to the uninspired AI garbage machines. I only upload on Tumblr, AO3, and FFN. Title and footer banners by me. Dividers and support by @cafekitsune.

☕️ Member of the @pixelcafe-network.

[thgfanfictionlibrary]

Active Authors Masterlist (5)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 /

***Active (on this blog) is defined as a blog/writer who has updated within the past year. Inactive (on this blog) is defined as a blog/writer that has not been updated at all in the past year+. On THG Writing Hiatus (on this blog) is a blog/writer who has updated within the past year but has not posted a fanfic in the fandom in the past year BUT they may return to writing in the future. Lists will be updated as needed based on activity. ***

Created: November 17th, 2023

Last Checked:----

RoseFyre :: ao3, ff.net, co-writing tumblr, tumblr

Popular Fic: Let Me Fly: When a plague hits District Twelve, Katniss is forced to make some very hard decisions. Together with Gale and what’s left of their families, they decide to escape District Twelve, taking a reluctant Peeta Mellark with them. (@rosefyrefyre, @christinaroseandrews)

shesasurvivor :: ao3, other ao3, tumblr, ff.net

Popular Fic: Getting There: Katniss has started being intimate with Peeta, but there are still a few barriers she needs to break through to fully enjoy herself. A suggestion from Dr. Aurelius may be just what she needs. Post-Mockingjay, masturbation/mutual masturbation. Written for Everlarkrecs Dirty December Week 3. (@shesasurvivor)

songbirdheart :: ao3, tumblr

Popular Fic: Snownstorm: “Spring is for courting, so mother will say; summer for wedding, rosy as May; autumn for keeping you warm from the cold; winter for babies to care when we’re old.” Written for the prompt: "No games, canon. Just a good, all time favorite “it would have happened anyway” story. Maybe throw in snowstorm trope to make it seasonal?" You got it. :D (@rosegardeninwinter)

sparebitofparchment :: ao3

Popular Fic: She's a Survivor: The Hunger Games from Peeta's POV: the angsty cut -- "The flames have set Katniss's whole cape in motion. The way it drapes fluidly from her slim shoulders, every shift of her lithe body seems to set the air alight. The crown of fire paints golden shimmers along her high cheekbones and kisses the glossed pink cupid’s bow of her mouth, turning the keen angles of her face into something divinely sculpted. Firelight limns the sparkle of surprised delight in her eyes, and as she turns to inspect her costume, red and gold highlights glow like embers in her hair. She's transformed into something otherworldly. It's not that you can't see she’s from the Seam. It's just, Cinna has brought to life how powerful she is for it."

teetorini :: ao3, tumblr

Popular Fic: Our Story: Katniss finds herself falling in love with her best friend after graduation. The problem? He's leaving, and...it's complicated.

thinkinthankin :: ao3

Popular Fic: The First Year: The first year back in Twelve, an extension of the last chapter of Mockingjay. Picks up from "Peeta, bearing a warm loaf of bread, shows up with Greasy Sae. She makes us breakfast and I feed all my bacon to Buttercup." A year of Katniss and Peeta making do, breaking down, and "growing back together." Working on the book. Baking. Hunting. "Real." Sitting around the fire with Haymitch. A birthday, a toasting. "Strange bits of happiness."

thismustbeagoodidea :: ao3, tumblr

Popular Fic: The Hunger Games from Peeta's POV: “I don’t think it’s going to work out. Winning...won’t help in my case.” I want to go back to the charming lies. I planned for this, so why does it feel like something in my gut is rotting? “Why ever not?” Caesar asks. I drag in a deep breath. All that strategizing over how to win the most sympathy, and now I feel like I’ve lost control of my face. My mask is slipping, my cheeks growing hot. There are so many eyes on me, all of them hungry. I meet Haymitch’s gaze in the crowd. His hard expression isn’t exactly comforting, but at least he isn’t enjoying this the way everyone else is. I feel my mouth open as though pulled with a string. “Because...because...she came here with me.”

whenthewallfell :: ao3, tumblr

Popular Fic: Cracks and Sparks and a Stop-Start Heart: It's not the same as before. He can sort of remember it now, a childish fantasy borne of a broken home and a desperate loneliness, but there's no emotion attached to it beyond a vague sort of pity. It's a bit like reading a report. (@whenthewallfell)

[frozenwolftemplar]

Writer's Month Day 26: Found

Fandom: Tangled: the Series (Cass-centric character study)

Rating: G

Word Count: 807 (more or less)

Summary: Cassandra was five when she learned a hard truth about life and found the dead butterfly.

Author's Note: I had *so* many ideas for this prompt, ideas that I still want to bring to life, but went with this one. Hope you enjoy!

+++

She was only five when she found it, but Cassandra still remembers the dead butterfly.

She...doesn’t have a lot of memories from back then, and those that she does possess are barely there: snatches of storybooks limned by firelight, blurry reflections of a birthday and a wooden sword just for her, echoes of her voice, high and desperate, calling after her dad as he rode over the mainland bridge because it reminded her too much of something she'd always been unable to recall. They are brittle, thin things, robbed by time of details and clarity so they feel more like remnants of dreams than anything, wanting little more than a thought to brush across them to shudder and crumbling into dust.

But the butterfly...the butterfly is as clear in her mind’s eye as if she were holding it once again in her palm.

It hardly weighed more than the air, and if it wasn’t for the faint feel of wings and spindly legs curled in rictus against her skin, she wouldn’t have truly believed she was holding it. She’d been fascinated, at first, running a finger along the fuzzy body, holding it so close to her face her eyes must have crossed as she examined its curling tongue-thing and antennas and all those other parts you never get to really *see* when they’re alive and fluttering among the dahlias instead of lying limp and still beneath them. Most of all, she stared at its wings.

It’s wings.

She’d touched them. How could she not? Butter yellow with bold, dauntless red stripes streaming down their length like banners of victory and running along the curve at the tops before joining them in tapering off into fine saber points. Her finger came away dusty, coated in a powder so fine she couldn’t feel it; however the blood-red tip of her index, along with the bare, translucent fingerprint-sized spot left behind on the wing, shouted something that she couldn’t hear, but meant something to her five-year-old self nonetheless.

Because seeing those gay, bright wings, the butterfly’s pride and joy and freedom in life, useless and slowly flaking away...made her feel wrong inside; cracked beyond what glue could fix.

She hadn’t liked it.

She remembered taking it to her dad. He was in the Captain’s office, poring over maps and pieces of paper so scribbled over with lines they were more inky black than beige. Busy, but he took pause to see what brought her into the office. She showed him the butterfly corpse and her finger and the bare spot on the wing and done what any self-respecting child would do: asked questions.

“Why’s it dead?” “I don’t know, sweetheart.” “Did a cat get it?” “Don’t think so; it’d be more beat up if one did.” “Was it sick?” “Uh...maybe?” “Why?” “Well...my guess is it came out too soon. It’s pretty early in the year for butterflies; last night may have just been too cold for it.” “Then why did it come out too early?” (it had come out a tad judgmental, but honestly, she was disappointed in it if that were true; she thought butterflies were smarter than that) “Don’t know. Not sure if the butterfly even would’ve had a say. Sometimes things like that just happen.” He stood as he said it, giving her hair a stroke as she continued to stare at the lifeless wings. “Guess it just wasn’t meant to fly.”

It wasn’t meant to fly.

His words stuck with her, after Murdock rushed in with an ‘urgent summons’ from the king and, because dead butterflies are of far, far lesser importance, Cass was left- “You sure, hun?” “Yes, Daddy.” -on her own; after she’d gently buried the butterfly (it hadn’t seemed right to toss it aside like an apple core or keep it in a box with her collection of Interesting Feathers and the lucky rabbit’s foot Peder the stableboy had given her); and long after she’d grown up and become outwardly inured to the hardships and injustices and unfairness of the world.

Because she’d found out a truth about life that day: not everyone was meant to fly. Some were fated from before they’d even opened their wings to the world to suffer, to struggle, to lay cold and alone and broken inside while the rest of the world laughed and smiled and soared.

But that was okay, because she'd always believed fate's hand could be moved and that she *could* soar, if she worked hard enough, tried hard enough, *proved* herself a thousand times over. But now-

“MAMA!!!”

Now, kneeling on the threshold of her- her home and numbly watching her world shatter around her like the shards of music box slipping through her phantom fingers, ears ringing with cries her throat and heart finally remember, the wails slotting like a key into that unreachable corner of her mind that’s been haunting her all her life and unleashing a storm of sadness and grief and loneliness and hurt that has her unleashing a lifetime of suppressed sobs, she knows: that was wishful thinking. A fool’s dream.

Because beneath the armor, on the charred remnants of her hand, she can feel butterfly dust on her fingers.

”But Cassandra, there is a way...”

[twofrontteethstillcrooked]

Suptober 15 Oct.: Smoke

"Is this right?" Cas asked.

He sounded so perplexed Dean snapped to attention to discover Cas holding a lit torch like a befuddled member of a mob.

deancas ust, post s5 au

Cold October nights in a field off a country road were hard to beat: crackling bonfire, scents of smoke and drying leaves, big spark-filled sky growing darker as the moon waned.

"Is this right?" Cas asked.

He sounded so perplexed Dean snapped to attention to discover Cas holding a lit torch like a befuddled member of a mob. 

"No," Dean clarified, and grabbed the branch out of Cas's hand. He blew on the far beyond well done marshmallow until the flames went out. A swirl of bitter smoke lingered around him and Cas for a few seconds as Dean handed back the branch.

"Thank you." Cas warily eyed the marshmallow, which was now a gooey ball of charcoal.

"Don't eat that," Dean said.

"I wasn't going to." 

"Shades of brown are fine; even darker ones are ideal. Black probably causes cancer or something."

Cas squinted in his quizzical way. "I am highly unlikely to develop cancer."

Dean tipped his head back in exasperation. "Well, bully for you." He reached backwards and felt around on the damp ground for the bag of marshmallows. He fished out one and tossed it to Cas, who caught it with surprising ease. "Let's try this again." He paused. "Swap sticks with me." 

He spent a minute pulling the hot ruined blob off of the end of Cas's branch and threw it, as best he could, into the fire, where it spat for a second before melting away completely. He rubbed his fingers in the grass to de-goop them. Finally, he took the marshmallow from Cas and pierced it with the branch. Cas made an impatient gesture and Dean held up a hand.

"Okay, round two. We're gonna do this nice and slow like, all right? I give you back the branch, you're gonna keep your friend here a little further back from the fire and you're gonna toast this marshmallow. We want even color, flavor development. We want melty in the middle and a lil crisp on the outside. We don't want an incendiary device." 

Dean gave Cas his sternest look. When he felt Cas was appropriately serious, he gave him back the branch, his fingers brushing Cas's just briefly. 

Cas sat down on the low, long log Dean occupied. He could've chosen to sit further away, but didn't. Dean could've moved over. Didn't.

He stabbed another marshmallow onto his own branch – he'd already eaten close to a dozen and what of it? – and let it dangle near the fire. No rush. With casualness he absolutely did not feel, he watched Cas out of the corner of his eye. This time, Cas was indeed following instructions, sitting up straight, feet planted in the grass. He toasted his marshmallow with precision, a look of pure determination on his face. The firelight limned his profile in flickering gold and Dean's mouth went dry staring at it.

Cas caught him and smiled a tentative smile. "This better?"

Dean managed a "Yep" before giving a small cough. The smoke, of course. Bothersome. Oh shit the marshmallow – he yanked his branch out of the fire and did not engage with the eagle-eyed look Cas was giving him.

"See, this," Dean said, playing it cool, "is a bit further along than I'd like, but!" He dusted off some of the charred outer layer and only gave himself the tiniest of second degree burns doing so. "Cleans right up." He hoovered the marshmallow into his mouth and prayed he wouldn't need medical attention later.

He didn't. Such was the magic of a well toasted marshmallow.

Cas had his marshmallow perfectly toasted and pulled away from the flames. 

Dean whistled. "That is a beautiful specimen." He grinned and bumped Cas's shoulder. "Ready to try it?"

Cas took the marshmallow off of the branch tip with his fingertips and examined it. He seemed very skeptical as he put the whole thing in his mouth.

He did not chew.

"Buddy, you have to– You eat it just like anything else." Dean bugged his eyes at him. 

After an excruciating half minute, Cas chewed with his mouth closed and his whole face telegraphing displeasure – eyebrows knitted, jaw squared. He swallowed, looking for all the world like he wanted to die. He sat there on the log and didn't speak. He looked at Dean finally, his eyes haunted.

"Your new favorite snack, huh?" Dean never had been good at certain types of sympathy. He wanted to laugh almost as much as he wanted to give Cas a hug.

A manly hug. You know.

"I found the consistency of that…thing to be altogether disconcerting," Cas said. 

"Sorry, man." Dean forced his face into a kinder expression. "Sensory issues can be a bitch."

"I'm glad I tried one," Cas said, rallying. "Now I know toasted marshmallows are horrible." He looked downright gratified about this gained wisdom.

"Well, agree to disagree. Anyway, nice – this was a successful experiment." Dean took a drink of beer out of their last bottle and handed it off to Cas, who drained the rest of it, probably to wash away the taste of caramelized sugar. 

Which was a damn shame in Dean's book, but he wasn't going to judge. He was just happy Cas was sitting beside him and not off in heaven doing whatever the other angels were doing now, in the averted-end times. 

Sadness blindsided him so hard he almost fell off the log. 

"Dean?" Cas said quietly.

"Fine, fine." Dean pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Smokey out here." His voice was thick with it too.

"We'll figure out a way to rescue Sam, Dean." Cas put his hand in the crook of Dean's arm. 

Dean exhaled, feeling embarrassed. If Cas's angel powers were mostly offline, his ability to pick up on emotions was apparently as sharp as ever. Or maybe it was Dean's close proximity. Either way, Dean knew he should move away, put more space between them – here, and everywhere. They'd spent way too much time together in the last four months or so; Dean had been grieving for the entirety of it, but the sorrow had also been fuel. Busting Sam out of the cage was never going to be simple.

"Why'd you come back?" Dean asked, before he realized he was going to. "I mean, I know when you arrived upstairs you were summarily asked to leave again and escorted from the premises and all that, but like." He swallowed against a burning at the back of his throat. "Wasn't any reason for you to have to settle for hanging around with me."

"I haven't been settling." Cas hadn't removed his hand. He squeezed Dean's arm, as if to make sure Dean was listening. "You're my friend, and I have the chance to help you." He let go, something almost distraught in his eyes.

"What?" Dean caught his hand before he could pull it completely away.

"I…" Cas looked down at their fingers tangled together. 

Dean blinked too; he hadn't entirely meant to actually hold Cas's hand. He found he liked the weight of it.

Cas took a breath. "I regretted leaving you. Even before it was clear I wouldn't be allowed to remain in heaven… I heard your last prayer." He looked up and waited until Dean remembered.

Oh. Dean definitely remembered. The motel room. The night before he was going to head to Lisa's. He'd buckled to his knees in pain and cried until he thought his chest would split. He'd crawled across the floor and leaned against the bed, trying not to breathe too deeply or think too hard about Sam. He'd prayed one thing aloud: "Cas. Goodbye."

Cas knocked on his door the next morning. Dean dropped a postcard to Lisa (Be well. –D.) in the mailbox at the corner of the parking lot. He and Cas had started researching Sam's situation by that evening at Bobby's house. So here they were. Somewhere deep down Dean was still furious; he still didn't know whether he wanted peace or freedom or why he or anyone else should ever have to choose.

It didn't matter quite as much right at this very moment, though.

"Missed me. Huh." Dean felt his heart lighten at the sight of Cas almost smiling, almost shyly. "I'd have missed you too," he admitted. "Plus, if you'd never come back down, you'd have gone another 72 million years without eating a toasted marshmallow, and I think your life would've been the poorer for it."

Cas sighed in a resigned sort of way. But he didn't leave, and he left his hand in Dean's, and they stayed at least another hour, watching the fire dance beneath the night's beaded curtain of stars. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By the king’s hand 🐍 XVI

Warnings: noncon/rape, violence/death, trauma, allusions to torture.

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The king proves himself and the reader must accept her fate.

Note: Welcome back, King Loki. Y’all better be ready because our little mouse will never stop suffering.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You felt like you were suffocating, slowly under a heap of rocks. Your return to the palace was a blur. You barely recalled the ride in the carriage or the flights of stairs between you and the chambers. 

You were entirely consumed by your memories and their voices; Magnus, broken before the court, confessing his crimes. Thor, angry and brutal as ever, shouting back at the people as they cried out at their traitorous prince. Neither gave you peace; they were only trapped animals waiting to break free and lash out again.

Hal was a spot in your vision. His voice tickled your ears but you couldn’t answer him as you laid across the bed, clutching a pillow as you rocked frantically. As you calmed, spent from your fit, you rested on your side and quivered every now and then. The sobs would not come, only rattling breaths that seized your whole body.

Time slaked away like layers of ice melting into a puddle. The curtains were drawn back and revealed the shift of sunlight. A pale grey darkened to a dull slate and cast shadows around you, looming over you like the monsters in your mind.

You flinched as you heard the door, the hinges creaked and your fingers sank deep into the feather pillow. Hal greeted the king and firm footsteps marched across the floorboards. Loki’s figure appeared at the edge of your sight as you laid with your back to the hearth. He sighed as he came up behind you and sat on the edge of the mattress.

“You left rather suddenly,” he said as his hand settled on your side. You winced and hugged the pillow tighter. You hid your face against it, the feathers poking through and causing your cheeks to itch. “Mouse…”

You whimpered and curled your legs up. What had this man done to you that was any different than those two savages? You still bore the scars of his switch across your back and your only shield was the life growing in your stomach. It was him who had brought you to this; who had sentenced you to live as a piece of a flesh; who had exposed you to the barbarity of his kin and kith.

“Why?” You asked softly as you turned your head against the pillow.

“I thought… I thought you would want to see vengeance done.” He said sternly. “To see that I’ve brought those beasts to justice.”

You sniffed and shook your head. “I never wanted to see them again… I…” You shrugged and exhaled weakly. 

“I did it for you, Mouse. I dragged that animal, Magnus, down to my dungeons and cut his flesh until he did confess. I watched his blood weep from his flesh and reminded him of what he'd done to you. I made him tremble at my hands. For you.” He sneered. “I’d do it again.”

“You did it for you. For your pride.” You uttered. “You’ve never done anything for me or any other. It is all for you. They humiliated you, took your plaything, kept from you your pleasures. It isn’t about me, it is about what I can do for you.” You wiggled away from his touch, “Do not lie to me, it not only makes me a fool, but you as well.”

“Do not presume to know my will,” he snarled, “Do not talk to me as if I am your subject and not the other way around. And look at me--” He grabbed your chin and forced you onto your back, “When you speak to me, mouse.”

You blinked as a lump lodged in your throat and let the pillow fall away from you. You braced yourself for what he would do next. You remembered the noise of the hinges, the heavy footsteps, the metal against your wrists, the stony touch of loveless beings, the violent claims to your body. 

You grabbed the king’s arm and began to flail. “No, no, no,” You exclaimed, “Please--”

“Gods,” Loki said in exasperation, “Hal! Hal!” You heard softer soles on the boards, “Fetch Birger. Now.”

Loki wriggled his arm from your grasp and grabbed your shoulders. He pinned you down as you kicked out and clawed at the air. “Mouse, shhhh. Mouse!”

“No! No! No!” Your hand flew up and struck Loki’s jaw. He grunted and shook away the jolt.

He struggled with you until the door sounded again and there was a clatter of footsteps across the front chamber. Loki climbed over you as the physician appeared and touched your forehead.

“I don’t know what has come over her.” Loki said, “She has these… episodes.”

“Ah, well she is with child and only just returned from an immense situation. Her nerves are split.” Birgir rubbed your cheek calmingly, “Dear, tell me five things you can see.”

“No, no, no,” you chanted.

“Five things, dear. Five things you can see.” He urged.

“The-- The bedpost…” You wisped, “Y-Your cap… Hal… The ceiling… A chair…”

“Very well, dear, and five thing, “Three things you can feel.”

“Y-Y-Your hand,” you touched the back of his hand, “The bed…” Your eyes flicked back and forth, “The fire.”

“Great, great,” he took your hand gently, “One thing you can smell.”

“The wood. Burning wood.” You gulped.

Birger nodded and smiled at you gently. “Hal, my boy, bring my chest.”

“What is wrong with her?” The king knelt on the mattress beside you.

“I told you. It is stress.” Birger said staunchly and squinted at the king, “Have you…”

“Not in the last days.” Loki admitted.

“But since her return?” The physician prodded. The king rolled his eyes and glanced away tellingly. “And you expect you to be as she was after all that? Do you even know all that happened to her?”

“She does not speak of it.” The king huffed.

“And why should she? To you?”

“You tread a dangerous path, Birger,” Loki warned.

Birger tutted and caressed the back of your hand. “Alright, I’ll do what I can.”

“You have something which can restrain her,” Loki said, “That can calm her.”

“As her condition stands, not much.” Birger stood as Hal approached with his chest, “It is better if she is kept calm. You can burn lavender--”

“No, you will sedate her so she will sleep,” Loki ordered, “I’ve pressing matters and little energy or time for this nonsense.”

“With respect, your majesty, this nonsense is as much to do with you as it is your brother or his accomplice,” Birger insisted, “It will persist.”

“So be it,” Loki pushed himself off the bed, “Find one of your vials and do your duty. She needs sleep, not quackery.” Birger let out a long breath and tapped his fingers on the lip of the chest. “Well, you’ve something else to say?” The king challenged.

“No, your majesty,” Birger looked into his chest and stirred through the contents, “Boy, bring some milk for the woman.”

Your body was limp across the bed, suddenly without strength as you listened to the argument. It was your fault. All of it. If you could just control yourself. If you weren’t so weak and stupid.

“When you finish, you will go.” Loki neared the door. “And do not bother me on your exit.”

The king disappeared through the doorway and you looked up at Birger as he pulled out a glass vial. You saw the irritation on his face.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly.

“Why?” He asked bluntly, “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

You clamped your lips shut and stared at the top of the bedpost. Hal returned and handed a cup of milk to Birger. The physician mixed in drops of the tincture and sat to hand it to you. You pushed yourself up and took it from him.

“Perhaps it is better you sleep for a time,” Birger said. “Are you eating well?”

“Yes, a lot,” you assured him and sipped the thick milk.

“Well, you make sure you keep on. Rest as much as you can.” He looked to Hal, “See if the boy is permitted to take you on walks. You must keep active as you can.”

You nodded and swallowed the milk tainted with the odd flavour of the medicine.

“Is the king rough with you? As he was before?”

You shook your head as you offered the empty cup. “Not since…” You nodded to your stomach.

“Good, good,” Birger set the cup aside and packed up his chest. “Take care, dear. I will be look in as I can.” He hauled his chest up and clapped Hal’s shoulder, “And boy, you will keep her well in my absence.”

“On my honour,” Hal promised and followed the physician to the door.

You felt heavy as you laid back and listened to Birger’s departure. The king was just in the next chamber and you heard the flutter of pages. Hal’s figure lingered as your eyelids shut and you sank down into the abyss. You were smothered by a sleep deeper than any you’d known in months.

🐍

You weren’t certain how long you slept. You woke in a fog. It was dark but for the glow of the fire and the shapes around you, the furniture shroud in grey, seemed distant and yet close. You felt light and airy and your body felt detached from your thoughts.

You lifted your head and peered around, trying to focus on the chair before the hearth. A wraith sat in it and as you sat up, you realised it was the king. You giggled and let the blankets fall away from your shoulders. He glanced over at you and tilted his head as the firelight limned his features.

“Mouse?” He said quizzically.

“Looookiiiii,” you sang as you turned your legs over the edge. He was visibly aghast at your use of his name. You only laughed again as you stood and wobbled. “Such an odd name.”

“Is it?” He lowered his brows and carefully stood to face you, “You should stay, mouse.”

“No, I’m not tired,” you argued and gave a long yawn. “I feel alive!”

“You can barely stay on your feet,” he rushed forward as you stumbled and caught you. “Come on, to bed with you.”

“Wouldn’t you like that!” You snapped and wriggled in his grasp. “But I’m hungry.”

“You’re deluded,” he rebuked.

You laughed and continued to struggle with him. “I’m perfectly well,” you slapped his chest, “I’m just…” You looked down as your stomach brushed against him and your mouth fell open. “Oh, gods…” You rubbed your middle, “I’ve already eaten too much!”

“No, mouse,” you heard a sliver of amusement in his tone, “You… you are just fine.”

“I’m fat!” You pouted and glared up at him. “Why am I so fat?”

He barely withheld a snicker and took your hand daintily. “I have some biscuits. Would you like one?”

“I couldn’t…” You shook your head as you felt your stomach. “I’m already-- but I am hungry. Just one, just one.”

“Well, you must sit if you want one,” he chided. “Understood, mouse?”

“Mouse! Mouse!” You mocked. “I hate that name. I am not a mouse.”

“Alright,” he nudged you back to the bed and you sat heavily, “Then what are you?”

“Hungry. I told you.” You crossed your arms. “Who are you?”

He grinned and looked around as if confused. “It is me, Loki.”

“Your nose is big,” you said sharply. 

“Thank you,” he said rigidly. “Just wait here.”

He left you and returned with a small box. He took out a biscuit with currants baked into it and held it out. He set the box aside and sat beside you as you eyed the treat.

“What is it?”

“It’s a biscuit,” he said curtly. “Like I said.”

“Sure, sure,” you smelled it and cautiously took a bite, “Suppose it tastes like a biscuit.”

He was quiet. You flinched as you felt his hand on your back suddenly. He rubbed a circle there as you chewed and you clapped the crumbs from your hands as you finished.

“Good?” He asked.

“I told you,” you grabbed his arm and shoved it away. “No.”

He dropped his arm and nodded. He watched you as you balled your hands in fists. You stood and stomped like a child around the room.

“As good as it feels, no, no, no!” You swept your finger through the air. “But perhaps…” You stopped and thought for a moment, “No! No!” You sneered at him. “I don’t want your royal cock tonight, sir!”

At last he chuckled and you were startled by the noise. His features contorted in his mirth and you watched him with wide eyes. He stood and neared you slowly. He reached out tentatively and touched your arms.

“Fine. Not tonight.” He assured you. “But you must lay back down.”

“Why?” You quivered and looked at your body again, “Are my legs broken?”

He smirked and shook his head. “No, because it is the middle of the night.”

You frowned. “Oh.”

“So, bed?” He asked.

“Wait!” You stopped him.

“What is it now?” He sniffed.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged. 

“Right,” he said and calmly led you back to the bed. “Time to sleep, mouse.”

“Hmmpf,” you grumbled at the pet name and let him lay you across the bed. “I’m not tired.”

“Oh, you’re not?” He taunted as you yawned again into your hand.

“No,” you argued and your eyes closed. “Not at all.”

“Not at all,” he echoed as he pulled the blankets over you.

He sat with you until you drifted off again though you were barely aware of him. You fell back into the warmth of the bed and the haze of your mind. The peculiar scene blending in with your senseless dreams.

🐍

You awoke facing the king. He slumbered beside you, his pale features unmarred by his waking thoughts. Your head was fuzzy and your limbs heavy. You sat up slowly and wiped the sleep from your eyes. The events of the days before slowly came back to you but did not hit you with the same force. You were anxious to think of Thor and Magnus but not terrified.

Loki groaned and reached out to touch your leg, as if assuring himself of your presence, as he stirred. You watched his long fingers as he squeezed you through the blankets and opened his eyes.

“Mouse,” he voice was hoarse as he retracted his hand and swept his dark hair back. “Is there something the matter?”

You shook your head and looked around. You didn’t like how comfortable you felt. You recalled his callous words the day before during your panic and all those times before he had been unkind. How could he sleep beside you as he would a wife? A wife…

You turned your back to him and evaded his reach again as you stood. You hugged yourself as you neared the dwindling fire and shivered. You heard the mattress move beneath him but he did not rise. You looked to the ceiling as you tried to clear your thoughts.

“Why won’t you give me an answer?” You asked.

“Excuse me?”

“What is to become of me when your wife is here?” You spun back to face him. He sprawled across the mattress as his shoulders and chest were bare above them. “I know this… will change. And I know once this babe is born, you will be done with me or cruel as you were before.”

His face darkened but he made no move to rise. He exhaled, a low growl, and rubbed his forehead.

“I needn’t tell you anything more than you need to know.” He sneered. “I will do whatever is best at the time.”

You gritted your teeth in frustration. You hated his riddles. You weren’t going to get an answer.

“My wife will do whatever I wish of her. And when I have a child on her, then you and the bastard will be of little bother.” He uttered. “And when you are ready, you will return to your original duty.”

Your chest knotted and your stomach grumbled painfully. Your anxiety mixed with your hunger and made your core a pit.

“And the child? I am to carry it to some unknown fate?”

“My child. I shall keep it safe.”

“And me?”

“You are its mother. But you are mine, first and foremost.” He bent his arms behind his head. “You will serve me before the child.”

You scowled in disgust but said nothing. He watched you and slipped his hand beneath the blankets.

“I will have a nursemaid for you. You needn’t worry for the child’s health.” He cooed.

“And my own? Do you care?”

He scoffed. “I’ve provided you with shelter, with sustenance, with a physician for your ailments. I’ve seen you well and I ask little in return.” He declared. “Remind yourself again that you are not my wife.”

“Yes, I am your whore. I am aware.” You hissed. “But you do seem to forget yourself.”

“I forget myself?” He sat up. “Oh, let us put things straight.”

You staggered backwards as he was off the bed in an instant. He seized your arm and you struggled with him as he tried to drag you back with him. 

“The child!” You cried.

“Will be well,” he snarled as he grabbed a hank of your hair and twisted your neck painfully. “Come on, mouse, you want things to be as they were.”

“Stop! I only--”

He sat and you lurched against him. He pushed you back and forced you down to your knees and drew you between his own. His cock twitched and hardened slowly as he clung to you. You pushed on his thighs and wrestled with him as he gripped your jaw.

“My patience for you is spent,” he spat as he shoved your head into his lap. “Open up, whore.”

“Please--”

“Let me give you your answer.” He bit out. “When you have born my bastard, I will use those parts of you unruined by its passage.” He squeezed until you gasped and forced his tip into your mouth. “I shall have my wife’s cunt and your mouth.”

You gurgled as he pushed against the back of your throat and slid down it. You gagged and he pulled you back. 

“Breathe,” he warned, “You don’t want to hurt the child.”

He forced you back down and you clawed at his sides. He moved your head steadily, up and down his length until he was entirely hard. You were dizzy and helpless against him. His groans and grunts added to the noise of you in his mouth and he clutched your head tighter.

He fucked your mouth until you were gasping and gulping around him. He wrenched you off of him suddenly and stroked himself to his climax, his seed stringing across your face. He released you and you fell back in a heap. He stood and stepped around you without concern.

“That is what you will be. Always.” He barked as he crossed the room. “Mine. To do with as I please.”

🐍

The days that followed were frigid and fraught. You could not forget that morning as the king’s former disposition returned fully. He left you in the morning without disturbance and you bided the hours silently, barely aware of Hal as he tried to cheer you. When Loki returned, the boy was sent away. He didn’t speak, only sat and stewed in whatever blight had angered him that day.

And when he wanted you, he had you. Hand, mouth, or cunt. You bore it and hid yourself under the covers when it was done. 

Another week gone and Hal announced that the verdict had been dealt. Loki hadn’t said and you hadn’t dared to ask. You listened as the boy explained how the jury and judges had found Thor guilty and condemned him to death by the sword. Magnus, however, was to be hung like a common criminal.

But that did not mean you would be without a villain. Loki’s moods assured you that nothing had changed at all. It assured you that your life would be as it ever was. That the fate he’d promised you down in that dungeon would come to pass. You would never escape him and perhaps, though you’d not realised it, your time with Thor and Magnus could have been your only hope at an eventual end to the agony.

You sat in limbo. You could hardly believe that they would die and yet, you feared the future beyond. For all the certainty of their sentences, yours was still frightfully abstract. You could not decide if you were appeased by their demise or envious of it.

Your inner strife was interrupted as Hal stood suddenly and you turned to watch the door open. The boy bowed to the king as he entered, clothed in fur and his horned crown. You stood and the king looked between the two of you. He raised his chin and looked down his nose.

“Get her a cloak and boots,” he demanded, “You will accompany us to the green.”

“The green? Why--”

“Gird your tongue, woman,” Loki demanded. “Haven’t you asked enough questions?”

Hal glanced at you wistfully but did as he was told. He helped you into the fur-trimmed cloak and you pulled the hood up as he helped you step into the boots and laced them tightly. Hal snatched up his own cap as he followed you and the king into the corridor.

You walked behind Loki and his guards, Hal was at your side and foreboding set deep in your stomach. You could guess at the event on the green though you hoped it wasn’t as you expected.

You came out into the blustery winter light and a crowd gathered around a stage erected over the white yard. Just before the walls of Boulder Tower, housed tight within the borders of the palace, a platform stood awaiting the executioner and his victim. You stopped short and Hal quickly caught your elbow and urged you on. The king peered over his shoulder in a wordless reproach.

The people parted as the monarch approached and you were diverted into the crowd of onlookers by another armored man. You went unnoticed as the king passed to the front of the audience and you stood alone with the steely sentinel.

A hush went over the crowd as the king stood with his head high. The hooded executioner came out onto the stage and waited by the lever. Armor clinked and announced the arrival of the criminal before he appeared. Magnus had only rags wrapped around his feet and shreds of clothing barely hanging from his form.

He twitched nervously but showed little emotion as he was herded up the steps. The hooded man came forward to wrap the noose around his neck and a holy man offered muttered prayers to the condemned.

You froze as you gaped up at the scene. It felt like a horrid nightmare. The prisoner shrugged away the holy man and strained against the rope. He looked across the green and his eyes narrowed at the king stood among the masses.

“Fuck the king!” He shouted and the lever was pulled suddenly.

The heavy body plummeted downward and all could hear the crack of his neck above their gasps. It was a sickly sound that made your legs weak. You saw Hal, close to the king’s shoulder, lower his head and a few onlookers swayed before they fainted. You felt queasy but did not waver.

You only remained as you were as slowly, those who still had sense, roused those in shock and dispersed. Those who had fallen were carried away by their companions and you still did not move. It was only as the king’s figure retreated that you were woken from your trance.

“Shall I have his skull boiled and brought to you?” He asked as he neared with his guards in tow. You shook your head and looked away from him. Your eyes stung. “Do not act as if I’m the same as they were,” he lowered his voice as he leaned in. “They would’ve killed you and the child. Where do you think they were taking you?”

You shivered and pulled your hood low to hide your distress. Loki let out a breath that clouded before him in the cold. Snow crunched as an unseen figure neared and another armoured man came up breathlessly. You peeked from beneath your cloak and king frowned at the guard’s frantic energy.

“What is it now?” He poked the guard’s breastplate harshly.

“Your majesty,” the man caught his breath in rasps, “The prince--”

“What of my brother?” Loki tensed and fidgeted as he glared at the guard.

“He is gone. He has escaped.” The guard announced. “He--”

“What do you mean he is gone?!” Loki seized the guard by the mail that poked up around his cowl. “How could he be gone?”

“It seems there was a plot. Lord Fandral and his ilk--”

“Fuck!” Loki shoved away the man and punched his palm. “Fuck!!!” He shouted and looked around at the liveried guards, “Well, you fools, go find them!”

[wintersongstress]

Sex headcanons for Arthur?😏

Alright I didn’t want to get too carried away with this, so I apologize for this not being as explicit as you may have hoped 😩

~~MATURE THEMES BELOW THE CUT~~

✿ — In a word, Arthur is devoted when it comes to intimacy. 

✿ — He has had few partners in his life. Once he fell in love with Mary all he wanted was to do right by her, but after she broke off the engagement he had a moment of weakness with Eliza. One that had consequences. If his sense of self-worth crumbled after Mary’s rejection, it was all but decimated after his failings as a father. 

✿ — Opening up his heart to another woman will be off the table for a long, long time. Because of his past, he cannot allow himself to be selfish and seek comfort recklessly. Only someone who knows him, truly, and does not ask to him to give what he does not have can begin to undo the years of ingrained self-loathing. 

 ✿ — Those entrenched feelings, however, can be dismantled. Arthur is not a lost cause. If you are the one to insist he deserves affection and companionship, you best believe Arthur will treasure you. He is helpless to deny your fondness for him, reciprocating it tenfold. 

✿ — Slowly, slowly, he will come around to accepting your touch, and more. He will do everything he can to make you as happy as you make him. With how much you allay his uncertainties, the emotional connection you two form is indescribable and the most important thing in his life. You become the very summit of his life’s hopes of domesticity, an elevation before abandoned. 

✿ — Once that connection is established, that ultimate act of vulnerability and giving each other everything hovers over the both of you.

✿ — The first time is heaven: peaceful, perfect, and unplanned. 

✿ — Caught in a storm near Strawberry, you and Arthur hurried in from the downpour, seeking shelter at the quaint hotel in town. Rainwater drenched every inch of your clothes, dribbling down from your hats in a steady stream as you ducked under the porch and stepped inside. A courteous fire welcomed you and radiated the lobby, throwing shadows over the racks of elk horns decorating the rustic walls and the arrangements of stuffed wildlife. Arthur spoke with the clerk and paid for a room and a bath for himself while you warmed your hands by the flames.

✿ — The room was spacious and charming. Sconces glowed with honeyed light, limning the outlines of pictures frames on the dusky walls. On the bedside table a vase of lilies prettied the corner with its pearlescent petals, arranged so a faint perfume wafted from the snowy blooms. Quilts blanketed the large four-poster bed, and beyond the curtained windows rain pattered against the panes, instilling a soothing ambience.

✿ — Arthur discards his hat and unbuckles his gun belt, placing them on the dresser. You swallow at the metal clink of his suspenders as he sheds them, jumping slightly when he squeezes your shoulder and kisses the back of your neck. “I’ll be back soon,” he promises, and leaves the room.

✿ — Thunder rumbles overhead as you get a fire going in the hearth. The wood and kindling catch easily, and soon a dry crackle fills the space with warmth. You divest your sodden clothes, wringing them out over the porcelain water pitcher and draping them over the fireplace screen to dry. As you wait in your undergarments, your heart pounds wildly in anticipation. Arthur and you had never spent the night at a hotel together, alone. Though no part of you is afraid of being with him, an uncertainty lurks in your thoughts towards somehow ruining the meaningful bond you formed with him outside of physical intimacy in crossing this threshold.

✿ — As you light a few candles, Arthur’s footsteps creak the floorboards as returns from his bath. He enters the room with his pants on over his union suit, his hair damp and rivulets of bath water glistening his neck. The hairs of his chest peek out from his shirt, dark with water and shining in the firelight. In the mirror’s reflection he meets your eyes as you shake out the match, turning to him with a smile.

✿ — “Hi,” you breathe. For a moment the room is quiet, Arthur at a momentary loss for words. You bite your lip as he takes you in your appearance: the cream white of your stockings, the lacey frill of your drawers, the book of laces along your corset, and lastly the translucence of your chemise. Your eyes shyly snag his as you step closer, admiring the way the light of the fireplace passes over his features. His gaze is warm and gleaming as he smiles, sweeping over your face with admiration.

✿ — “You look so beautiful like this,” he says. His knuckles glance your cheek lovingly, lingering before drawing an idle caress down the hollow of your throat. Your lashes lower. “Can I kiss you?”

✿ — A little breathless at his wonderment, all you can do is nod before he closes the gap between you.

✿ — The first thing Arthur reaches for is your face. His hands cradle your cheeks completely, his thumb parting the expectant seam of your lips before touching them with his. The faint smack of his mouth against yours melts away the sounds of the rain and the crackling fire, until all that exists is him and you and the butterflies fluttering in your chest. His mouth is soft compared to the strength of his hands as they curve down your arms and seek your waist, slipping warmly beneath your clothes to bring you closer. When your breasts press flush against him you rise on your tiptoes and tangle your hands in his hair, the kiss turning feverish.

✿ — Arthur yields the softest moan against your mouth, his brows tightening like his hands around your hips. You want him closer. You want him to go faster but oh…Arthur took his time with everything that night. 

✿ — Amidst the luminance of half-burned candles, the lines of Arthur’s body rolled over yours, his lips pressed lushly to your throat as he groaned at how perfect you were and how long he wanted to be with you like this. The utmost reverence accompanied the coursing touch of his hands, learning the dips and curves of you he deemed beautiful as your nails dug crescents of need in his back. In the moments when you let go before him, his strong arms held you, and when he grew lost his fingers entwined with yours, the only place he thought they belonged in that breathless, fleeting moment. 

✿ — The rain stormed and the hours of the night passed unseen, but in the end you fell asleep against his bare chest, feeling warm, tired, and cherished. 

[justcallmecappy]

18 Days of Fenders: Home

8. Home

The Free Marches rarely saw snow in winter, yet this far south, so close to the Ferelden border, winter brought with it a chill in the air. The townsfolk of this small, remote Marcher town saw snow more often than their northern neighbours.

Anders was just returning from a long day out in town. Winter brought with it all a manner of ailments, and – as the local healer – Anders had spent the greater part of the day treating coughs and colds and distributing herbal remedies among the grateful townsfolk. It was late evening, the sun was disappearing beneath the horizon, and he was making his way back home when the snow began to fall.

While Anders was not particularly fond of the cold – having spent one winter freezing half to death in Kinloch’s dungeons, unable to summon even a simple fire to keep himself warm – he liked seeing snow. He thought it looked pretty, all pristine and pure and glittering in the sun. Ferelden winters would see the land blanketed in thick snowfall, and Anders would gaze wistfully out of the Circle tower’s highest windows into the rolling countryside, hushed and covered in white snow, tinted softly by the sun’s golden rays.

Anders raised his face as he trekked home, letting snowflakes catch in his hair and eyelashes. He smiled to himself.

When he finally reached the small forest clearing where his simple cottage stood, his smile widened, and his pace hastened. A lantern hung from a hook by the door, the soft glow illuminating the darkening grey of twilight like a tiny beacon. Smoke rose from the cottage’s chimney and the smell of cooking threaded deliciously through the air.

Anders strode to the door, stamping the snow from his boots. It was then the cottage door swung open, and Fenris stood there, silhouetted in the gold glow of firelight coming from within.

“Welcome home, Anders,” Fenris greeted warmly, a soft smile on his lips.

Anders thought he would have gotten used to seeing Fenris by now – they had been together for years, saw each other almost every day – and yet, looking upon his lover now, limned in the golden light of their home, Anders still found the breath caught in his throat. He thought, possibly for the millionth time, how beautiful Fenris was. The silver of his hair was like pure driven snow, kissed by threads of gilded light, the dark of his eyes as deep and starry as a winter’s night.

“Hello, love,” Anders murmured, drawing an arm around Fenris’ waist, and leaning in to lay a light kiss on his lips. “I’m home.”

This fanfic is posted in response to the “18 Days of Fenders” prompts and writing challenge, running from March - April 2022. 😊

This has also been cross-posted to AO3.

Follow @18daysoffenders

[magpiefngrl]

Sorry you're feeling rubbish – I really hope you're okay and that you feel better soon. Here are a few drabble prompt ideas - drarry or any other pairing, no obligation at all to write any of them: - Lazy morning in bed with loud rain outside - Sharing a shower (can be sexy or silly!) - Character A tries to teach Character B the impossibly convoluted game that is Gobstones (bonus points for ridiculous rules)

Hello! Thank you so much for the ask and prompts! I’m indeed better, thank you <3

OK so I wanted to write the ‘lazy morning in bed’ scenario and set in the universe of one of my drabbles where Draco is mute. It’s here: Finding The Words

But what happened was that I ended up with one thousand words that only include a fleeting mention of staying in bed. I do quite like the result, though; I hope you do too.

1050 words, Teen-rated, prequel to Finding The Words , no warnings I can think of.

***

The first time Harry stays over, they have a fight.

It starts as nothing serious: a playful disagreement about Quidditch teams over dinner. Draco signs slowly, his heart warm at the sight of Harry’s concentrated expression: his dedication to learning sign language just for Draco. They’ve been seeing each other for just under month by then, and Draco feels more smitten than he’d thought possible.

The disagreement leads to a less playful dispute over the skills of Muggleborn players when they retire to the living room with a tumbler of whisky, when Draco has switched to the ‘words in the air’ spell. He casts with jerky movements, flinging the glowing words in the dim living room, just as Harry’s counterarguments spill out of him faster. The whisky burns Draco’s throat but doesn’t melt the stiffness in his spine. His fingers on the cut-glass tumbler are like claws.

And then, somehow, inexplicably, in that weird, twisted way that no one can account for, the argument moves to a topic that has nothing to do with Quidditch or Muggleborns: Draco hasn’t told his friends about them. He’s keeping their relationship a secret.

‘It’s been a month,’ Harry states, bitterness creeping in his voice. Draco wants to correct him: their one-month anniversary is on Tuesday, he’s made plans, it’ll be a surprise— But he offers nothing, because Harry’s right.

Harry gets up and stalks to the art-deco trolley that serves as Draco’s bar, pours himself a second, generous measure of whisky. He remains facing the wall and says, voice low, ‘We meet in bars that none of our friends go to. You dropped my hand when we ran into Zabini the other day on the street. You invite me to stay the one night your housemates are out of town. It’s like you’re—you’re ashamed of me.’

NO! Draco spells, the letters trembling with the force of his casting.

Harry turns and looks at the word, hovering golden in the firelight. ‘No? Then, why?’

Draco stands up. He signs, too fast, and Harry can’t make it out. Draco shuts his eyes briefly, takes a deep breath. He casts the spell again: I’m afraid that the more people know about us, the more they’ll jinx it.

When Harry makes to talk, Draco stops him with a gesture and continues. Now that the floodgates are open, everything he’s been suppressing comes pouring out: I keep fearing one day you’ll leave and never come back. That this is going well because it’s just us and no one else. That things will change between us.  I’m afraid of so many things, but mostly of losing you. Because…

Harry’s speechless. The firelight glints off his glasses, keeping his eyes obscured. Draco spells his last few words, his hands trembling: Because I won’t be able to bear it.

He stops then, his arms dropping limp by his side, feeling flayed and naked and raw. He waits. Outside car tyres hiss along the wet streets. Inside, the fire crackles and Draco’s heart thumps hard. He gazes down at the ivy green carpet.

Harry sets his glass on the mantle and approaches Draco. He’s close enough that Draco can smell the woods and leather scent of him. ‘Draco…’ he starts and waits for a beat—a beat that stretches Draco’s nerves to breaking point.

‘I love you.’

Draco snaps his eyes up.

‘I love you,’ Harry says again. ‘I should’ve told you before. This—us—is serious for me. Sure, things will change—but there’s nothing we can’t face together, is there? Because I’m not going away, not as long as you’ll have me.’

His words fall on Draco like summer rain, melting away the ice that had gripped his heart, the stiffness in his bones. Draco feels a smile spreading on his face, warmth radiating from his chest. He signs, say it again.

‘I love you.’ Harry now has his arms around him, whispers the words in his ear.

Draco pulls back to sign: again.

Harry chuckles. ‘I love you, you mischievous tosser.’ He brushes his lips against Draco’s. ‘And I’ll tell you as often as you want.’

*

Draco keeps Harry there all night and the whole of Sunday. In the morning, Draco sits on the counter and munches on toast, Harry standing beside him, making tea. His kisses taste like strawberry jam. They make a half-hearted attempt to be productive, to read the paper in the living room or write letters, to listen to the news on the wireless, but they soon find their way upstairs again, sweating and moving together, a dance of naked skin. They spend the day in tangled sheets, in each other’s arms, in the first flush of love. Draco’s heart can’t possibly contain this happiness. Yesterday’s drizzle has turned into pouring rain; it lashes against the panes of the windows, the chilly wind rustling through the bare tree branches. But inside it’s warm.

When Draco wakes up, it’s evening, the room dark. The streetlight limns the silhouettes of furniture in yellow; the tree branches cast moving shadows on his bedroom wall. The bed is empty.

Wrapping himself in his thick, monogrammed dressing gown, barefoot, Draco pads downstairs. Voices float from the kitchen. He stops by the door.

Harry—wearing his jeans and a T-shirt of Draco’s—is chatting with Pansy and Daphne around the wooden table, all three holding mugs of tea. The girls’ luggage is on the floor, dusted with Floo powder.

‘Draco!’ Daphne spots him first. They both turn to him, expressions identical with fervent interest—and very eloquent. When Harry leaves, the expressions promise, they’ll sit Draco down and grill him for every single detail. Draco finds that the thought doesn’t bother him.

He smiles, signs hello. Sits down.

‘So,’ Pansy starts, voice inflected, ‘we met Harry.’ She gives Draco a significant look.

You know Harry from school, Draco signs.

Pansy narrows her eyes. ‘I meant we met him in our kitchen. We thought he was a burglar! We’d have Stunned him, but no burglars would be breaking in topless.’ Pansy says the word with relish and Harry, endearingly, blushes.

You’ll be seeing him a lot more from now on. Draco catches Harry’s eyes. He’s my boyfriend.

Daphne claps her hands, delighted, Pansy rolls her eyes in an affectionate omg-you’re-such-a-sop way, and Harry grins like it’s Christmas morning. Draco leans back, watching his friends chat with Harry, a fluttering new tendril rising inside him: hope.

It’ll be all right.

***

[imaginaryelle]

Fic: Near Misses and Almost Kisses

AKA Five (plus one) Times Wangxian Could Have Kissed and Totally Fucking Did: A Retelling of CQL Through Missing Scene Kisses

Many thanks to @theflowergirl​ for initially prompting this fic ages and ages ago (pre-covid. wow.) and also to @morphia-writes​ for cheerleading and beta work while I struggled to get back into writing this past month. <3!

(this is ~6k and also available as a chaptered fic on AO3. Link coming soon)

*

[One: Gusu]

Lan Wangji was not looking for company on this journey, and he especially wasn’t looking for the loud, insistent and impossible-to-ignore company of Wei Ying of Yunmeng-Jiang. There have been enough rules broken, enough disruptions to the orderly patterns of his days and thoughts. Finding the other Yin Iron shards is a time-sensitive task with no room for flighty delays. He had, in fact, been looking forward to having some time to clear his head. Time to meditate, and reflect, and maybe dull down the memory of Wei Ying’s earnest, sincere promise, burning brighter in his mind than their Qixi lantern ever glowed against the sky. Time to wrap and re-wrap his sleeves, and maybe forget the winding, binding pull of his forehead ribbon around his wrist and the brush of Wei Ying’s knuckles against the back of his hand.

But instead Wei Ying is here. Talking. Loudly. Incessantly. Chattering about Yunmeng, and all the ways to eat lotus, and the best techniques to use when fighting water ghouls or a possessed alligator. Standing close enough that their elbows keep brushing. Jostling his shoulder and grinning at him like they’re sharing a joke and calling him Lan Zhan, like no one else in the world.

It should be annoying. Enraging that someone would so simply and carelessly step over so many boundaries.

Sometimes it is.

Sometimes it’s … not.

Lan Wangji does not tell him to leave. Not at the pier, not on the boat through the long, foggy afternoon. Not in the dwindling twilight as they make camp: clear the ground, set a ward, nurse a small cookfire. Not as they eat a simple meal of sesame qi zi rolls and tea and the loquats Wei Ying brought with him.

And after, still Wei Ying stays close, never more than three steps away, and sits even closer. Close enough that their knees just don’t quite touch. But instead of introducing some game, or talking more, he sighs, and closes his eyes, and … meditates.

One day, perhaps, he will run out of ways to surprise Lan Wangji. For now, they pass a quiet, peaceful stretch of time without any more pressing interruptions than the call of a hawk overhead and the rustle of small creatures moving through the underbrush.

Even after that, when Wei Ying starts moving again—rustling cloth and soft footsteps—he doesn’t speak. It’s unexpectedly thoughtful, as if he’s doing his best not to disturb Lan Wangji’s own meditations. Then come the familiar sounds and smells of ink grinding against stone, and the soft crinkle of paper. After a while Wei Ying starts humming, low and under his breath. 

Lan Wangji opens his eyes to find Wei Ying backlit by the smoldering fire, a brush in his hand and his focus entirely on the strip of paper before him. To his left is a line of paper strips, fresh ink shining on each one. Talismans, Lan Wangji realizes. Each imbued with a touch of power. It’s not an invocation he’s seen before. He tries to get a better look, and Wei Ying looks up at him.

“Want to see?” he asks, grinning. Lan Wangji draws back, but Wei Ying picks up the driest of the talismans and holds it out to him for examination.

Scattered bursts of power, shaped and directed outward from the caster. A touch of fire. Enough intent and energy to damage a ward, distract a spirit, or leave minor burns on an enemy. He’s trying to make out the shape itself when Wei Ying draws the paper back and flicks it into the air.

Bright, fiery butterflies ascend into the space above their heads, trailing orange sparks until they wink out like distant stars.

“You can have one, if you like.” Lan Wangji slowly returns his gaze to his companion. “I know your sword work is very good,” Wei Ying is saying, “but everyone can use a bit of surprise on their side, right?”

Lan Wangji’s fingers itch. He’s never seen anyone use talismans the way Wei Ying does, and he does want to study this one further. And yet. “There’s no need,” he says.

“Even so.” Wei Ying smiles. He sorts through his papers, picking out two. “These are for you.” He holds them out for a moment, then sighs when Lan Wangji makes no move to take them. “Lan Zhan,” he says, “Are you one of those cultivators who thinks talismans are just toys for those with low spiritual power? Little party tricks for those not able to work a seal directly?”

Denial sticks in his throat. He has heard others voice such thoughts, and “toys” certainly describes how Wei Ying uses them, but it’s not a fair judgment to speak aloud.

“Why butterflies?” he asks instead.

“I like butterflies.” Wei Ying’s expression twists, perhaps wistful. “We have lots of them in Yunmeng.” This does not seem to require a response, but Lan Wangji must be missing something, because Wei Ying sighs and pulls the talismans back. “Do you not trust my gifts anymore? How about a trade then? I give you some talismans, and you give me something you think is a fair trade. Better?”

He looks—annoyed, but somehow Lan Wangji still feels like he’s being teased in some way; there’s some joke he’s not getting as Wei Ying sits just a handspan away, limned in firelight and offering him butterflies with an expectant expression and Lan Wangji wants—

It’s not a good kiss, Lan Wangji is certain, and it’s not really anything like the impulsive thoughts that have littered his waking hours over the last few days, but the touch of Wei Ying’s lips still steals the breath from his lungs and narrows his focus in a way meditation and sword forms never have. Wei Ying is softness and warmth and, for a moment, the orbital center of the Heavens, as far as Lan Wangji is concerned.

He leans back, his heart beating as fast as dragonfly wings. Wei Ying stares at him with wide, dark eyes.

“That was …” his hand rises, and he touches his fingertips to his lips. “That was my first kiss.”

Lan Wangji’s pulse thrums faster at that, if that’s possible. He’d been certain, certain that someone as brash and forward as Wei Ying would have been kissed before now.

“Mine also,” he admits, and the surprise in Wei Ying’s eyes would be comical if Lan Wangji had not so obviously spent his entire life distanced from his peers, if he had not so clearly displayed his disinterest in most companionship. He thinks Wei Ying must be making fun of him again, that perhaps he lied to elicit this confession and—

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying protests, “My talismans aren’t worth your first kiss!”

Lan Wangji had forgotten about the talismans. They are not currently carrying any prominence in his thoughts.

“It was Wei Ying’s first kiss also,” he returns, daring him to deny it and reveal the ruse.

But he doesn’t. He just sort of stares for long enough that Lan Wangji looks away, shame rising in his throat. He had hoped—it doesn’t matter what he hoped. The kiss was obviously a misstep, and now he has achieved the dual consequences of pushing Wei Ying away while revealing his own weakness. Perhaps he should leave in the morning, before Wei Ying wakes. Perhaps by the time they see each other again this will be forgotten, or at least—at least—

“A second kiss,” Wei Ying says, sudden and much louder than necessary. Lan Wangji looks back at him and waits, hardening himself against further disappointments.

“Two first kisses is an even trade, right?” Wei Ying says. He’s wearing the same sort of eager, coaxing expression he’d had in the library, trying to explain once again how he couldn’t possibly be at fault for climbing over Cloud Recesses’ walls after curfew and drinking alcohol in front of the Wall of Discipline. “Your first kiss for my first kiss. But a second kiss could be… hm.” he frowns. “No this is...” He turns away, rummaging through his papers for a moment and then holds them out triumphantly—six of them. “Six talismans,” Wei Ying says, grinning, “for your second kiss?”

Lan Wangji looks from the talismans to his face, to his lips. Even with shame burning in his center it had felt—it had been—He should have more self-restraint than this. He has more self-restraint than this, with everyone, it seems, except Wei Ying.

He nods, hardly daring to breathe, and Wei Ying scoots closer on his knees. This time, Lan Wangji stays where he is and Wei Ying touches his face with careful fingertips, his expression hardly visible with his body blocking most of the firelight, and then he bends slightly and their lips touch. It is a slow, gentle kiss, more mixing of breath than lips, and the longer it goes on the more Lan Wangji’s fear that this will turn into a new opportunity at provocation melts away. He lifts his own hand to Wei Ying’s jaw and opens his mouth, and lets himself concentrate on only this: warm breath, and softly brushing lips, and the rush of Wei Ying’s heartbeat at his fingertips.

[Two: Qinghe]

By the time they make it to Qinghe, Lan Wangji has retreated so far into stoic silence that Wei Wuxian is a little surprised he’s not leaving a trail of frost wherever he goes. He looks cold enough for it. Frosty and aloof and unapproachable as a distant mountain, with glares so icy they could burn. Nothing like as soft and warm and close as he’d been when it was just the two of them traveling together, before Nie Huaisang joined them in Tanzhou, before Jiang Cheng found them on Dafan Mountain, before they met Xiao Xingchen and Song Zichen and volunteered to haul Xue Yang all the way to the Unclean Realm for judgement. He’s barely spoken to anyone other than Nie Mingjue, the last few days. Barely looked at Wei Wuxian at all since they left the Chang Clan’s former residence. 

There had been a moment, watching Xiao Xingchen and Song Zichen walk away together, when Wei Wuxian’s old memories of his mother had slipped from his thoughts to make way for new memories—the brush of Lan Wangji’s fingers against his cheek, the touch of their lips meeting in the night and the thud of his own pulse threatening to overwhelm him.

He doesn’t know for sure that Xiao Xingchen and Song Zichen have that, but sometimes he remembers those two figures walking together, one in black and one in white, and want is so heavy in his lungs it turns bitter in his mouth.

But that’s when the silence started, he thinks. Lan Wangji hadn’t said a single word to him all that long afternoon.

The point is, he’s pretty much resigned himself to never getting to kiss Lan Wangji again, because Lan Wangji has clearly remembered that he dislikes Wei Wuxian and also everyone else Wei Wuxian associates with and the concept of fun, in general. But Wei Wuxian is not giving up. He said they were going to be friends and so they’re going to be friends; Lan Wangji is too interesting a person to not be friends with, at a minimum. He’ll just have to work harder at it, and bide his time, and he’s sure Lan Wangji will come around. They could be the best of friends, and then maybe Wei Wuxian could bring it up—hey, remember that time you kissed me?—and if it goes poorly he can laugh it off. What a funny thing, why don’t more people know that you’re funny, Lan Zhan?

It’s a plan, anyway. A plan that gets entirely shattered to pieces when Lan Wangji steps out of his guest quarters, and looks at Wei Wuxian lying on the roof and babbling some nonsense about relative roof tile comfort, and jumps up to join him.

For a single breathless moment Wei Wuxian thinks Lan Wangji might draw his sword. That he’s pushed too far, this is it, all potential positive feelings towards himself have been erased in Lan Wangji’s mind, but no. No, instead Lan Wangji just sits next to him, inside the stretched curve of Wei Wuxian’s frame. Close enough to touch.

Everyone else is asleep. Wei Wuxian knows it, because it’s the entire reason he’s outside, drinking alone, instead of inside with jovial company and more wine.

Well. Not so alone, now.

Lan Wangji glows in the starlight, pale and luminous as anything gracing the heavens.

You look like the moon, Wei Wuxian wants to say, come drink with me, follow me, dance with me, but he doesn’t say that. That would be—too much, he thinks.

“Wei Ying,” says Lan Wangji.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says back. The ice is melting from Lan Wangji’s posture, slipping away until the space between them feels warm. Charged like lightning.

“I will return to Gusu,” Lan Wangji says, and Wei Wuxian nods, his hand gripped tight around his bottle of wine.

“To help your brother,” he confirms. He raises the bottle and drinks, and wonders if he’s imagining the way Lan Wangji’s gaze follows the motion to linger on his mouth. He swallows. “I suppose we all have to go home eventually.”

“Mn.”

Lan Wangji is still watching him. He’s tempted to sit up. To reach out and tug on those pale robes and draw Lan Wangji even closer.

He sets the wine aside. Meets Lan Wangji’s gaze.

“Do you want—” he can’t finish the question. Lan Wangji moves fluidly, even now, far from any battle they might fight. He is so close now that Wei Wuxian can see nothing else but his eyes, his face, his mouth. His fingers curl around Wei Wuxian’s wrist, and Wei Wuxian leans into him, into the kiss that he’d thought he wouldn’t be getting.

This one is different. Deeper. Longer. Lan Wangji’s grip on his wrist is tight, his fingers on Wei Wuxian’s jaw firm and steady. Something golden and liquid is happening to Wei Wuxian’s spine as Lan Wangji’s tongue slips past his lips and it doesn’t have anything to do with the wine. He can’t stop the sound he makes, too genuine to be laughed away.

Lan Wangji draws back, draws his tongue back and his lips back and his hands back, and Wei Wuxian only barely catches himself from slipping flat onto the roof tiles.

“Lan Zhan …” Words slip away from him. All he wants is more touch. His body feels molten, edges disappearing from his awareness.

Lan Wangji’s lips are pink. He’s flushing to his ears. His hands are in his lap, curled into tight fists.

There’s something Wei Wuxian’s forgetting. Oh.

“I don’t have anything to give you this time,” he says. Lan Wangji won’t want whatever remains of his wine and this—for this kiss—he doesn’t know what he could possibly give in exchange.

Lan Wangji blinks, a hint of confusion in his face. Then it clears.

“Promise you will not be reckless,” he says, and Wei Wuxian huffs an incredulous laugh.

“I’m not reckless,” he protests, sitting up properly as if that will better support his point. “Lan Zhan!”

Lan Wangji simply looks at him. He’s looking less kissed with every second, which is a true shame.

“Fine,” Wei Wuxian allows. “I promise to not be reckless. But.” He leans across the small distance between them and presses another kiss to Lan Wangji’s lips. It’s longer than he means it to be, and when he pulls back his voice sounds strained and breathless in his own ears.

“You promise me too,” he says, half-whispered. “You don’t be reckless either.”

“Mn,” Lan Wangji agrees, and there’s an actual smile drawn at the corners of his eyes. “I promise.”

[Three: Dusk Creek Mountain]

Lan Wangji has faced endurance trials before. Lan cultivation training is full to brimming with them, and where before he knew that such trials would bring him strength, and patience, and clarity in adverse circumstances, he is now deeply, terribly grateful for them.

If he must endure the uncertainty that clouds his brother’s fate, the danger that still clings to his uncle and his entire clan and sect, the open derision of the Wens and the pall of pain and death that haunts every step he takes on a broken leg—at least he has trained to do so, every day of his life. At least he has years of practice to keep him standing straight and tall and unbending, here in this place that smells of sulphur and smoke and stinks of power so tainted and warped that his skin crawls with it.

He has little such practice in enduring Wei Ying’s probing inquiries. Enduring his careful glances and fidgeting hands and the worry in his voice as he says Lan Wangji’s name, over and over, half-whispered.

He knows something must show in his face when they take his sword, from the change in that voice. The next morning, when Wei Ying recites the Lan rules instead of the Wen proverbs, he dearly wishes he could slip back in time, weeks ago, and kiss Wei Ying again, and again, as if, if he never left that rooftop in Qinghe, none of this would have happened.

He can’t speak. No matter what Wei Ying asks, he can’t speak. If he opens his mouth everything will spill out at once. Everything—the Yin iron, and his uncle and brother and sect and the fires that consumed hundreds of years of Lan history as he was dragged from his home—he won’t be able to stop it. There might even be tears involved. He’s stretched too thin, likely to break like porcelain with sharp edges to cut the unwary.

Their closeness is noticed. He can’t stop Wen Chao throwing Wei Ying in a dungeon that afternoon. The fears that haunt him until the next morning are not much soothed by the blood on Wei Ying’s robes when he returns, no matter how he smiles and chatters.

It can’t go on. He won’t bear it. Lan Wangji’s rebellions are small, and thus insignificant to Wen Chao, but they are still victories in self-restraint. He does not speak, and so no one will hear the fear and anger in his voice. He does not read the Wen Precepts, and so no one can ever say that he would replace the Lan’s, no matter what other claims the Wen make. He walks unaided, and so there will be no favors left unpaid. Even Wei Ying’s offer of help he pushes away. Better to cut such things off now, than to draw disaster down on him again.

Wei Ying walks by his side regardless. Brings him water. Stays in the terrible cave Wen Chao sealed them in, when escape is well within his reach.

Touches his forehead ribbon, entirely ignorant of its meaning. Tends his wounds.

He can’t keep his silence any longer. Wei Ying is injured, and in pain, and never thinks of himself first. He needs taking care of, too. They are alone. If he breaks now only Wei Ying will see, and Wei Ying will never tell.

“You promised to not be reckless,” Lan Wangji says when the medicine is used up.

“I’m not reckless,” Wei Ying insists, shaking out his overrobe near their tiny fire so it will dry faster. “Lan Zhan,” he pouts, then winces as the brand on his chest pains him again. “When was I reckless?”

“Drawing attention,” Lan Wangji tells him. “Reciting the Lan Precepts. Insulting Wen Chao.” He gestures at Wei Ying’s wound. “Taking an attack meant for another without deflection.”

“That’s not recklessness, that’s righteousness,” Wei Ying asserts. He grins. “I would have thought that Lan Clan would know the difference. And besides, Lan Zhan, you promised me, too, and I saw you step in front of Mianmian. If I was reckless so were you.”

Lan Wangji looks away.

“She’s pretty,” Wei Ying says. There’s a questioning edge to the words that sends cold plummeting through Lan Wangji’s gut. Wei Ying just looks at him, all earnestness in his eyes. “Don’t you think she’s pretty, Lan Zhan?”

He hadn’t noticed, really. She was protective of her sect’s heir, and decently eloquent. Perhaps too free with gossip, as it had been her question that eventually sparked Wei Ying and Jin Zixuan’s fight at Cloud Recesses, months and months ago now.

“She did not deserve to be killed for bait,” he says.

“Or branded either,” Wei Ying is saying. “It’d be a shame, a pretty girl like that with a scar on her face for the rest of her life.”

Lan Wangji stares at him. At the smile he is somehow still wearing. The cold reaches into Lan Wangji’s lungs. His ribs. The fire brings him no warmth.

“It is not better for you to carry the scar instead,” he points out.

“But it’s not on my face,” Wei Ying counters. “Besides, it’s different for men. A man should get a few scars in his life, anyway.”

It is possibly the stupidest thing Lan Wangji has ever heard him say. If this is among the teachings of the Yunmeng-Jiang Sect, he thinks it might go some way towards explaining Jiang Wanyin. But Wei Ying is still talking.

“Even if I do have to carry it forever, it marks that I once protected a girl who will never forget me her whole life! That’s sort of beautiful, don’t you think?”

Lan Wangji has no idea what’s supposed to be beautiful about it. He feels a bit like the ground has slipped out from underneath his feet, the foundation he built himself on crumbling on all sides and now a handhold he hadn’t realized he was gripping so tightly is also turning to sand beneath his fingers.

“So you know she’ll never forget you,” he says, the words like acid on his tongue, and Wei Ying startles.

“Why are you mad?” he asks, as if he cannot even guess. Lan Wangji stares at the fire and wishes he were anywhere else. Wishes he had never kissed Wei Ying even once. Even that first time.

“If you don’t mean it,” he says, forcing the words over his teeth as ice rises in his throat, “you shouldn’t flirt with anyone.”

“I—what—”

Wei Ying is silent for a long time. When Lan Wangji looks at him he’s frowning.

“Saving someone isn’t flirting,” he says finally. “And if it’s flirting with you you’re worried about you can just say so. I’ll stop if you say so.”

“Don’t,” Lan Wangji blurts, almost before the sentence is done. And Wei Ying … smiles. A real smile, that reaches his eyes and makes his whole face scrunch up a bit. A smile Lan Wangji hasn’t seen in weeks, that warms him like sunlight.

“Okay,” Wei Ying agrees. “I won’t then.” And then, because he is utterly shameless, he says, “I think my robe is dry now. Are you cold? You look cold, I could cover you with it,” and he leans close to do so without waiting for an answer.

Lan Wangji lets him. He’s too tired to move away, and he doesn’t really want to. He grabs Wei Ying’s wrist, caught between them, and tugs him closer.

“Wei Ying should be warm also,” he says to the questioning look that earns him, and Wei Ying smiles again and sighs. His body is a line of heat against Lan Wangji’s side.

“Alright Lan Zhan,” he says, and his voice is low and soft and close, intimate as a secret.

If he speaks again, Lan Wangji doesn’t hear it. Instead he wakes hours later to find that Wei Ying has returned his forehead ribbon to its rightful place, and explored the wretched pond in the bottom of this cave, and is once again drying himself out.

They are trapped. It will likely be days before they can be rescued. They could die of starvation first, or be killed when the Wens return.

Or they could die fighting.

For luck, Wei Ying says, his voice bright and dancing like butterflies through the telepathy spell. He cups his hand around the back of Lan Wangji’s neck and kisses him, a quick brush of heat, and then he steps away, towards the pond, and there are far more immediate things to think about.

The battle is one of the fiercest of Lan Wangji’s life, but it is clear, afterwards, that Wei Ying sacrificed more than Lan Wangji guessed he would to see the Xuanwu slain. He is clearly unwell, so unwell as to be bad at hiding it, cold and clammy as fever rises through his blood. His breath comes in gasps, his speech slowed and confused.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, through teeth stained with blood, “I didn’t really think I would survive this.”

“You must,” Lan Wangji tells him. He begins passing spiritual energy into Wei Ying’s wrist, everything he can spare. Some he probably can’t. But anything Wei Ying needs, he will give. Spiritual energy. Physical warmth.

A song, though this is far from his idle daydreams of its debut.

They cannot last long like this. Wei Ying slips into dreams from which he can’t be woken, and Lan Wangji draws him close and cradles him carefully as exhaustion settles into his own bones and sinew.

He kisses Wei Ying’s forehead, salt sweat stinging at his dry, cracked lips.

“You must live,” he rasps, his voice all but gone now. “Promise me you’ll live, Wei Ying.”

[Four: Qishan]

Many things are different, after Wen Chao throws Wei Wuxian into the Mass Graves. Most things. The whole course of his life, taking a turn onto a new path. And really, Wei Wuxian is fine with that. He is. He still has Shijie and Jiang Cheng and he’s still friends with Nie Huaisang, even if he has to keep them all a bit more distant than before and even if they can tell something’s wrong, and he has food and a bed with an actual mattress, and even power. Power no one else can claim.

That power makes up for a lot of things, and it and Jiang Cheng’s barely-there smile and continued efforts at rebuilding the Yunmeng-Jiang Sect leave him with no regrets whatsoever, though he was pretty sure he’d had no regrets before, anyway.

Well. Only one regret.

Lan Wangji is avoiding him.

Okay, no, that’s not true. Not anymore, anyway. The weeks-stretching-to-months of the Sunshot Campaign were a particular kind of torture that Wei Wuxian knows he can only blame himself for, but now … now, Lan Wangji wants to help him, and is spending a great deal of time at his guqin. On the other side of the room. Telling Wei Wuxian to “be quiet” and “concentrate” as if that was going to help anything.

His face when he’d come in—Wei Wuxian couldn’t look at him, could hardly stand to sit on the bed with his hands under his thighs and mouth clamped shut in the face of that—that—whatever emotion it was that made Lan Wangji’s eyes so soft, made his lips part and the tension in his shoulders drop so suddenly. And then Shijie had left them alone and—

Well. For a moment there Wei Wuxian expected he was going to be kissed. Lan Wangji had obviously been worried, and visiting often, and ….

But that didn’t happen. No kisses for Wei Wuxian, apparently. Not since the Xuanwu cave, and that barely counted. No kisses since he still had a golden core.

Just guqin music. And meditation.

He tries. He does. He can still benefit from meditation and he knows it, and Lan Wangj’s skill at the guqin is never unpleasant to listen to and so he tries.

For about the time it takes to drink a cup of tea. That picture of Lan Wangji’s face keeps painting itself on the back of his eyelids. He can’t sit still any longer. He stands.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, “I’m fine.”

Lan Wangji is not convinced. Every movement as he approaches shows it. He is stern and straight-backed and righteous.

“Three more days are needed,” he insists.

“Three days!” Wei Wuxian won’t survive three days of sitting on opposite sides of a room, meditating to music. He won’t. Although …

“Lan Zhan,” he pouts. Entirely for effect, despite the way it makes Lan Wangji go even stiffer and more righteous instead of softening in indulgence the way Shijie does. “Three days is so long. Aren’t you even going to offer me a kiss, asking for so much time?”

Lan Wangji’s entire demeanor changes. The soft eyes and parted lips are back, and his fingers curl in his sleeves. Wei Wuxian risks a step closer.

“One kiss?” he asks. Another step.

“A kiss per day? A kiss per hour?” He grins, close enough now to reach out and touch. Or be touched. 

“Lan Zhan,” he whispers, “Would you kiss me after every song you play? Or every minute? Every—”

Lan Wangji’s hands are on his face, his thumbs pressed against Wei Wuxian’s cheekbones and his fingers cupping Wei Wuxian’s ears. His mouth is hot, his tongue is hot, and in Wei Wuxian’s mouth, and it is taking a lot of effort for Wei Wuxian to stay on his feet. He thinks his knees might have melted, somehow. It would hardly be the strangest thing that’s ever happened to him and he doesn’t really care. Lan Wangji’s lips and tongue and breath are more than enough to fill the moment in its entirety.

When Lan Wangji pulls back, Wei Wuxian is holding onto his wrists. Nearly hanging from them. 

“Kiss me again,” he whispers. “Again, Lan Zhan.”

For a moment, Lan Wangji’s eyes are liquid with want and his mouth is soft and pink and so very close. And then he steps back, and lets go of Wei Wuxian’s face, and shakes Wei Wuxian’s grip from his sleeves.

“Meditation first,” he insists.

[Five: Yiling]

Every part of this meeting has been unsettling. Lan Wangji had passed through Yiling for several reasons—rumors of nearby disturbances, it is the largest town near to where his most recent night hunt ended, and the road to Gusu goes through it—but all of these lead to Wei Ying. Even crying children in the street lead to Wei Ying.

The golden swell of hope that was growing under his ribs during their shared meal has long since withdrawn, pulled back and away like the tide by the stark reality of Wei Ying’s circumstances. There will be no convincing him to leave these people now. He has done the impossible, in Wen Qionglin’s resurrection, and he is obviously fond of both Wen Qing and Wen Yuan, but the true issue is that any goals he has for this settlement, its people, or his own life’s path are being smothered by the very real absence of necessary protections, money, food, and medicine.

No tea for guests. No hope that he will see his sister’s wedding. Resentment on all sides, from the restless dead within the mountain and the determined gossips without.

Lan Wangji finds he cannot look at Wen Qionglin for any reasonable length of time. His presence is a prickly burr against the background fog of corruption the Mass Graves generate, at odds with his deferential bows and careful presentation of what poor hospitality this place can offer.

Lan Wangji does not drink the water. He thinks his stomach would not tolerate it, and he shies away from the thought. Water from the hands of a corpse, sourced, undoubtedly, from this land that has been poisoned with resentment for generations. No one should live here. It is only one of many things that should not happen, but is happening anyway.

Wen Qionglin and his sister do not linger long. There is little to say, and even basic formalities cannot be observed without the right supplies. They greet him, formally, with careful bows, and welcome him, and melt back and away, leaving him once again alone with Wei Ying in a cave that smells only slightly better than the one they killed the Xuanwu in.

He will ask once more. He must.

“Wei Ying—”

Further speech is impeded by Wei Ying’s lips on his, the kiss soft and beseeching. Need in the rigid press of Wei Ying’s fingers on Lan Wangji’s shoulders.

“Do me a favor, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying murmurs against his mouth, pressing more kisses to his skin like wet ink to paper, and Lan Wangji wants nothing more than to soak him in, draw him up and keep him.

Wei Ying presses their faces together, forehead to forehead, nose to nose.

“Don’t ask again,” he murmurs, and kisses the corner of Lan Wangji’s mouth, and steps away.

For a single, wild moment, Lan Wangji considers staying here. Staying with Wei Ying, and these fugitives he has thrown himself in with, and offering any aid he can: the small handful of coins he still carries, the strength of his arms and back, whatever healing his spiritual energy and music can offer.

The impulse slips away quickly. Wei Ying is clearly shepherding him away from the cave, away from the settlement. Beyond the gates. He keeps his movements perfectly contained. Distanced. Separate. Always a respectable space kept between them as they walk, even as he asks—can anyone give me a nice, favorable choice?—the strain of the question clear in his voice.

Even as he says thank you, for a visit Lan Wangji is almost certain has only brought him pain.

It’s Wen Yuan who interrupts them before Lan Wangji can sort out the words he wants. Wen Yuan who asks him to stay.

Wei Ying, who takes the child in his arms and tells him Lan Wangji must leave.

Lan Wangji looks at Wen Yuan’s tiny hand, held securely in Wei Ying’s careful grip. He watches Wei Ying’s face. There is resignation there, but determination, too.

There is nothing left to say.

Another set of hands is also another mouth to feed. He can be of more use to Wei Ying as he is now: separated by distance, but not intent. He is the son of a great sect, the brother of a sect leader, and he has reputation of his own to call on. Somehow, he will find a way to bring Wei Ying back into the world.

Someday, he’ll be back with better news.

[+1: The Jingshi]

Sixteen years.

Wei Wuxian would be tempted to write that number off as an elaborate joke if it weren’t for Jin Ling, so obviously grown up and full of pride. Cloud Recesses doesn’t show the passage of time, either from the time he’s been dead or the damage it suffered before that. He could almost believe, here in this room, that no time has passed at all. Here he is in Cloud Recesses, which looks and sounds and smells just the same as it always has in his memories of that summer before the war. Here he is, convalescing in bed, and there is Lan Wangji on the other side of the room at his guqin, just as they were after it.

There are still differences. He has never seen Lan Wangji this quietly at home in a place. So settled. So comfortable. His hair half-down should make him look younger, but Wei Wuxian can see his jaw is sharper now, his shoulders somehow broader, like he’s grown to fit his bones in a way that’s not quite physical. There are new lines in his face, faint as they are. Around his eyes, mostly. The touch of a life, extended.

His skill at the guqin has improved. Or perhaps it’s just that Wei Wuxian himself is a more appreciative audience now, here on the other side of confusion and tragedy and death. He’d like to think he’s learned something from the experience, even if he doesn’t really remember a lot of it.

He watches Lan Wangji’s fingers, over the strings. Watches his face, clear as a still pond.

“Lan Zhan,” he says. He swallows past the tightness in his throat. “Do you remember the last time you played for me?”

The hands still.

“Yes.” There is still something of that soft-eyed look in his eyes, even with the year, and the new lines. Something familiar in the tightening of his lips, an echo of the last kiss they shared.

Lan Wangji stands, and crosses the dark floorboards between them. He sits at the edge of the bed, quiet and composed and every inch the cultivator Wei Wuxian always knew he would be, too good to end anywhere else, too principled to let his steps go astray. The silence between them is warm, now. Knowing.

“Ah, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, trying for levity and ending somewhere far too low-voiced and genuine. “You’re too good to me. How will I thank you?”

Lan Wangi watches him, dark-eyed and intent. “A favor,” he says, and reaches up between them, presses his thumb to the corner of Wei Wuxian’s mouth. “A promise,” as the touch sweeps across Wei Wuxian’s lips.

Wei Wuxian swallows again. He doesn’t know what he might do, if he allows himself to move, so he doesn’t move at all.

Lan Wangji’s hand falls away. He folds his sleeve carefully to the side and raises his eyes once more.

“Stay,” he says, hardly even a whisper.

Wei Wuxian laughs. It spills out of him, surprise and joy and rushing thrill strumming through him.

“Of course!” He shifts closer, onto his knees, and takes Lan Wangji’s hand in both of his own. “Of course I’ll stay, Lan Zhan,” he says, and he seals the promise with a kiss.

[phoxphyre]

Top 5 lines(ish) for 2020

Thanks for the tags, @bazzybelle @palimpsessed @super-duper-twelve! I’ve been wrestling with this one because I have a hard time coming up with favorite lines out of context. So I’m breaking the rules slightly to post a favorite snippet from the (conveniently) 5 fics I’ve worked on this year. 

From A Light in the Dark: 

I’m still looking into his eyes. His face is so close. There’s firelight shining in his eyes and turning his hair to copper, and his lips are slightly parted. His face is vivid with life, every mole limned with golden light. I could kiss him, I think. If I tipped my head forward a bit, I could hardly help it.

From Hold Back the Tide, from a scene where Simon and Shepard are fighting a sea monster:  

“Shepard! If we survive this, you can marry it later!” I yell at him. “But until then you have to shoot it.”

From the soon-to-be-posted When the Bell Rings (It’s a Wonderful Life fic): 

I make myself look, make myself remember the bubble of joy in my chest. Remember Baz’s face below mine, his eyes reflecting all the colours of the fire.

I try to jimmy the lock on the windows; when it won’t give, I force it. It feels good to break something. 

From my Pride and Prejudice AU, which I will hopefully post...someday? Um, not too far in the future? I feel like Baz and Simon describing each other is a whole genre unto itself, so here’s my (very period) contribution for this fic: 

His coat was ripped to tatters and there was something in his ruined hair that looked like twigs. His cravat was utterly gone, his waistcoat half undone, exposing the long fair column of his throat. Even in the moonlight Baz could see the blue of his eyes.

From a not-yet-posted chapter of Unfinished Work (software development AU with artist!Simon):

Baz being Baz, he had surrounded the fire with a tidy ring of stones. (So that he wouldn’t destroy the forest while destroying me.) He stood on the other side, leaning his long frame against a tree, one ankle crossed over the other. Watching my brushes burn. It was darker under the trees; I could see the fire reflecting in his grey eyes.

And a bonus from A Light in the Dark, just because I stumbled across it and it made me giggle: 

I’m not sure exactly how washing my hair fits into his rescue plan, come to think of it. (Did he stop to wash Wellbelove’s hair before he heaved her out of that well? No—her hair was probably perfect the whole time.) 

I feel like I’ve already seen a bunch of these...you’ve probably been tagged already, but tagging @otherworldsivelivedin @wetheformidables @nightimedreamersworld @annabellelux @messofthejess @snowybank @amywaterwings @captain-aralias

[sassysnowperson]

I’m taking ficlet prompts for Rise of the Skywalker

For @islandbetweenrivers, who prompted: “ FIRST - Finn, or Finn/Rey. Is Finn Force Sensitive? Anything about the way he seems to be able to sense Rey and have Feelings about Things.”

At some point during the celebration, Rey had separated away from the joyful, raucous crowd. Finn saw her now, at the edge of the forest, not much more than a shadow herself. Limned in firelight, face to the stars.

He wandered over. Did he go to her, or was he drawn to her? The great question he would never be able to answer, and really, he didn't particularly care. He had found her. That was enough.

(continued under cut)

Rey looked from the stars, to his face, and smiled. "Sorry," she said, glancing back at the crowd. "Just got a bit loud. I'm fine, I'll be back soon."

"I know," Finn said, "It got loud for me too. Mind if I keep you company?"

"Not at all." Rey looked back up to the sky. She reached out her hand, grabbed his, and tugged insistently. Finn took an obedient couple of steps towards her until they were shoulder to shoulder, and smiled as Rey leaned over on his shoulder. "At some point," Rey said softly, "I'm going to actually think about everything that happened, and I'm probably going to go into shock or something. But for now"—she squeezed his hand—"we won, and the stars are nice."  

"They are," Finn agreed. He swallowed, and the secret he had never intended to keep this long insisted that it was really time it be told. "So, figure I should say this before you go into shock…" Finn paused, trying to figure out how to put into words the knowledge that had changed his life. 

"While I was down there," Rey said in a rush, trampling over Finn's thought. "There was a moment when every Jedi that ever was spoke into my mind. I was one with the Force, a part of it and it was a part of me."

Finn blinked, trying to keep up with the conversation. "That seems…overwhelming?" he offered.

Rey gave him a crooked smile. "Not as bad as it sounds. But. Every Jedi. Not, um, just the dead ones." Rey leaned over jostling him with her shoulder. "You could have just told me."

"Oh!" Finn said, blinking. "Oh, man, you're not still—"

"No, no, one time thing. I think. It was…a fairly unique situation." Rey turned to press her forehead against his bicep, and Finn hoped his presence served as some sort of shelter for whatever was haunting her. Rey sighed and some of the tension in her shoulders relaxed, and she asked, "How long have you known?"

"Not that long," Finn said, looking over at the top of her head with affection. On an impulse, he brushed a kiss against the crown of her head. "It's probably been a part of me my whole life. I think its what lead me to defect. But I didn't really understand until recently."

Rey looked back up, and the way her eyes glittered in the shadows of the forest captivated him. "I know what that's like," she said softly.

Finn carefully brought one hand up to her cheek, uncertain of his welcome, but also certain that he couldn't do anything else. "Rey," he said, his voice hitching as it fought coming out. "What if…that wasn't the only thing I wanted to tell you?"

Rey smiled, tightened her hand in his, and kissed him.

[cowthropologist]

tell me about the lovers maybe

So my fic for Whumptober2020 is called The Tower.  The fic title and all the chapter titles are the names of tarot cards.  Anyway, The Tower is very much #noromo bc it’s about Corvo during DH1 and his basically-wife was murdered in front of him earlier that year, so he’s a little busy grieving and rescuing his daughter and overthrowing a traitorous and illegitimate regent and has neither the time nor the inclination to get laid, let alone start dating or whatever.  However, The Tower is also definitely one of those “everyone has a huge crush on Corvo because he’s a pretty, pretty man” stories, or it will be if some of the scenes I have languishing at the end of the word doc ever actually make it in there.

Like I said, I’m not putting anything romantic or even remotely sexy into The Tower bc it’s really not that kind of story, but that doesn’t mean I can’t write other romantic, sexy things elsewhere.  The concept behind the lovers maybe is basically writing down the daydreams (or night dreams) of various characters who have crushes on Corvo in the continuity for The Tower.  I was thinking of doing a series and calling it The Lovers, maybe?  Hence the doc title.  Idk if I’m ever gonna finish this first part, let alone post any of it -- all I have is like the first half of something for Callista and it’s not very good.  It is kinda fun though.

I like writing about sex fantasies/romantic daydreams in fanfiction because you can basically write whatever wild OOC shit you want and frame it as one character fantasizing about another.  It’s a fun way to explore your POV character’s psyche and desires (and their perception of their crush) while also writing shameless and probably-implausible porn.  Plus, it’s an incredibly convenient way to shoehorn as much porn as you want into an otherwise canon-compliant story.  What’s not to like?

Let me see if I can find an excerpt of this sucker that’s even remotely readable.  Hm, this isn’t too bad.  Kinda long though, so I’m putting it under a cut.

The walkway is such a precarious-looking thing, but it’s surprisingly sturdy.  Her nervousness at crossing it faded quickly when she first came to the Hound Pits, and she crosses it confidently now in the moonlight.  It’s late, and the yard is empty.  Piero is surely asleep, and Samuel in his little hovel.  The lit lantern by Corvo’s bed is no concern: he never puts it out.  Callista’s not sure if it’s a courtesy for her and Lady Emily, in case they need to pass through his room in the night, or if he just doesn’t like the dark after his time in Coldridge.  She would never be so rude as to ask.

She clambers through the window, then stops short.  Corvo’s not asleep like she expected.  He’s standing half-turned away from her, his hands braced on his desk, his head slumped down between his shoulders.  His hair hides his face from her.  He wears nothing but a pair of loose pajama pants.

Callista clutches at the lapels of her coat.  She hasn’t seen this much of Corvo’s skin since Samuel first brought him to the Hound Pits Pub.  Corvo was badly wounded then, unconscious from blood loss, and they’d had to carry him to Piero, then cut his clothes off him.  He was a shattered husk of a man that day, painfully thin, terribly scarred and bleeding, three-quarters dead at best.  Callista’s heard terrible things about Coldridge, but none of the stories can measure up to the reality of Corvo Attano’s battered body on that table.

It’s been months now.  His wounds have healed, and he’s filled out a great deal since then.  The lines and dips of muscles in his back and shoulders are limned with shadows in the lantern light, but his back is hatched with scars – raised, thick, and ropy, the remembrance of a heavy whipping.  Callista’s seen such marks before on the backs of less-fortunate servants and formerly-mutinous sailors.  He has other scars on his arms, his ribs: cuts, burns, pinpricks, almost all of them still shiny, pink, and new.  Corvo’s body is a mosaic of pain and terror, and Callista hurts just looking at it.

But he’s still so beautiful.  His ribs don’t stand out under his skin anymore.  He’s lean and muscular, tall and elegant, no great hulking brute of a man that one might expect as an Empress’ bodyguard, but fit, graceful, a sword-handed dancer as swift as a bird, as calculating as a cat. He must have been a glorious sight before Empress Jessamine’s assassination: brown skin tawny in firelight, black hair soft and shining, well-muscled, soft-mouthed, dark-eyed, with only the odd scar to make him look dashing with his clothes off.  Corvo’s a more tattered thing now, still a little too thin, a little too bony, strong but wounded, stitched back together along the seams of every fading scar.

Callista is standing and staring at him, wide-eyed, silent, and utterly rude.  He must have heard her come in – she’s hardly stealthy, and Corvo is the Lord Protector.  Being observant is half his job.  But he doesn’t look up, doesn’t give any indication that he knows she’s there, just leans on his desk and breathes.  Callista can see his chest expand, his shoulders rise and fall.  His whole body is tense.  He looks… shaken, almost afraid.

“Corvo?” she says softly.

[bakudekuficlibrary]

baku losing his memory pls!!!

Hello! Here’s all I could find

-Ellie

10 Works.

A Hero by Any Other Name by Saysi ( T | 6,037 | 6/6 )

What’s in a name? Those which we call heroesBy any other name would retain their feat;So Bakugou would, were he not Bakugou called,retain that clear affection which he knows.

A.k.a. Bakugou loses his memory in a fight and has to meet his classmates all over again. Surprises are in store for those who thought they knew him.

A.a.k.a. Bakugou is a big softie when he forgets to be an asshole.

i still do by raeryn ( T | 9,646 | 1/1 )

He’s losing him to pieces, but Izuku still tries to make them count.In which a battle leaves Bakugou Katsuki with amnesia, and Izuku finds himself picking up the pieces.

Sweet Sweet Kacchan by heartnut ( T | 5,102 | 3/3 )

When Katsuki woke up today, he knew today was going to be really shitty. He did not, however, anticipate that meant he was going to forget who he was by the end of that very day. At least he had the foresight to be extra rude while it lasted.

Forget Me Not by Renex ( Not Rated | 9,960 | 7/7 )

“He suffered significant trauma to the head, but for the most part he’ll be able to function just as well as before after a short recovery period.”

“Significant head trauma? Like a concussion?”

“I’m afraid it’s far worse.” The doctor pushed his thin-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose, straightening his papers and looking Bakugou Katsuki’s mother in the face with the most sincerely empathetic expression he could muster. “The villain’s attack directly affected the structures that make up the limbic system, which is the part of your brain that mostly controls your emotions and memories. We don’t know the extent of it, or if it’ll be long-term or not, but your son has no recollection of who he is or what happened to him. In other words, Bakugou is suffering from amnesia.”

[Graphic Depictions of Violence]

all my life by melonbug ( M | 6,361+ | 2/5 )

Katsuki didn’t remember Midoriya Izuku, but he recognized the warm feeling that fluttered in his stomach whenever he saw the other man smile. Fuck. Whoever he was to him, had been to him—Katsuki was in love.

He was in love with Midoriya Izuku and he had no idea who he was.

seven days by bubblecube ( T | 10,094 | 1/1 )

There’s something about the green haired boy, an aura that just drew Katsuki in before he even knew his name.

[Sometimes your mind forgets, but your heart remembers]

Before by ScientificallySinful (VampireGaaraCheesepuffs) ( T | 7,921+ | 2/5 )

Izuku Midoriya wishes he never had to wake up. Because each time he does, he doesn’t know which Katsuki will be lying next to him.

After a villain attack, Katsuki begins to lose his memories at an alarming rate. Each day he wakes up thinking he’s a different age and at a different time point in his life. While Midoriya and Bakugo have a great relationship now, they haven’t always and Izuku comes face to face with that fact a little more every day.

[Past Bullying]

all the savage soul requires by majjale ( M | 58,032+ | 3/14 )

Bakugou seems to have exhausted his patience for words and no longer acknowledges that Midoriya exists, so Midoriya crosses his legs, stares down at his hands limned in firelight, and makes a list of things he knows.

One. His name is Midoriya Izuku.

Two. He is a Godmarked, future god of life, heir to the divine throne.

Three. The gods have been fighting Death for eons, and now he's coming for recompense with everything he’s got.

[Abandoned] You're Worth Remembering by Manateequeem ( T | 1,004 | 1/? )

Bakugou remembers nothing and Izuku wants to help him remember again

[Implied/Referenced Self-Harm | Suicide Attempt]

Illuminate by TheQueen ( G | 269 | 1/1 )

Bakugou watches the first firework launch and fights to keep his face neutral.

Day 2: Apologies & Fireworks

[eirianerisdar]

At First Sight

Summary: The first time one member of each of the three iconic couples of Star Wars realised they were in love - or perhaps they did not realise, per se, but fell anyhow. In short snippets. Anakin and Padme, Obi-Wan and Satine, and Han and Leia. Oneshot.

I think line breaks still aren’t working on tumblr mobile, so I’ve put a > for every new section.

>"Boy, get in here now!”

Watto’s Huttese was as gravelly as the fan switches Anakin was in the process of cleaning, but Anakin dropped the filthy rag and jogged into the shop immediately; he knew by experience that any delay would be met with consequences.

It was only after he had barely avoided a clipped ear and climbed on the countertop to watch Watto’s shop as instructed that he saw her.

She seemed a little older than he, but far from an adult; her head turned from the tall man in the tan poncho to face Anakin just as he raised his own; their eyes met in shared curiosity.

And Anakin, in the inexplicable and instinctual way he sometimes understood things simply by looking at them, felt a surge of something far-off and aching, light-years in the distance.

The girl smiled at him, politely. The smile did not look any less genuine for it, and it lit her face with a light that seemed to lance through space-time. She simply appeared, for a moment, like the entire galaxy existed to provide a backdrop for her smile.

In the Spice-taverns by the cargo bays, Deep-space traders, after one or two stiff drinks, would often tell of the angels of the moons of Iego; celestial beings with starlight for blood.

And so Anakin Skywalker met Padme Naberrie’s gaze for the first time, and said, “Are you an angel?”

>“It seems strange to shed blood for a cause not your own.”

Obi-Wan glanced up at her words, one hand still grasping a branch with which he had been tending the campfire.

“Duchess?” he murmured. Qui-Gon was scouting ahead, and so she could not have addressed any other than himself.

Satine met his gaze unflinchingly, plasma-singed hair curling around her cheekbones. “You killed a man today.”

“For your sake,” Obi-Wan countered, eyes falling back to the hungry flames.

“You did not have to.”

Obi-Wan’s fingers tightened on the branch; it smouldered at its end, smoking in the flickering firelight. “Yes, I did,” he replied, and perhaps it was less eloquent of a reply than usual, but they had been on the run long enough by now that he could see a pattern to their philosophical arguments.

He expected Satine’s cool blue eyes to flare into a blaze brighter than a lightsaber core - beautiful and terrifying all at once, like a blade of words and not of plasma - but they did not.

“Why?” she said, simply. The firelight lined her features with rose gold, limned her shawl-wrapped form in forge-fed steel.

The branch slipped out of Obi-Wan’s fingers, and he found himself looking away.

Why, indeed.

He could say it was his duty to the Republic, an oath sworn to it service from the moment his hair was braided into its padawan braid.

But here, sat across the fire from this duchess, with whom he had spent more hours verbally sparring with than any other person his age, who watched him steadily even now, with hunger in her belliy and firelight in her eyes, he knew it would be a lie.

So Obi-Wan did not reply at all, and strove to ignore the flutter in his heart as Satine tucked a strand of liquid gold behind her ear.

>“Can’t get out that way,” Han said bracingly as lowered his blaster, craning his neck to peer back down the corridor to the control room of the detention center.

“Looks like you managed to cut off our only escape route,” a sharp voice sounded behind him.

Han turned in place to face a pair of irate brown eyes that held a far more determination and confidence that one would have expected given that barely came up to the shoulder-plate of his stolen armour, and Han met the challenge within them with one of his own.

“Maybe you’d like to get back in your cell, your highness,” he said, pointedly.

The princess’s eyes flashed with a verbal duel acknowledged, but then Luke flinched beside them just before a blaster bolt slammed into the wall over their heads, and the group split apart and dove for the barely-sufficient cover of the wall brackets.

There followed a whole lot of yelling - Luke through the comms at Threepio, Han at Luke for ideas to get out of what rapidly seemed to be one of the worser shootouts Han found himself in, Chewie roaring in general, and eventually the princess, who snarled at their incompetence and snatched up Luke’s weapon to blast a hole in a grate bare inches from Han’s right ankle.

Afterwards, Han would never admit that he was startled. Han Solo didn’t startle. But somewhere between “Into the garbage chute, flyboy!” and the ever-closing walls of the trash compactor, he found himself re-evaluating things.

And then the trash compactor ground to a halt, and as the four of them stared at each other and began laughing in giddy, breathless giggles of relief, Han found himself with an armful of a slight, white-clothed form, Leia laughing by his ear.

Later, he would wonder when the princess became Leia.

But it was there, in that murky trash compactor, in grime and grit and filth, that Han first realised how beautiful she was; in that slime-soaked white dress, curls falling out of her hair-buns as she smiled once before getting right back down to the business of rescuing them all.

Because that was what it really was; they might have helped open her cell door, but Leia was the one who rescued them.

Han was in for a whole lot of trouble, he knew. But it didn’t stop him from grinning about it.

END

I do think Anidala, Han/Leia, and Obitine remain three of the most beautiful things in Star Wars. Thanks for reading.

My fanfic masterlist

FFN profile and stories

[sanctuaryforascrivener]

what’s past is prologue

Word Count: ~4.6k  Read on ao3  First in the series Martin of Mossflower. Beta’d by @raphcrow

Summary: One choice remade, and the benefits and consequences of it that spiral outward. Or, what if Luke’s tribe had stayed to fight Verdauga, instead of fleeing North? How much would have changed? How much would have stayed the same?

Next Chapter

The thing about stories, you see…

Almost two score mice huddle together for warmth under the branches of Mossflower woods. Their home lies behind them, a violated wreck of its former comfort. Their leader stands watch at the edge of the camp, paws on the pommel stone of a sword, the tip resting lightly on a scree of autumn leaves. He is uncertain, and afraid, but shows his tribe nothing but confidence. His ears twitch back, listening to the murmurings of the elders, the fitful cries of the young ones, confused and cold.

Something must be done.

A shape looms out of the darkness suddenly, and the mouse brings his sword up, ready to parry or stab or slash. “Peace,” the shape says, voice gruff but gentle, as a badger steps closer.

“Bella,” the mouse says, and stands down to let her pass. Behind him, the mice relax and chatter to each other quietly, the whisper of voices barely louder than the wind through the leaves.

Bella looks down at him, compassion and grief writ in every line of her sturdy body. “I heard what happened—I’m so sorry about your father, Luke.”

The mouse nods once, tightly, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he grinds his teeth. “We’re not safe here,” he says. “Not with that cat and his vermin.” The mice behind him have gone quiet again, listening to every word that passes between Luke and their badger friend.

“My home is yours, Luke, as long as you wish for it to be,” Bella says softly, liquid brown eyes pitch black in the moonlight. “Brockhall was designed for badgers. We’ve easily the space for all of you.”

Luke looks over his tribe again, counting the families, the tiny ones. So many old, so many young, so many lost.

…is that they’re never really settled.

“Aye,” he says at last, and sheaths his sword, the hilt sticking up over his right shoulder. “Thankee, Bella, for your hospitality. Someday we’ll repay you.” He turns, placing both hands on his hips, and issues orders in a quiet, though stern voice. “Vurg, Denno, I want you two at the back concealin’ tracks. Can’t have those scum trackin’ us back to Bella’s home. Pair up, the rest o’ you, an’ carry what little ‘uns you can. I’m not losin’ any more. Sayna?”

A pretty young mousewife slips her paw into his, the other resting over her middle. “I’m here, Luke.” He squeezes her paw in relief.

All a story is is a beast making one choice—

Sayna stands in front of a shamefaced Luke, mousebabe tucked firmly under one arm like a sack of potatoes, her other paw gripping a sheathed sword by the hilt. Bella and Barkstripe exchange amused looks as the mousewife lectures her chief, emphasizing each phrase with the sword. The rest of the tribe keep their heads down, muffling laughter into their breakfast plates.

“And what, pray tell, have I told you about leaving this around?” Sayna demands.

“‘Twasn’t around,” Luke protests. “‘Twas next to me. I had my eye on it, love—”

“Don’t you ‘love’ me, Luke, Son of Martin.” Sayna swings the sword up to point directly at her husband. The babe under her arm watches it avidly. “And if you’d had an eye on it, I wouldn’t have found your son halfway out the dining hall doing his best to haul it with him!”

Luke looks impressed. “Well, he’s gettin’ stronger, isn’t he?” He ducks under the sword and rescues the babe, dancing back out of range again before Sayna can give him a rap with the sheathe. He swings him up onto sturdy shoulders, giving his wife a winning, roguish smile. “Martin’s a warrior born, and knows what he’s after, that’s all—yowch!”

Martin has seized on his father’s ears for balance, grip unexpectedly strong for a mousebabe only a few weeks old. The hall’s attempt at keeping a straight face fails miserably, and Sayna relents, a wry smile stealing over her whiskers as their friends and family laugh. She steps closer, brushing her nose to Luke’s and pressing the sword back into his paws. “You’re lucky you’re so cute,” she says, and scrunches her nose up at her babe, serious expression framed by his father’s ears. “Both of you.”

—and another—

The three badgers sit before the fire in the common room of Brockhall, sipping mulled cider from mugs the size of Luke’s head. “It’s not slavery,” Barkstripe says, voice slow and measured. “They’ve their own homes, they’re not locked away, they’ll keep the produce come harvest.” He looks at his wife, but Bella only shakes her head.

“Only after giving half of it to the fortress as levy. That cat’s a clever one,” she says, staring into the fire. “Call it protection, discredit resistance. Make it easier to go along. There’re already dozens of families in that compound, those afraid to risk the lives of their little ones by rebelling.”

“Aye,” their guest agrees. “Set curfews, overseers in the fields to guard against outside threats and make sure everybeast is working, leave off chains and locks so they can convince themselves it’s not slavery. Forbid creatures from wandering off the lands, or carrying weapons for protection, because what need do they have for it, with soldiers surrounding them?” She takes a long draught of cider. “It’s not slavery, no, but it’s not freedom either.”

Barkstripe sighs heavily. “Yes. But we’re not fighters, Rowanoak, only farmers. What can we do?”

Rowanoak shakes her head. “I don’t know, friend. I don’t know.”

—and another.

“Somethin’ must be done.”

It is usual, now, to hear the mouse chieftain in discussion with their host, late at night after the young ones have gone to sleep.

“Aye,” Barkstripe agrees, the response worn with repetition. “But we don’t have the skills to fight back.”

“We do,” Luke counters. Barkstripe glances at him. “We do,” he repeats, insistently. “I’ve been about. Those otters can spear a fish quick as a wink, an’ squirrel archers are nothin’ to sneeze at. Gather volunteers, anyone who wants—we can train up a fighting force.”

Barkstripe shakes his head, the flicker of hope dying in his eyes, unnoticed until it has vanished. “Luke, my friend, I respect your spirit. You know that. And you’re right, there are skilled beasts in Mossflower, but those skills haven’t been tested against an enemy before. The otters hunt for fish, the squirrels protect their dreys from rooks and other hunting birds. You’ll have a hard time convincing any of them that outright war against the cat’s horde is wise.”

Firelight glints red in Luke’s eyes. “‘Tisn’t. And outright war isn’t my plan. We’re outnumbered an' under-trained. But this winter’s colder than any I can remember, an' that cat’s sittin' in the fortress warm and snug.” He leans forward, tapping the table with one paw to emphasize his words. “We take the time fate’s given us, and we train now, practice now. Come spring, we strike an' retreat, strike an' retreat, sting Greeneyes like bees. You can’t fight bees with a sword. Eventually, we’ll whittle him down enough that he has to flee.”

The course of a story isn’t like a stream running through the woods.

Luke crouches low in the newly budded undergrowth, paw clenching around his smoke-blackened sword. He breathes shallowly, counting as the vermin patrol passes. A handful of squirrels wait above him, ready at his signal to strike, then flee through the treetops. The rearguard passes. Luke tenses, ready for his ambush.

“Sure now, I’d not do that, if’n I were you,” a low voice murmurs from his left.

Luke twists his head sharply to the side to see a mouse lying beside him, mimicking his own posture. She gives him a broad wink. “There’s another gang comin’ along behind ‘em. Afraid ol’ Greeneyes is gettin’ wise to your tactics, me friend.”

“Who the devil are you?” Luke hisses, more frustrated with himself that he’s failed to notice her than hostile. She clearly isn’t an enemy.

The mouse grins widely, and offers him a lazy paw to shake. “Siobhan, yer honor. Me ol’ man’s at Brockhall with the little ‘un.”

Luke accepts the paw, still looking at Siobhan with a measure of skepticism. “Aye?”

“Aye. Y’know a lot about the warrior stuff, Luke me friend, but ye could stand for a few lessons on sneakin’ about.” Though her eyes hold a twinkle, they’re also hard and unyielding. “That’s why I’m here. Queen o’ Mousethieves, Warrior. At yer service.”

It’s more like a ship at the mercy of the waves.

Luke’s thinking about Sayna and Martin again. Sayna, and how hard he had had to work to win Windred over to him, to convince her that he loved Sayna more than life itself and would treat her well, that he wasn’t just the rough-and-tumble warrior she saw. How Sayna had beamed at him on the day of their marriage. How she had looked by the fire in St. Ninian’s, cuddled up into his side with the red glow of the embers limning her fur in a halo. How happy she’d been when she’d come to him and told him she was pregnant, that they’d have a child together.

How big little Martin is getting, a season and a half old and following him everywhere around Brockhall like a little shadow. How serious the babe is, watching everyone with wide, grey eyes. Just like his mother’s. Always biting off more than he can chew, too, trying to haul soup pots to the kitchen that are bigger than he is, or carrying Windred’s mending for her, even though every step threatens to get him tangled in the shirt or smock she’s repairing. Sayna always says that’s his fault, his obstinacy, and then she turns around and does the same thing, organizing an expedition to gather medicinal herbs and not taking “no” for an answer.

His little family.

Luke’s thinking about Sayna and Martin again, as he whirls his father’s blade over his head and slices through a stoat. As he leaps forward across the parade ground of Kotir, crossing his blade with the shaft of a weasel’s spear, slicing through the oak to gut the creature behind it. As he stands, parrying another seeking spear point, as he lashes out, as he ducks and slices at unprotected footpaws, as he cleaves through a shield.

As the arrows thud into his body. As he fights on. As he reaches the doors of the fortress. As he leans against them, trying to catch his breath. Trying to ignore the pain. Trying to hear Siobhan beside him, yelling insults at the vermin surrounding them.

As he reaches the gates of Dark Forest, Luke’s thinking about Sayna and Martin.

One twitch of the tiller—

Sayna stands outside Brockhall, leaning against the solid oak and watching the rising sun. Her eyes are red rimmed with exhaustion, and the tree is the only thing holding her up, but she won’t move until she knows for sure. One way or another. Martin dozes at her feet. He’s escaped from Windred three times now, always coming straight back to her. The last time, her mother had just left them a blanket and gone back to bed, muttering something about how letting two such stubborn mice have a child was Fate’s mistake. Sayna sinks to her knees and strokes his head, tucking the blanket more firmly about his tiny frame.

When the squirrel messenger drops out of the trees in front of her, Sayna already knows what he will say. Later, she thinks she knew before Luke had marched to Kotir, or perhaps even before she married him. Luke was always going to die fighting, sword in paw. There was no other fate for him.

The day Sayna walks through the gates to the compound with Windred by her side and Martin bundled on her back, she stares up at Kotir and makes a promise to herself. Her weapons are not steel and oak, but she’ll keep fighting, too. She will forge hope and hone it to a point, and use it to strike at the heart of Kotir. Whether it’s in four seasons or a score, she will live to see the fortress fall.

—one push off course—

“Why aren’ you out in the fields wit’ the others?” The weasel confronts a young mouse in the middle of the empty street. He’s missing two teeth.

Martin would dearly love to up the count to three, but he curls his paws into fists and restrains himself. “I’m taking care of my grandmother.”

“Why isn’ she out in the fields wit’ the others?” It’s a ferret this time, another of the squad on patrol through the compound.

“She’s ill,” Martin says. “I’m getting her some water.”

“I’m gettin’ her some water…?” The weasel repeats, using the butt of his spear to tap at Martin’s footpaws. The ferret behind him snickers.

He knows what they’re after, and he would rather swallow his tongue than give it to them. But his grandmother is sick at home, and they need more water. “I’m getting her some water, sir,” he says, taking a step back out of range.

“No you’re not,” the weasel says with a grin. “You’re goin’ out to the fields. It’s ‘arvest time, everyone’s supposed to be out by order of Lord Greeneyes.”

“My grandmother is sick,” Martin repeats, and takes another step back, fury building. “Someone needs to take care of her. Sir,” he adds bitterly, hoping it might give him just a little leeway.

“Likely story, and even if it isn’, she can take care o’ herself,” the ferret scoffs, and prods him in the back, ready to herd him towards the field. “C’mon, mouse, get to work.”

“I’m not going to the fields!” Martin snaps. “And you’re a fool if you think that’s just a story!”

This time, the butt of the spear trips him. The guards stand over him, laughing. “Mutiny, eh?” The weasel says. He crouches down in front of Martin, tone mocking. “Well, mouse, if you apologize, maybe I won’t toss you in the cells for the night. You’re still young enough to learn obedience, aintcha?”

—and the story may land somewhere else.

The stoat has his claws tangled in the back of Martin’s smock as he holds him well away from his body, and he’s too small to do any real damage. He doesn’t let this stop him. Martin swings wildly from the guard’s grip, kicking and writhing and generally determined to be as inconvenient as possible.

“Izzat the one what broke Blackfur’s nose?” another guard asks, watching the stoat with fascination. “Lil’ thing like that?”

“Nah, just mouthed off and managed to get a kick in,” the stoat snaps back. “Just git the door open, would you, my arm’s about to fall off! Oi, hold still, damn you!”

Martin growls, and swipes at the guard’s wrist. The stoat flinches, but the chainmail shirt he’s wearing protects him from any real damage. He’s about to try again when the stoat shakes him, hard.

“‘Ere, toss ‘im with the other one. Easier to feed two at once,” the guard says, heaving open a heavy door. The stoat shakes him again for good measure before chucking him in. He collides with another figure just inside the door, and they both go spinning ears over tail. Before Martin can sort out whose limbs are whose, the door is already shut.

“Coward!” Martin shouts. “Lily-livered scum!”

His fellow prisoner giggles breathlessly. “You’re not wrong,” he says, “But d’you mind not hollerin’ it in my ear?”

It takes another moment or two for the pair to get untangled, until at last two mice peer curiously at each other in the gloom of the dungeon. The older one winks. “I’m Gonff,” he says, and offers a paw. “The guards didn’ appreciate my impression of an ottermaid I know. Seemed to think I was mockin’ Miss Tsarmina, even when I told ‘em it wasn’t true. Didya really break a guard’s nose like ‘e said?”

“No,” Martin says, taking the paw. “Kind of wish I had. I’m Martin. Why did they think you were making fun of Tsarmina?”

Gonff grin widens and he launches into a high pitched voice. “What do you mean I’m not allowed to go out on my own? It’s not fair! I’m going to scream and throw things until I get my way!” There’s a bit of a yowl in his voice. Either he’s imitating an otter very badly, or he’s doing a fair impression of the older, brattier child of Verdauga. Martin laughs helplessly. Gonff joins in, and the pair sit giggling in the straw until they’re both breathless.

Somewhere uncharted.

Sayna’s grip on Martin’s shoulder is tight, but not painful. He knows he worries her, and he doesn’t like to do that, but he dislikes the vermin so callously in charge of their lives more. She doesn’t say a word on the walk back to their hut, doesn’t even look at him, and when they arrive at their door, Martin’s long since prepared himself for a lecture.

Sayna just dabs at a cut over his eye with the corner of her apron. “Telling you not to fight is as useless as telling the spring rain not to fall,” she says at last. “So I won’t.” Martin looks at her, not sure he’s heard her correctly. She smiles, though it looks painful. “I never thought you’d just go along, Martin. But if you must fight, please, do so with your head.”

Martin considers this. He suspects she means something besides headbutting a guard, but he’s not sure what. “How?”

She crosses her arms and looks him up and down. “There are more weapons than tooth and claw, sword and spear,” she says at last. Sayna turns to gaze out over the huts of the hovel—hardly there for five seasons, and already starting to fall apart. “And more strength than that in your limbs. There’s strength in community and joy. Right now, we are scared, scattered. Defeated. But eventually…” She looks back down at her son. “Even if we were strong, our spirit is weak. We could never win, not now. Do you understand?”

“No,” Martin admits.  

Sayna hums. “For now, that means helping other woodlanders, cheering them up, and not attacking the guards. Can you do that?”

Martin bites at the fur on the side of his paw as he thinks. “I think so.”

In the now, we can never know what might have been.

“Oi! What d’ye think you’re doin’ there?” The accusation carries over the fields, and Martin looks up to see a ferret guard berating Twoola. “Keep pullin’ up those carrots, don’ stop!”

“Chestnuts, d’you think?” Gonff murmurs next to him.

Martin makes a face. “We do chestnuts too often,” he says. “What about cheeses?”

Gonff groans. “Fine,” he says, sounding incredibly put upon. “But don’t bite m’ear, will you? I could have sworn you took a bit out of it last time.” Without further discussion, he launches himself at Martin with a loud shout. “You rotten little fibber, you take that back!”

“Will not!” Martin yells, as the pair go rolling over and over along the row of radishes they’re tending. Miraculously, they don’t damage a single leaf. “You’re the one who stepped on my tail! Say you’re sorry!”

“Won’t!”

“Will!”

The shouts soon attract the attention of every guard within hearing range, and the ferret leaves off to come rushing over, whacking both of them as they struggle and fight, kicking and nipping and shoving loose dirt down each other’s smocks. It takes more than five minutes for the pair to be separated, but by the time they do, the ferret has long forgotten the exhausted, elderly mouse who wasn’t working quickly enough.

Bruised and dirty, Gonff and Martin are given a good scrub in the bath when they get home, as well as an extra slice of nutty bread to split between them.

We can only choose—

When winter screams across the hills Hey-oh, away-oh! We’ll huddle close against the chill Hey-oh, away-oh! Snow and ice won’t bother me As long as I have family Oh heave, haul, away-oh!

Sayna leads the woodlanders in the old season song as they crawl through the turnip patch, pulling up the roots and tossing them in their baskets.

When spring storms sweep across the plain, Hey-oh, away-oh! We’ll stay inside out of the rain, Hey-oh, away-oh! Rain will help the flowers grow This my friends and I do know, Oh heave, haul, away-oh!

They’re under guard as always. Martin’s paws are scratched, his back is sore, and he’s hungry. But he sings out as loudly as the rest, the song keeping the rhythm quick and easy.

When summer sun shines hot and bright, Hey-oh, away-oh! We’ll swim in streams so cool and light, Hey-oh, away-oh! It’s fun to laugh with friends and play In these high midsummer days, Oh heave, haul, away-oh!

He glances up and sees the bewilderment on the face of one of the guard’s, the way he shuffles away from the woodlanders who are singing as joyfully as if they would be allowed to keep the whole harvest. Martin grins fiercely, and raises his voice.

When there’s a chill in autumn’s breeze Hey-oh, away-oh! And gold and red touch chestnut leaves, Hey-oh, away-oh! Harvest, plenty, feast, and care With all my friends and family share Oh heave, haul, away-oh!

—and choose—

“Your mum would tan your tail if she found out you had that,” Gonff says as they walk bank side.

Martin raises one eyebrow, swinging his smuggled sling back and forth. “Maybe. And she’d tan your tail if she knew who’d been nicking bread off the Spikes’ window sill.” Gonff shrugs, unrepentant. “‘Sides, Skipper says I’m a natural, but I’ve still got to practice.”

Gonff grins. “Skipper says he wishes I were an otter, so I could be part o’ his crew.”

“He never,” Martin challenges, elbowing his friend in the side. “He says you’re a cove and a river pirate. I’ve heard him.”

“Ha! Just goes to show what you know, matey!” Gonff adds a swagger to his walk, swinging his tail as if it’s the thick rudder of an otter. “Blow me, but I’d be part o’ Skipper’s crew faster’n it’d take me to empty a pot o’ good ole hotroot soup.” His feet tangle mid-swagger and he trips, leaping up to the sound of Martin’s laughter.

“You liar! You chugged five cups of water the last time you had a spoonful!”

Gonff quickly changes the subject. “Well, go on, then, I want to see these natural sling talents o’ yours.”

“All right,” Martin says, starting to swing more purposeful circles. “Pick a target?”

“Betcha can’t hit the limb on that dead ol’ ash,” Gonff says, pointing out a tree on the opposite side of the bank and further up the stream. Martin narrows his eyes and, after a few more twirls, whips off a stone that smashes into the limb with a crack. This is quickly followed by a loud and angry buzzing.

With a shared look of horror, Martin and Gonff drag each other into the river, splashing down into the shallows near a bed of reeds, where the water is still enough to not carry them off.

When the yellow-jackets depart several minutes later, the pair of bedraggled mice emerge from the shallows. They’d gotten underwater quickly enough to avoid most of the swarm’s retaliation, and they apply pawfuls of sticky river mud to each other to ease the stings.

“Too bad they weren’t bees,” Gonff says after a moment. “We might’ve had some honey.” Martin shoves him backwards at this, and then races to rejoin the gathering party, Gonff close behind him.

—and hope that we’re brought safe to shore…

Gonff eases the door closed as they sneak away from the gathering in the Stickles’ home and towards Martin’s, where they’re supposed to be asleep. They don’t go in yet. The summer night is warm and the sky clear. Instead, Martin braces himself against the wall, and Gonff climbs onto the roof, hauling Martin up to join him.

“So that’s what’s been goin’ on,” Gonff says at last as they dangle their legs over the edge and stare at the stars. “I thought the guards were gettin’ a bit tense.”

“Mm. Explains a lot,” Martin agrees. His eyes are drawn to the hulk of Kotir, black with slime and shadows. “Verdauga’s ill, so Tsarmina’s taking on more power.”

“Guess Gingivere’s not gonna inherit after all.”

Martin scowls. “Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.”

“I dunno, matey. Gingivere’s not a bad sort, for a wildcat.”

“A tyrant is a tyrant,” Martin argues, “even if they’re a benevolent tyrant.” He kicks his footpaws against the wall, and voices something he’s been thinking about for a long time. “Even if we do rise up, and get rid of Greeneyes, and Tsarmina, and the army, another one would come along. As long as Kotir’s there, there’s going to be some band of scum that want to come along and take it.”

Gonff snorts. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but what’re we going to do? Tear down a fortress? It’s been there for seasons and seasons.”

“We won’t be free until that thing is gone,” Martin says, still staring at Kotir. “Not really.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, then,” Gonff says, and leans back on his paws, staring up. “We’ve still got an army and three wildcats to worry about before we get that far, matey.” Martin just nods, leaning forward to put his chin in his paws, thinking. “Someday ole Mossflower’ll be free again,” Gonff says after a long, pensive silence. “You’ll see.”

“Aye,” Martin agrees, eyes hard and glinting in the moonlight. “Someday...”

...and not lost at sea.

“...even if I have to die to make it so.”

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