#windows with closed shutters that still see blindly

[trashcanalienist]

It's all a lot of lies, maybe not lies about how it's accusatory and reproachful, knowing commentary on the inherent voyeurism of cinema and the audience's complicity in these women's deaths, but it's all lies besides that for emotionally it's just that I am with them and we share the same eyes.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 19

Or: a secret Admirer AU

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6 || PART 7 || PART 8 || PART 9 || PART 10 || PART 11 || PART 1 || PART 13 || PART 14 || PART 15 || PART 16 || PART 17 || PART 18

Steve makes a noise of pain, and Eddie pulls back like he’d been burned. With how hot his face feels, he might have been. Eddie holds his fingers up to his own mouth. His lips hurt enough when he touches them that Eddie’s sure it’ll go down in history as the worst kiss in Steve Harrington’s life.

“Um,” Steve says, voice high and wobbly like he’s going to cry.

Eddie’d almost rather die than have Steve see him right now, but he needs to see the look on Steve’s face to ascertain how the hell he can fix this. So, he reaches up, fumbling blindly until the van’s interior light clicks on.

He blinks, momentarily blinded by the spots sparking in his eyes with the sudden light. When he finally blinks them away and catches sight of Steve, his breath catches.

Steve’s pressed hard enough into the van’s door that it looks like he’s trying to become one with it, and his eyes are wide and panicked, fingers clenching the fabric of his jeans over his raised knees. There’s a speck of blood on his mouth and all Eddie can do is hope that it’s his own.

“I am so sorry,” Eddie rushes out, shuffling forward in his seat, hand outstretched to wipe off the blood, but when Steve flinches away, smacking his head against the window, Eddie flings himself back, palms raised in supplication. “I shouldn’t have done that!”

It’s only as something shutters beneath Steve’s wide eyes that Eddie realizes how many wrong ways Steve could be taking what he’s saying. “Not like that!” Eddie continues, words tumbling over each other in his rush to get them out. “It’s just you were saying all that shit like I don’t want to be here? And I panicked, and just sort of…did that?”

Steve doesn’t say anything in response. He just sits, frozen, eyes unfocused. Eddie really wishes he’d say something, if only so Eddie can stem the stream of bullshit flowing from his mouth.

“Only, I’ve never kissed anyone before, and you’re supposed to ask first, right?” he rambles, still panicking. “Oh my god, I just like, attacked you? I’ll take you home if you want, oh my god, why did I—”

“You want to be here?” Steve blessedly interrupts. Eddie takes gasping breaths, eyes laser focused on the little furrow between Steve’s brows. “Wait, that was your first kiss?”

Eddie feels whatever blood had drained from his face rush back as Steve squints across at him. He’s not crowded into the door, but Eddie’s not sure the way he’s leaning toward Eddie with disarming focus is actually much better.

“I mean—well, you see—I’ve just never—” Steve’s still staring at him unerringly so Eddie takes a shuddering breath and finally spits it out. “I’ve never been on a date, kissed anyone, any of that stuff.”

“Oh,” Steve whispers, a look Eddie can’t read dawning across his face.

“Yeah, oh,” Eddie replies, chuckling weakly when Steve just keeps staring. Eddie looks away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze. “Sorry I blew it like that. I just sort of panicked, you know?”

“Oh,” Steve says again, a different intonation this time, still just as indecipherable to Eddie.

“Yeah, oh,” he mutters again, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, unable to look at Steve.

It’s silent again—Eddie wishes it was dark, too. He wants to go home, drag his comforter back into his room and hide beneath it until he forgets any of this ever happened. He might be under there for a long, long time.

But then there’s cool fingers against his chin, and when he jerks his gaze toward him, Steve’s golden brown eyes are very, very close to his own, his lips even closer with the way his breaths are puffing against Eddie’s open mouth.

“Can I?” Steve asks, making it clear what he means as he looks down at Eddie’s lips.

Eddie gasps, body aflame with the power of his blush. “You—you want to?” he stutters out. When Steve nods, still holding Eddie’s chin, he responds, “okay, yeah, yeah, okay—” his affirmations only being cut off by the soft press of Steve’s lips.

It’s soft and dry, pressed chastely against Eddie’s own. Eddie shudders, mimicking the minute movements of Steve’s lips against his own. It’s a revelation to feel Steve’s lips on him, even more so when he feels Steve’s mouth quirk up against his own, like he’s happy to be kissing the bumbling fool Eddie’s become.

Eddie laughs, just a little against Steve’s mouth. It turns into a groan halfway up his throat as Steve threads his fingers through Eddie’s hair, using his grip on the back of his head to pull Eddie closer to himself. As Eddie gasps, Steve brushes his tongue into Eddie’s open mouth, barely delving in before pulling it back and sucking Eddie’s bottom lip.

Steve leaves his lips wet as he pulls back. Eddie tries to chase his mouth, drunk off the feeling of it, but Steve’s fingers fist in the back of his hair, holding him in place. The feeling zings through Eddie from his scalp to his palms, that gentle pull hitting him like electrocution as he gasps back to life.

When he opens his eyes, Steve’s still close, smiling smugly at Eddie. It’s all King Steve without the bite. He wants more, hopes Steve keeps him around long enough that he can see it all.

“You said stargazing?” Steve asks, eyes twinkling brighter than any star in the sky.

Eddie laughs, something bright and bubbling filling his chest as he watches Steve laugh along with him, eyes crinkling almost shut, hand still clutched in Eddie’s hair.

He hopes, ardently, desperately, that a second date is on the table, no matter how disastrously this one has gone because right now, in this moment with Steve’s buoyant laughter echoing in his skull? Eddie’s obsessed with him.

“Yeah, big boy, let’s go.”

***

Steve leans against the cold metal of Eddie’s van and watches as Eddie bounces around in the light of the van’s headlights, helplessly endeared as Eddie fusses with the edges of his blanket until it finally lays wrinkle-free in an empty spot in the clearing. He rushes back to the van a few times, holding snacks and drinks behind his back like Steve won’t see them the moment he drops them to one side of the blanket.

He fusses with it all, too, making sure everything’s lined up just so. It’s so unlike Eddie that Steve might think he’s stalling if he wasn’t beaming the entire time. To finish it off, he grabs a smaller folded blanket and lays it perfectly parallel with all the snacks. Only then does he turn back to Steve.

“My lady,” he says, bowing low and gesturing down to the blanket at his feet. “Your chariot awaits.”

Steve laughs and follows his directions to the middle of the blanket, feeling absurdly guilty about his shoes on it. He drops, crossing his legs beneath him. Once he’s rushed over to the van to turn his headlights off, Eddie follows his lead, sitting close enough that their knees just barely overlap.

Steve blinks away the spots in his vision from the change in light before looking up at the sky. It’s bursting with stars, and the moon’s full enough to illuminate their clearing so that Steve can see the shadows of Eddie’s dimples as he smiles at him.

“So, I was thinking we could smoke a little?” Eddie says, pulling a joint out of the pocket of his vest with a raised brow. “But if you don’t want to, we can just relax.”

Steve grabs the joint from Eddie’s hand, letting his fingers brush against Eddie’s before plucking it free and putting it in his own mouth. Eddie stares, mouth parted, hand still held out despite now being empty.

“Well? Got a light?” Steve asks around the blunt, leaning a bit toward Eddie as he comes back to life and fumbles in his vest pocket like he’s on some sort of time crunch.

Eddie flicks his lighter and watches avidly as Steve sucks in until the cherry catches and burns. He inhales, trying for cocksure and suave, but it’s been a long time and instead he coughs a cloud of smoke right in Eddie’s face.

Steve rolls his eyes as Eddie throws his head back and laughs. “Yeah, yeah, yuck it up,” he says around each little, sputtering cough.

“Sorry,” Eddie replies, but he’s still laughing as he plucks the joint from Steve’s fingers and takes a much smoother drag, using his free hand to pat Steve on the back like he’s burping a baby. “Been a while, Stevie?”

Steve’s eyes are streaming, but he feels light enough that he could float away on the smoke as Eddie smiles across at him, joint still in his mouth.

“A bit,” Steve replies, cheeks heating as Eddie’s fingers brush against his lips as he puts the joint back into Steve’s own mouth, tip now wet with Eddie’s spit.

“Nice and easy, now,” Eddie says. Steve follows his instructions, taking a small, shallow breath in, fighting against the spasming of his lungs as he lets the smoke leave his mouth and float up into the night’s sky. He’s rewarded with Eddie’s quiet murmur of, “good boy.”

Then the asshole takes the joint back, raising his eyebrows tauntingly as Steve shudders.

“Shut up,” Steve mutters, no heat behind the words as he flops back on the blanket and looks up at the stars. “Now show me some constellations, Munson.”

Eddie laughs, dropping down so their sides are pressed together, heads close enough that Eddie’s hair tickles Steve’s neck. Eddie takes one more drag before offering it back to Steve. Steve’s enough of a lightweight now, that the few hits he took have him floating a few feet above his body, so he shakes his head. Eddie reaches over to stub it out in the grass without complaint.

“Okay, see those three stars?” Eddie asks, pointing up into the sky. Steve squints, nodding when he finally locates three stars that seem brighter than the ones around them, forming a wonky sort of triangle. “Well, that constellation’s called, How The Fuck Should I Know?”

A barking laugh bursts out of Steve as he turns to stare at Eddie, incredulous. “You planned a stargazing date and don’t know anything about stars?”

“Well, I thought it would be romantic!” Eddie cries, gesturing wildly enough that one of his hands smacks into Steve’s chest lightly.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Doesn’t even know anything about stars,” he repeats teasingly.

“Well!” Eddie sputters, wrapping his arm around Steve’s shoulders and shaking him around on the blanket as he laughs. “Wayne thought it was a good idea.”

Steve stops laughing, unease curdling in his gut as he asks, “you told your uncle about me?”

Eddie sits up, wriggling his arm from beneath Steve suddenly enough that he flops bonelessly onto the blanket as Eddie peers down at him, eyes wide and manic beneath the moonlight. He latches both hands onto Steve’s shoulders like he’s trying to keep Steve stationary.

“I didn’t mean to!” he blurts out before biting his lip. “It’s just, I tell him everything, and he knew I was upset, and asked what was wrong, and it just spilled out!” One of Eddie’s hands lets go of Steve’s shoulder so he can gesture wildly, like they’re playing charades and he’s depicting a clown pulling a ribbon from his sleeve. “And then he told me that he thought I was gay, can you believe that?”

And honestly? Steve can. But Eddie looks riled enough, and Steve just wants to go back to the calm intimacy of minutes before, so he grabs the hand still propping Eddie up with his own shoulder and yanks it out from under him.

Eddie goes sprawling, landing half on Steve’s chest where he wriggles around like a worm until Steve wraps his arms around him and holds Eddie tight to his own chest. Eddie shutters, then slumps, tucking his head beneath Steve’s chin with a groan.

“First Chrissy, then Jeff, and Robin, now your uncle?” Steve mutters, tightening his hold on Eddie when his words start him squirming again. “Who’s next, the pope?”

“Robin knows?” Eddie asks, breaths puffing against Steve’s sensitive neck. “That explains so much.”

“Hey, Rob’s great,” Steve defends, unsure what Eddie’s weird tone means. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Eddie snorts, but burrows his face further into Steve’s neck, planting a little kiss on the skin there. “You’re so weird.”

“Coming from you?”

“Oh, baby, you had me beat like three deranged decisions ago,” Eddie teases, but Steve barely hears him, too busy replaying baby, baby, baby, over and over again in his head like a cheap record.

“Shut up,” Steve mutters.

Eddie fights against Steve’s restricting arms until he’s propped up, smirking down at him, his curly hair curtained around them. “I’m serious! First, you write secret letters? And to me of all people?” Eddie crows. Steve wishes desperately that he could think of a way to shut him up before this gets even more embarrassing. “And the Chrissy of it all, Stevie, what the hell were you—mph!”

Eddie goes blessedly silent as Steve plants one on him, opening his mouth just enough to hear Eddie make that delightful groaning noise again. Steve wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist, pulling Eddie down until his full weight is atop Steve, anchoring his stoned brain back into his body.

Steve bites at Eddie’s lip, once, twice, before soothing it with his tongue and pulling back, high again off the pitiful groan Eddie lets out.

“I finally found a way to shut you up,” he says softly, but he’s smiling and running his hands up and down Eddie’s back as he pants.

Eddie groans, flopping off Steve, body still pressed up against his side. “You’re evil Harrington,” he mutters, reaching out to take Steve’s hand and squeeze.

Steve reaches for Eddie’s chin again, this time pointing it back up to the sky.

“You see those stars there?” he asks, pointing up and to the left of them. “It looks sort of like a weird rectangle with legs and a swirly neck?”

Eddie squints up, gaze unerringly facing the way Steve’s pointing. Steve watches close enough that he sees the moment recognition lights up his eyes. “That’s Leo.”

At that, Eddie whips his head around to stare at Steve suddenly enough that he breaks Steve’s hold on his chin. “Are you kidding?” Eddie demands, but he’s grinning now. “You gave me all that shit, and you ‘know the stars?’” He throws quotations around his words, making it clear that he’s mocking Steve.

For his part, Steve shrugs, still lying down and grinning right back as he replies, “I learned all the star signs to impress girls. And boys, now.”

As Steve reaches out to tuck a dangling lock behind Eddie’s ear, Eddie stares back at him, no longer grinning. “I’m a Leo.”

“I know.”

Eddie whines, “you’re going to kill me,” and drops back to the blanket, curling into Steve’s side.

“Nah,” Steve replies, uprooting Eddie just enough to reach over and grab the folded blanket to drape over the pair of them, cutting the chill in the air by halves. After all, they’ve got a high to wear off before Eddie can drive him home like the gentleman he promised to be. “What fun would that be?”

***

Steve’s asleep—Eddie can tell by the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath Eddie’s head and the way his breath whistles out of his nose. Eddie doesn’t wake him up. This moment feels too precious, this feeling bubbling up in his chest too new to disturb it, especially after the disaster that was the beginning of the night.

It’s just, Eddie’s never been on a date before, and he hadn’t accounted for the way the popcorn would make his hand too slippery with butter to even imagine reaching across the distance between them. And Steve had been very clear: he wanted to hold hands. And it’d all spiraled out of control from there.

He’s never buying popcorn again.

But, now he’s resting against Steve’s side, head propped up on Steve’s chest, hand clutched in his even though it leaves his arm at an awkward angle. And he’s contending with feelings he’s never experienced before.

It’s like there’s moths attacking his heart and lungs before fluttering down into his stomach, tickling his insides, making his whole being damn-near squirm with the foreign feeling.

He feels almost sick with it—is this what everyone means by lovesick? It’s awful, it’s spectacular. He wants to wake Steve up and tell him about the moths and their fluttering, see if he feels it, too.

But, Steve sighs, and even in his sleep, his arms reflexively pull Eddie tighter against himself, and Eddie lets himself bask in the warmth of his embrace until he falls asleep.

He wakes, his entire body cold and shivering convulsively.

It takes another shake to his shoulder to remember where he is and who he’s with. He opens his eyes to Steve’s face hovering over him, his hand shaking Eddie’s shoulder.

“Wha’s it?” Eddie murmurs, reaching up to rub clumsily at his eyes.

“We fell asleep,” Steve replies, voice gravely in a way that hits Eddie right in the gut. “Come on, man. It’s freezing out here.”

Eddie groans, but dutifully drops his hand from his face to grab Steve’s, letting the other boy pull him upright. It takes him a minute to reorient himself with the concept of standing upright.

By the time he’s upright, Steve’s stacked the uneaten snacks back into the bag Eddie’d brought them in, and is halfway through folding up Eddie’s blanket.

“Is it morning?” Eddie asks, squinting up at the sky accusingly as dawn’s light filters through the trees.

Steve laughs. “You’re cute when you first wake up.” Eddie stands there, brain now fully offline, cheeks heating even in the cold. “Now, come on! It’s cold as hell out here.”

The sound of his van’s passenger door slamming as Steve climbs inside sends him running; he climbs into his freezing van and turns the key in the ignition.

“The, uh, heat’s on the fritz,” Eddie mutters, embarrassed, as the van sputters to life. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Steve replies, and when Eddie glances at him, he’s smiling over at Eddie even as he wraps his arms around himself.

It’s a quiet drive, more out of sleepiness this time rather than the awkward journey of the night before. Steve reaches out to play whatever’s in the tape deck—Metallica this time, and he bops his head along to the beat while Eddie taps the steering wheel.

He pulls into the Harrington’s driveway, and puts the van in park and lets the engine idle.

“Well, I had fun,” Steve says, smiling as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “Thanks for the ride.”

Steve’s already out of the car and walking up to his front door by the time Eddie’s tired brain catches up. He’s out of the van in a shot, forcing his cold legs to move fast as he calls, “wait!”

Steve pauses, hand still on the doorknob, halfway through the door. But he turns around, and waits as Eddie rushes up to him, already breathless from his short dash.

“A gentleman always walks his date to the door,” Eddie says quietly, conscious of listening ears, even this early in the morning.

Steve beams, clearly ready to play along as he curtsies like one of the fine ladies in the movies and replies, “well, you’ve done your gentlemanly duty.”

Eddie shuffles his feet, anxious now about all the other things that usually follow the end of a date. “Uhh—well—can I—?”

Steve waits indulgently while Eddie sputters over all the things he wants, all the things he can’t figure out how to say. It’s okay, Eddie planned for this, so he reaches into his vest’s pocket, and pulls out a folded piece of paper, passing it to Steve like they’re in class.

Steve looks down at it, smile growing as he asks, “what’s this?”

“Open it,” Eddie replies, but he already is, smile only growing as he reads what’s on it.

   Second Date? Yes ☐ No ☐

   First Kiss? Yes ☐ No ☐

“I, uh, didn’t think we’d have already done the whole first kiss thing?” Eddie rambles, the longer Steve spends just staring down at it. “But, it’s customary at the end of a first date, right? I mean not that I have any experience. But, in the movies—”

“I probably have morning breath,” Steve graciously interrupts, holding a hand over his mouth like he’ll be able to contain the stench. But he’s smiling down at the note, Eddie can see the edges of his upturned lips between the gaps in his fingers.

And that’s decidedly not a no, so Eddie crowds Steve until he stumbles through his open front door. Eddie takes a precious moment to close the door to obscure them from view before he cups Steve’s cheeks in the palms of his hands.

“I can’t tell you how much I don’t give a shit about that, Harrington,” Eddie murmurs right before he presses his lips against Steve’s, gently this time because say what you want about Eddie, but he can learn from his mistakes.

It’s slow this time, languid. They’re both tired, and cold, and this date has gone on hours longer than it was ever supposed to. But it’s just as good as their second first kiss. Eddie’s mind goes blank—there’s nothing past the heat of Steve’s lips, and the way those foreign moths squirm within him as arms wrap around his waist. 

Eddie pulls away first this time, pecking Steve’s lips once, twice, thrice, when he groans a complaint. “Now, now, I’m trying to be a gentleman,” Eddie replies, hoping Steve doesn’t notice how breathless he sounds.

Steve pouts, but pulls back, Eddie’s note still clutched in his hand. Eddie stares at it, gut churning much more unpleasantly as he asks, “uh, and the other question?”

“Hold that thought,” Steve replies, and then he just—walks away.

Eddie stands at the threshold of the Harrington’s big, empty house as Steve disappears from view. Luckily for the health of Eddie’s heart, he reappears a few moments later, the cap of a pen in his mouth as he scribbles quickly on the page before handing it back to Eddie.

Eddie looks down at it, smile blooming as he sees the little X’s Steve had written in next to the Yes’s of both questions.

“But it’s my turn to plan the next one,” Steve mutters, and when Eddie tears his gaze away from the note, Steve’s cheeks are dusted with a light pink blush that Eddie has to resist the urge to lick.

“I can live with that,” he replies, damn-near buzzing with excitement.

“I’m going to knock your date out of the park, Munson, just you wait.” Steve’s got a cocky eyebrow raised like he’s challenging Eddie to a competition and knows he’s going to win.

He’s such a bitch; Eddie’s obsessed with him.

“Good luck, Harrington. We both know I knocked this one out of the park.” Steve laughs as Eddie mimes hitting a baseball with a bat with the best form he can manage, trying to appeal to Steve’s jock sensibilities.

“You brought it back around,” Steve concedes.

“But, hey,” Eddie starts, finally breaking eye contact with Steve so he can slip the ring off his finger and hold it out to Steve. “It’s no letterman jacket, but something to remind you of me until our next date?”

Steve’s eyes are wide as he looks down at the ring cradled in Eddie’s palm, and his fingers tremble slightly as he scoops it up. Still, he doesn’t hesitate in trying out fingers until he finds one that fits—the blue gem shines brighter affixed to Steve’s thumb than it ever did on Eddie’s hand.

Steve’s cheeks are darker now; Eddie wants to reach out and see if he can feel the heat through his skin.

Steve swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing as he looks down at the ring on his finger with what looks like wonder. “Thank you,” he murmurs quietly before finally looking up and meeting Eddie’s eyes. “Good luck getting my letterman back from Chrissy, though. She’s obsessed with it. I swear I even saw Jeff wearing it the other day.”

“I’ll fight her for it,” Eddie replies, mostly joking as he throws a couple half-hearted punches just to make Steve laugh again.

“You do that,” Steve says, still smiling as he leans forward to peck Eddie’s lips one more time before ushering him out the door. Eddie’s lips tingle the whole drive home.

When he walks through the trailer, Wayne’s on the couch, watching a game of sportsball on the TV, a mug of coffee clutched in his hand. He looks up when Eddie enters, smirking as he catches sight of whatever look is on Eddie’s face.

“Still straight, Ed?” Wayne asks, before taking a sip of his coffee like the meddlesome bastard he is.

“Shut up, old man,” Eddie replies, walking past his laughing uncle to fall into his bed for a few more hours of much-needed sleep.

PART 20

[sisters-sideblog]

I’m a day late for sickfic day of Raivoli week but simply could not pass up that prompt. Read it here or on Ao3!

△△△

Link frowned, sitting up in bed. Something was off. 

No one bustled around his tiny little single room cottage. The shutters on all the windows remained closed. No lanterns lit the dark room. Only the dim glow of last night’s embers in the hearth and morning sunlight peeking around the edges of the shutters provided any light to see by. 

Ravio wasn’t up. Strange. Most mornings he beat Link to waking. 

In the darkness, someone sniffed. 

Link turned to the lump under the covers next to him. 

They’d been sharing a bed for a few weeks now, whenever Link wasn’t stuck in the depths of some dungeon. It still felt strange, but less strange than making Ravio spread a bedroll out on the hard floor while Link himself enjoyed a lumpy but soft mattress. 

Another quiet sniffle. Crying? The thought made Link’s stomach curl uncomfortably. But no, this time it was followed by a light cough and a soft, miserable little noise.

“Mister Hero?” Ravio whispered. He sounded stuffy and about as pathetic as Link had ever heard him. The times he’d talked his way into Link’s house and then his bed both included. “Are you awake?”

Ravio still insisted on covering his face, even at night. At least he took off the hood, turning his back to Link for long enough to cover both hair and ears with a wrap and an oversized, brilliantly purple sleeping mask to dwarf most of the rest of his features. The bunny hood lay in a heap on the floor; usually he woke before Link to put it on. 

Covered eyes turned towards Link in the darkness. Was it his imagination that the very tip of the nose just barely visible under the lower edge of the mask looked a little red? 

“I’m awake,” he whispered back.

“Mister Hero, I feel terribly unwell,” Ravio moaned, laying on the drama now that he knew he had an audience. Link rolled his eyes, secure in the knowledge that it would remain unseen. “I think I need a healing potion. Maybe a fairy? I definitely need a fairy. Oh, but what if there aren’t any? You’ll take care of Sheerow, won’t you? I - what are you doing?”

Between the turban and the sleeping mask, a sliver of Ravio’s forehead remained exposed to open air. The palm of Link’s hand immediately started to feel a little sweaty, but Link knew perfectly well that wasn’t because of Ravio. 

“Checking for fever,” he said as casually as he could, pulling his hand back. The skin seemed to tingle with the remembered warmth of Ravio’s skin. It was the normal amount of warmth. “You don’t have one.” 

“I can’t possibly open the shop today,” Ravio bemoaned. He coughed again. Link listened carefully, but it sounded dry, no rattling of phlegm. He sounded stuffy, yes, but he hadn’t yet coughed himself hoarse. “I can’t talk to people like this! An entire day of lost profits!”

Link wasn’t impressed. “It’s just a cold. I’m renting your entire stock. And if I want to buy something, you don’t need to open the shop for me. I live here.” He still felt the need to remind Ravio of that from time to time. 

Ravio’s hands flailed blindly. Link jerked his head back to avoid getting smacked in the nose. “I get other customers! One of them still has the sand rod!” Ravio declared with such a loudly dramatic hiss that he set himself into a true coughing fit, the first Link had heard from him that morning. Link grabbed his hand and pulled him to sit upright, patting his back until the fit passed. 

“I’ll make you some tea,” he decided. The audible dryness in his throat did sound painful, and the steam would be good for his sinuses. 

He heard the whisper of fabric across the floor as soon as he headed towards the kitchen and kept his head politely turned away while Ravio swapped his sleeping mask for the hood he could, theoretically, see out of. 

“And breakfast?” Ravio added hopefully, clogged nose adding to the overall air of pathetic neediness. 

“Don’t push your luck.” 

But once he had the kettle on, Link pulled out a pan and some eggs. Ravio nursed him back to health a time or two, after all; that was how they met. He could afford to return the favor. 

△△△

(Brought to you by the headcanon that Ravio gets terribly dramatic over the mildest of colds and is the most demanding patient he can possibly be.)

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

The Waves are Rising and Rising

|Beginning| |Previous|

Chapter 16

Nearly there! The final chapter will post on Monday.

--//--

Jin Guangyao wakes slowly and groggily. His mind is a hazy mess of spinning thoughts, none of which he is able to reach out and focus on, so he lies still and stares up at the ceiling for a while.

It is morning, he is able to deduce, eventually. The shutters over his window are closed, but the light is leaking through, and it looks like morning.

Alright. He should get up and get ready for the day. He’s probably late for something… and yet for some reason he cannot summon the appropriate panic; so far he can only focus on one thought at a time.

So. First, he will get up and get ready. He pulls back the covers and sees that he slept in his day robes, which is strange but not an insurmountable issue. He will just have to change. He stands and strips methodically, folding each layer with his usual meticulous care, before lifting the pile to-

A pile of cream silks. Rumpled and dirtied, with some parts torn beyond repair.

A slowly growing puddle of blood.

Jin Guangyao drops his clothes and drops to his knees, fingers clawing in the silk, gasping for breath.

No, that couldn’t have…

Did he kill his father? Did he kick his own father down the Jinlintai steps?

No, no, that couldn’t have happened. And Jiang Yanli lying for him, and Nie Mingjue telling him he loved him — it’s too bizarre. The story is hazy and strangely elusive, like snippets of a half-remembered dream.

Could it have been a dream? It must have been. That’s the only thing that makes any sense.

Jin Guangyao dresses himself in fresh clothes purely on muscle memory. He puts on his boots, combs his hair, reapplies his vermillion, puts on his hat, and stands in the middle of his bedroom, staring at everything and nothing.

Is his father dead?

Did he kill his father?

Surely not. No, he could not have. What a ridiculous idea.

He walks blindly across his room and opens the door. He blinks as he sees a small gaggle of anxious, harried looking servants, and his most senior assistant.

“Lianfang-zun!” The assistant blurts, clearly deeply relieved. Ah, of course, Jin Guangyao realises — he must have overslept. That’s why he feels groggy, and why everyone is so desperately waiting for him.

There will be serious consequences for this. Jin Guangyao is certain he will start feeling dread just as soon as he can shake off the lingering dreamlike haze.

“I have orders to bring you to Jin-zongzhu immediately,” the assistant says, glancing anxiously back at the group of servants who also clearly need his direction. They will have to wait; the sect leader always gets prioritised, as is right. Once he has finished bearing his father’s wrath, he will be able to move along and help them too.

You killed your father, his mind whispers, but he ignores it. What a ridiculous notion. He is a filial son. He would never do such a thing.

He follows the assistant through the corridors towards the sect leader’s official office. It feels like he is in a play, just acting out his part, just going through the motions. The son attends to his father, and so he goes, yet he is completely detached from the whole thing. The assistant knocks, and when the door is opened another crowd of servants are revealed. They all part immediately when they see him, to reveal…

Jin Zixuan sitting at the desk.

He looks about as exhausted as Jin Guangyao feels; he is usually a man who takes great care in his appearance, dressing and styling himself immaculately with the famous Jin vanity, but today there are bags under his eyes that he has not bothered to conceal, his vermillion dot is slightly smudged, his golden guan is just a little crooked atop his head, and there’s a poorly cleaned spit-up stain on the right shoulder of his outer robe.

Why is Jin Zixuan sitting at their father’s desk?

You killed your father.

The image of the crumpled pile of silks surfaces abruptly in his mind and he nearly staggers with the force of the realisation that it wasn’t a dream at all, none of it, he actually killed his father, he actually did that, and —

Don’t think that I won’t put your tendencies to good use, my boy.

I gave her that worthless pearl and she fell for the same old story as all the others.

Hot on the heels of the horror is fierce, burning anger, and the shock that… he does not regret killing his father. And mixed up in all of those feelings, there are more, complicated ones —

Jiang Yanli lied for him.

Nie Mingjue said that he loved him.

But people are looking at him expectantly and only one of those facts is relevant here, standing in this office. He shoves down the clawing yearning that the memory of Nie Mingjue’s tender embrace evokes and tries to keep his expression neutral. The dread he’d been expecting finally arrives. The hazy feeling has gone and now he feels nothing but pure fear and panic, making his mind race and stomach churn.

What does his brother know about what happened? If he has been summoned to the office, rather than immediately dragged to the hall for a public execution, does that mean-

“Leave us,” Jin Zixuan says, gesturing dismissively with his hand — and then ruins the regal command by knocking over a pile of papers with his voluminous embroidered cream sleeve. Jin Guangyao scurries to collect them as the servants file out (taking the opportunity to pull himself together properly) and once the door has shut, his brother hides his face and swears under his breath.

“Thanks,” he groans, when Jin Guangyao stacks the papers back on the desk neatly. “Sorry, I’m — I’m a mess. I spent half the night meeting with the elders, and the rest of it trying to get A-Ling to sleep.”

The sleep deprivation seems to have left Jin Zixuan unusually candid. Jin Guangyao spares a moment to feel glad that it does not do the same to him.

“Do xiongzhang and his wife not have a nursemaid for such situations?” He asks politely.

“Oh we have a nurse, I just…” Jin Zixuan drops his hands from his face onto his desk, and then looks down at them, “well, to tell you the truth, I… I wanted to get better at it. I get so nervous looking after A-Ling by myself, and A-Li said the only way to get over that was to practise, and god knows she needs the rest, so I usually try and get him back to sleep at night and just bring him to her for feeds…”

He trails off. “I’m- I’m rambling aren’t I? Shit. Sorry. This has all been so sudden,” he shifts and resettles himself in his seat, straightening out his spine. “Sit down, please. Um. How are you? Zewu-jun seemed very… concerned. He said you were in shock.”

“Yes,” Jin Guangyao says, kneeling on the cushion on the other side of the desk, awkwardly neatening his skirts around him. “Fuqin’s death was…”

Karmic, his mind supplies with an unexpected viciousness.

“A great blow, both to the sect, and to myself personally.”

Jin Zixuan nods solemnly, “It must have been terrible to witness. I know you two were… close.”

Close? Close? Jin Zixuan’s voice has a note of envy in it, which is deeply fucking bizarre. Did Jin Zixuan really believe that their father actually valued Jin Guangyao — and valued him more than his legitimate son? True, Jin Guangyao spent more time with their father than Jin Zixuan, but only because it was Jin Guangyao’s job to be at the sect leader’s beck and call, not because they had some kind of… loving rapport.

Jin Zixuan truly had no idea what was going on right under his nose at Jinlintai. Jin Guangyao’s head spins trying to imagine how the world must look from his half-brother’s perspective. His head spins faster trying to figure out what exactly is going on here. What does Jin Zixuan know?

What is going on? What is going on?

He can do little more than nod.

“I have heard the account of what happened from A-Li, so I don’t need you to tell me about it, don’t worry. Although…”

Jin Zixuan’s gaze turns strangely assessing, and the hairs on Jin Guangyao’s neck stand up as he is abruptly reminded that this man used to be a soldier. He’s such a ridiculous, awkward fop of a man that it’s easy to forget that he is just as dangerous as any other young master of their generation. Threat, his hindbrain hisses in response to that look, despite the crooked guan and spit up on his robes.

“Zixun had quite a few things to say about how he believes fuqin died.”

A bolt of cold terror shoots down Jin Guangyao’s spine. Jin Zixuan grew up side by side with their cousin, a legitimate-born Jin man, and only met Jin Guangyao a few years ago; of course he would take Jin Zixun’s side over his bastard half brother. Shit. Jin Guangyao’s muscles tense, as if readying him to flee.

And then, utterly unexpectedly, Jin Zixuan gives him a wry, tired smile. Jin Guangyao freezes, no idea what to expect.

“But he has been talking a lot of utter rot recently — accusing Wei Wuxian of cursing him when everyone knows he’s been in Gusu for weeks?” Jin Zixuan snorts, “The elders and I agree that it’s likely stress from the Hundred Holes curse. So don’t worry about that, I’ll deal with him.”

Can it really be that simple? Has Jin Zixun really inadvertently absolved Jin Guangyao through his own reputation for paranoia? Jin Guangyao’s mind spirals. After everything, could it really be that easy? Has Jiang Yanli lied to her husband to save him with the drive of second-hand sartorial affection? Or does Jin Zixuan know the truth, and he’s just chosen to let the rest of the world believe a lie? Jin Guangyao doesn’t know, and even through the strange flood of relief, the not-knowing itches under his skin.

“There was, uh, something else he said, though.” Jin Zixuan’s intimidating air disappears immediately as his shoulders grow tense and he goes back to looking down at his hands, pressed flat on the surface of the desk. “Something that I thought I should check with you about.”

The dread instantly reappears in Jin Guangyao’s stomach. Mouth dry, he makes a questioning sound; far too informal, but he cannot manage to speak, gripped with such sudden paralysing fear.

Jin Zixuan cringes pre-emptively, and immediately Jin Guangyao knows what he’s going to say. “Zixun said that you’re sleeping with Chifeng-zun and Zewu-jun. Um. Both of them. Together.”

Oh gods. No, no, no — this can’t be happening. Nausea rises in a bubbling wave. Jin Guangyao should keep his face composed and deny it all, just laugh it off as another ridiculous story from their cousin, truly the curse must be addling him if he’s coming out with such things-

But he hesitates to reply, and whatever shows on his face must be enough to confirm it, even as he blurts, “Ah, xiongzhang, I-”

Jin Zixuan quickly lifts up his hands, cringing again, “No, no, you don’t need to tell me — in fact, I don’t want you to tell me! I have no idea why people seem to relish discussing other people’s private lives so much,” he huffs, visibly marshalling his embarrassment, swallowing and valiantly attempting to meet Jin Guangyao’s eyes. “Look, as far as I’m concerned, what happens between you and your sworn brothers behind closed doors is your own business, alright?”

Jin Guangyao stares at his half brother, utterly stunned. He can think of nothing at all to say.

“Do they… um, do they treat you well?” Jin Zixuan asks.

Jin Guangyao nods numbly.

“Good. Good.” Jin Zixuan fiddles with the end of one of the ink brushes in its holder, eyes darting back and forth to Jin Guangyao’s face, then down to his desk, “I, uh, thought they would but - but A-Li said it was important for me to check. As your brother.”

“Right.” Jin Guangyao manages weakly.

An awkward silence descends between them. As the adrenaline from the fear begins to recede, Jin Guangyao feels almost giddy; he has the strangest urge to laugh, and has to clench his fists in his robes across his lap to keep the impulse trapped behind his teeth.

Jin Zixuan blurts, “I just- I just need you to let me know if you’re planning on marrying either of them and leaving the sect, alright? Because I…” he makes a somewhat hysterical noise in the back of his throat and squeezes his eyes shut, “gods, I have no idea what the hell I’m doing — fuqin didn’t exactly plan on dying so soon, so he did not prepare me at all, and it turns out he kept me in the dark about a whole lot around here, a whole lot of things that really should not be happening, and I-” he sucks in a frantic breath, “-and this is just the worst timing because A-Li is still recovering and she needs me, and A-Ling still isn’t sleeping through the night-”

Jin Guangyao realises, to his surprise, that he actually feels… sympathy for Jin Zixuan. The man is pathetically, woefully out of his depth here, and clearly doing his best not to fall to pieces in a way that, irritatingly, makes it oddly easy to look at him and see a person, rather than just a very privileged obstacle.

Jin Zixuan sucks in another breath, deeper this time, clearly trying to compose himself. “Ah. Anyway. I’ve appointed Mianmian as my Vice General-”

“You mean Luo-guniang?” Jin Guangyao cannot help but interrupt, confused and incredulous, “Xiongzhang, that position is tang-xiong’s by birthright, is it not?”

“Yes, technically, but… well, with the stunt he pulled with Wei Wuxian — it has somewhat eroded our faith in his judgement, and no one wants another diplomatic incident with everything else going on. The elders have recommended that he go and visit our outer cousins in Laoling for a while, whilst he recovers from the curse. Forcibly, if needed,” Jin Zixuan grimaces at the prospect of such familial disgrace, then moves on quickly. “And even muqin agrees; Mianmian has a lot of martial experience from the war and she's got a good tactical mind and a level head, she's the best choice. Anyway, she's my vice general, and I want to make you my vice envoy. I realise it's the same position you had with Nie Mingjue so it's, uh, it's not really a proper promotion and I'm sorry about that but it would make you my second in command and-”

Jin Zixuan keeps speaking, but Jin Guangyao doesn’t hear. Abruptly, he sees the future rolling out in front of him like a scroll; his brother, a well-meaning, honourable family man, good at keeping up appearances but poorly equipped for politics, without a single canny, cunning bone in his body. Himself, a bastard son, still doing the same work as he did for their father, but with a proper acknowledged rank now, carrying true authority, at the right hand of someone who desperately needs his help and knows it, who is willing to acknowledge it.

Someone who actually appears to want to be his family, even if it's only to make his wife happy.

“I'll do it. Yes.”

Jin Zixuan stares at him, wide eyed, mouth gaping stupidly, “You'll be my second?”

“Yes.”

“Oh thank the gods,” Jin Zixuan slumps in his seat, radiating pure genuine relief. Jin Guangyao can't help the dazed smile he gives in response. “I mean, technically it's your right as my younger brother, but A-Li said you might like to be asked properly in case you had any better offers elsewhere.”

Better offers…? The only role above the right hand of a sect leader would be sect leader itself, and he couldn't-

Oh. Or spouse of a sect leader, which, considering their previous conversation, makes more sense. Before he can spiral down that particular rabbit hole, he realises dazedly that Jin Zixuan is talking again.

“-And obviously you’ll have to get rid of that hat.”

Jin Guangyao’s hands immediately go to the hat on his head, touching the gauze protectively with his fingertips. “But… fuqin gave it to me…”

It would look bad to immediately get rid of it as soon as Jin Guangshan has died — and, despite it all, he still feels a deep sad ache in his chest at the prospect of relinquishing his father’s first gift to him. It had meant something to him, to receive this hat.

Jin Zixuan raises an eyebrow, puzzled. “But that is the hat of an administrator, or… or an accountant, a civil servant. If you are my second, you should dress like it, should you not? You’ll need some new robes, too.” Jin Zixuan searches through the piles on his desk until he finds a specific sheet of paper, which he scribbles a note on. “Take this to the tailor tomorrow and they can get started on a fresh wardrobe for you, and you’ll need to consult the sect jeweller to get you a set of appropriate guans, and maybe a new belt.” He pauses, and squints at Jin Guangyao, holding out the note, “Are you okay? You’re swaying.”

Is he? Jin Guangyao hadn’t even noticed. He feels… dizzy.

There’s a knock on the door. Jin Zixuan calls for them to come in, and several servants enter carrying arms full of white cloth.

“Ah,” Jin Zixuan says, face falling. In his busyness, it must have slipped his mind that he is only in this position because their father has abruptly died. Jin Guangyao sees the grief flash over his face briefly before he is able to pull himself together again.

One of the servants hands Jin Guangyao his own set of white grieving robes, with a sash to wear for more public events. Jin Zixuan is talking tiredly about needing to cut A-Ling’s celebration short and send their guests home so they can organise a funeral, and Jin Guangyao should be paying attention because this will likely be his job to do, but all he can do is nod vaguely.

“A-Yao?” Jin Zixuan calls, in the manner of one who has already called for him and not received a response, and Jin Guangyao blinks rapidly.

“Ah, xiongzhang, my- my apologies…”

Jin Zixuan frowns. “Perhaps you should go to the infirmary.”

“No, that’s not necessary, I’m quite alright.”

“I insist,” Jin Zixuan says, in the sternest tones Jin Guangyao has ever heard from him. “Take those robes back to his rooms,” the grieving robes are lifted out of Jin Guangyao’s unresisting arms, “and A-Yao — go and get some rest, alright? This can wait until tomorrow.”

Jin Guangyao leaves the room feeling just as strange as he had when he’d walked in, but it is as if the whole world has turned upside down in just the few minutes that they have been talking. He walks the corridors back towards his rooms in a daze, desperately trying to make sense of it all. After passing three or four members of the Jin court who immediately break into whispers upon seeing him, the part of his brain that is always sharp and alert for any kind of social danger finally surfaces and urges him to take a moment to collect himself.

He finds a side room, bars the door, then backs into a corner, drops into a crouch, and cradles his head in his hands. His breathing is fast. He tries to wrestle his thoughts into something that makes sense.

What are the facts?

Jin Guangshan is dead. Jin Guangyao almost certainly killed him.

But no one is investigating Jin Guangshan’s death; Jiang Yanli’s account appears to have been largely accepted and so it has been agreed as an accident. Jin Zixun’s claims have been completely unsubstantiated.

With Jin Guangshan’s death, Jin Zixuan has become sect leader.

He may not have the brains or political acumen of their father, but he knows those are skills Jin Guangyao has, and he’s acknowledged that he needs his help. And by making Jin Guangyao his second, officially (and by commissioning him the correct robes and guan to convey his status) he is showing the world — and their family — that Jin-zongzhu thinks he has worth. That he has bestowed authority upon Jin Guangyao, the authority that is his birthright.

And, finally… Jin Zixuan knows about his relationship with his sworn brothers.

And he doesn’t care.

Jin Guangyao will not be exploited, or humiliated, or sold for political favour. Jin Zixuan doesn’t want to blackmail him with the information, or hold it over his head. He just seems to want to know as little about it as possible.

The sickening, bone-deep terror that had been so all-consuming that Jin Guangyao’s own mind had hidden it in self-defence has just… vanished.

What now?

What is he supposed to do now?

The trembling in his hands slows and he gradually becomes aware, like surfacing from troubled sleep, that his breathing is scraping in his throat, the ragged back and forth of it the only sound in the room.

The first order of business is probably to stop breathing like that, as he’s fairly sure it’s at least part of the reason he’s feeling strangely light and floaty. It’s easier said than done with only himself to rely on, but he manages it in increments, forcing himself to inhale without gasping; hold it as he counts to seven; and then exhale again with control, counting once again to make sure he’s actually slowing down and not just hyperventilating in a different way.

Breathing normally — done.

He lifts his head to look around and finds that he can do it without things tilting or warbling around him, which feels like a step in the right direction.

You’ll be alright, A-Yao. We have time.

Nie Mingjue’s voice is crystal clear in his memory and despite his efforts Jin Guangyao sucks in another sharp gasp, though he catches himself in time to hold it in his lungs and not let it ruin his hard work.

They have time.

They have time.

Time that he desperately wants to have with them. Time that he can spend loving them knowing that he has his brother’s approval to do whatever he wants with them. He has his Sect Leader’s express approval to court his sworn brothers, and the promise (that he trusts entirely) that Jin Zixuan no more wants to know what they do together than Jin Guangyao would want to tell him (i.e. not in the least).

Jin Guangyao lurches to his feet and practically flies out of the room again, startling a serving girl just approaching from further down the corridor into squeaking and dropping the artfully arranged flowers in her arms. He doesn’t stop to apologise, he simply lengthens his stride and arrives nearly running in the guest area of Jinlintai, each lavishly decorated pavilion tucked among the gardens suited to showing off as much grandeur and wealth that Lanling Jin can boast. Jin Guangyao slows his steps only when he passes the few visitors milling around in the mid-morning sun and does his best to ignore the thought that further whispers must be starting in his wake as he goes.

He can feel another wave of trembling weakening his knees, making his palms sweat, curling nauseously in his belly, tightening his lungs. It’s like a storm on the horizon, looming over the sprawling plains that surround Jinlintai with enormous thunderheads flashing from the inside out with bolts of lightning, roiling and far-off yet, but looming closer and closer.

He stops for nothing, not even to knock, and when he throws open the door to Lan Xichen’s guest quarters he feels wild, scraped raw around the edges, something far too big and heavy doing its best to escape his throat as he finally stops in the doorway with a white-knuckled grip on either side of the frame.

“A-Yao?” Lan Xichen asks, startled, as he whips around from his pacing back and forth in the middle of the room. Nie Mingjue is there as well, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching him with wide, wary eyes. Jin Guangyao doesn’t blame him for his caution, he feels like he must look like a wild animal. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Lan Xichen crosses the empty space between them in three long strides to take him by the shoulders and bring him into the room, sliding the door shut behind him much more gently than Jin Guangyao had opened it.

Nie Mingjue stands, his expression quickly darkening as Jin Guangyao assumes he begins to think the worst; how could he not, after Jin Guangyao’s fears last night and his harried appearance this morning? He has to say something, he has to stop their fretting, he has to tell them-

His hands are shaking — all of him is. He has to tell them-

“I love you!”

It’s mortifying. It rings in his ears, it burns in his chest and in the corners of his eyes. It’s far too much, and it’s such a meagre offering; it’s been so painfully obvious from the start, and it’s one of so many things he had vowed he would never, ever burden them with.

Lan Xichen’s hands tighten on his shoulders. Jin Guangyao looks up at him, full of frantic fear that has him in a chokehold, and he curls his hands under Lan Xichen’s elbows to hold him right where he is. He thinks if Lan Xichen pulled away from him now he might finally shatter.

Neither of them say anything for a few beats too many; he can’t stand the silence, and though he doesn’t exactly want to keep talking about feelings, though it makes him want to crawl under the bed and hide for at least a week to let the embarrassment of wanting lose some of its sting, he meets Lan Xichen’s gaze first, then Nie Mingjue’s, then back to Lan Xichen to add, “I’m in love with you… both. Both of you.”

Not his smoothest speech ever, he notes with a distant sort of hysteria under the high-pitched ringing in his ears that’s sprung up in the sudden absence of the weight on his chest. He watches Lan Xichen’s face carefully, hunting for the smallest indication that Jin Guangyao has somehow read him wrong all this time.

But no, that’s impossible. This is his er-ge. His shock fades into a smile that would melt a much harder heart than Jin Guangyao’s and his hands slide up from his shoulders to cradle his jaw like Nie Mingjue had before he’d left last night. Jin Guangyao knows him, knows his heart like no one but Nie Mingjue could hope to match. His doubts have no real basis whatsoever, not with Lan Xichen. How silly of him to have forgotten, even for a moment.

“See I told you it would be fine,” Nie Mingjue grumbles from right beside them, but before Jin Guangyao can ask what he means Lan Xichen takes one hand off his jaw to jab his index finger into Nie Mingjue’s sternum, his smile still firmly in place but with a strangely manic edge as he turns it on their sworn brother.

“You and I are not done talking about this, but now is not the time.”

“What else is there to talk about?! He’s fine!”

Actually he’d very much like to sit down for a minute.

“A-Yao!”

Jin Guangyao lets Lan Xichen lower him to one of the cushions at the table in the centre of the room in a much slower descent than his buckled knees would have allowed unassisted, and Nie Mingjue has the decency to look at least slightly apologetic as he joins him to pour him a cup of tea once Lan Xichen scoops his guqin off the table and back into his sleeve.

“Alright, so you’re slightly less than fine. Do you want to talk about it?” Nie Mingjue offers with the warm ceramic he presses into Jin Guangyao’s palm. Jin Guangyao takes a moment to lament that this is apparently one half of where his heart has gone, but, well. Very few people in this world know Nie Mingjue as he does. It might have been an accident but he can’t say he was uninformed of the risks of falling in love with a man as bull-headed and tactless as Nie Mingjue can afford to be.

Jin Guangyao sips at his tea and watches Nie Mingjue over the rim of the cup for a long moment, Lan Xichen falling to his knees beside him in a rustle of silk to rest a cautious hand on his, below the edge of the table. Jin Guangyao tangles their fingers together without thought and tugs until Lan Xichen comes closer, then closer still, pressed against him from shoulder to knee. Jin Guangyao leans more heavily on him and sets his empty cup down with a quiet click; Nie Mingjue raises an eyebrow at him, still waiting for his answer.

He knows he could say that he doesn’t want to talk about it. And he really doesn’t, not actively. Life would be so much easier if everything could be understood without having to be said, if everything important that needs to be communicated could be done silently the way he and Lan Xichen can do — entire conversations held in gestures and smiles and glances across a room.

He doesn’t want to talk about it, he doesn’t have to, but he will.

“I saw Zixuan this morning,” he says and Nie Mingjue’s other brow rises to join the first on its way towards his hairline. “He… knows. Zixun told him.”

A muscle in Nie Mingjue’s jaw clenches and Lan Xichen goes stiff as a board beside him, his perfect posture somehow even straighter.

“What does Zixuan know?” Nie Mingjue almost growls. “And what has he threatened to do?”

Jin Guangyao blinks a few times and then thinks back to the previous night, to the things he’d told Nie Mingjue, the things Jin Guangshan had done and said–

The panic sparked by the thought of Nie Mingjue tearing through Jinlintai to find and threaten Jin Zixuan right back for whatever imagined intimidation he thinks has happened is enough to break the dam holding back the latest flood of words waiting to break free.

“About us! Only about us!…I think. Zixun told him what fuqin learned and I-I couldn’t deny it in time, I didn’t... I couldn’t deny you, either of you. He… asked me to be his vice envoy. He wants my help, he wants me to stay here and not to marry out of the Sect, which — I know-” he addresses that last to Nie Mingjue, whose mouth had fallen open at the word ‘marry’ and though he’s sure Lan Xichen’s reaction is worth seeing as well, quite frankly he’s too afraid of how much longing he’d see on his face to actually look up at him, “— which is out of the question when one thinks about the long-term realities of it. But he doesn’t… he doesn’t mind what we do, short of that. He doesn’t want to know. He won’t... he’s not like our father.”

That is, perhaps, the understatement of the century.

Silence falls briefly as Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue both process the, admittedly slightly disjointed, account Jin Guangyao is trying to give them. He has no patience for silence at the moment though, and it’s hardly fallen before he’s talking again to fill it, unable to sit through it calmly.

“I want to stay in Lanling. I will be a proper member of the family now, Zixuan has already begun making arrangements, I’ll be allowed to hold A-Ling-” it hits him like a bolt of lightning as he’s rambling that that will undoubtedly be part of the deal and he can’t help the bewildered smile that stretches across his entire face. He doesn’t dwell on it for more than a moment though before he’s continuing, “-and of course we will need to readdress the logistics of our arrangement; my initial rules no longer apply for what I feel are very obvious reasons. Perhaps a contract is in order — I can’t marry out of the Sect but a marriage is as much about insurance for mutual benefit as it is anything else, we can do that, er-ge is there paper and ink here? I can write something quickly, it could be similar to our brotherhood vows for simplicity’s sake in which case it would hardly take any thought at all-”

Jin Guangyao manages to get one foot under him and twist at the waist to try to stand before Lan Xichen’s arms lock around his waist from behind, hard as iron and utterly inescapable.

“You will do no such thing,” Lan Xichen ducks his head to press against the curve of his neck, punctuated with a firm kiss that lingers for long enough that Jin Guangyao gradually becomes aware of his pulse hammering in his chest, thrumming under the steady pressure of Lan Xichen’s mouth.

Silence falls again but this time Jin Guangyao doesn’t break it, choosing instead to accept the cup of tea Nie Mingjue pours for him and passes him with far too much amusement in his expression for Jin Guangyao’s liking. He just drinks it instead of attempting to do anything to wipe that smug look off his unfairly handsome face. (Mostly because his preferred method would be, of course, to kiss it off him, but there’s a table and Lan Xichen’s restraining arms in the way.)

“A-Yao,” Lan Xichen finally murmurs and rocks him gently back and forth a few times, smiling against his skin, “my heart, of course we can do whatever suits us all best, we would never ask you to leave your family. Perhaps we can discuss it later?”

Jin Guangyao’s heart does something complicated in his chest that he has trouble parsing through. The most easily identified element is a clench of panic at the thought of delaying the process of… whatever they’re going to do; he’s acutely aware of the fact that he’s told his sworn brothers he loves them and neither of them have, as of yet, returned the sentiment in as many words. Is there a window of opportunity he’s going to miss to secure their continuing presence in his life if they delay whatever it is they can do to bind themselves together in a new way?

“Of course, er-ge,” he agrees — is he allowed to disagree? He tries to gauge Nie Mingjue’s thoughts on it but for once his expression is inscrutable as he glances between them for a long moment or two, clearly thinking about something, though what is a mystery.

“Writing up a…contract can definitely come later, after you’ve rested some more,” he finally says, slowly, “but I don’t think we have to wait to at least discuss some things. I think maybe we should do it now, actually.”

That tickles something in the back of Jin Guangyao’s mind; Nie Mingjue had said something very similar last night, hadn’t he? He tilts his head a little and studies the tense set of Nie Mingjue’s shoulders, the determined clench to his jaw.

“Yes,” he agrees, finally. “Yes, please. I have some… questions.”

“Thought you might.”

Lan Xichen presses another kiss to Jin Guangyao’s neck and sits up straight again with a little huff that from anyone else might be irritation.

“Considering you barged into his room during a traumatic time, confessed your feelings, then simply left, one would say it’s perfectly understandable and expected that A-Yao has questions,” Lan Xichen says a little too tartly, so apparently the huffy sigh was a rare sign of irritation for him as well. Interesting.

“Yes I had that same thought,” Jin Guangyao says with a little twitch of his lips. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline wearing off, perhaps it’s the absurdity of all of this, but unlike last night he finds himself more amused than anything now. What had Nie Mingjue been thinking? He’s sorely tempted to ask that question directly, but instead he settles for, “Why now? I thought you couldn't stand me. What’s changed, da-ge?”

Nie Mingjue’s voice is so tender it borders on unbearable as he asks, “Hasn’t everything?”

The irritated tension in Lan Xichen’s arms around his waist loosens. “Mingjue?”

Nie Mingjue scrubs a hand over his face once aggressively enough that Lan Xichen tuts, but he doesn’t reach across the table to try to stop him.

“Look, I just… I’ve been so angry for years, and even I couldn’t tell how far I’d gone until that night we cultivated together properly and I felt like me again, how I used to be, before the war. I can’t think straight with Baxia screaming in my head more often than she’s quiet. But even before that night I couldn’t just ignore everything I saw; I’m not some monster incapable of observing the evidence right in front of me!”

Nie Mingjue visibly takes a deep breath and, as he had last night, seems to drag his rising agitation back in and re-center himself before he continues.

“The things you did in Qishan were things that I couldn’t overlook, A-Yao. And in a lot of ways I still can’t-” Jin Guangyao forces himself to ignore the way that twists a barb under his ribs “-but I think… I understand now, in a way I didn’t before. You give everything you possibly can — to everyone important to you, not only to me — and you’ve been trying to make me see for years that it doesn’t make a damn difference. It was easier to believe the worst of you when I couldn’t see your bruises and your exhaustion and your pain, but I refuse to take the easy way out anymore. You deserve better than that, A-Yao.”

That sounds far too good to be true.

“I just told you last night that my father ordered me to kill you.” The words are out of his mouth before he can think better of it, but there’s no taking it back (no matter how much he wants to the moment he says it).

“Why didn’t you? You had countless opportunities, so why didn’t you?”

Excuses immediately spring to the front of Jin Guangyao’s mind, the sorts of things he would have said (that he did say) to Jin Guangshan when he demanded to know the same thing. He couldn’t have done it without Lan Xichen figuring out what was happening; there was more information to be gained if they waited; there were other projects that took priority.

But that’s all that they are — excuses. Excuses aren’t reasons.

Nie Mingjue meets his eyes like he already knows (because he does; Jin Guangyao told him the night before last, confessed it in the calm after the storm when they’d been alone together with the weight of Nie Mingjue’s fragile mortality hanging like a sword over their heads). “I didn’t want to. I don’t want you to die, I never have.”

“Because you love me?”

Jin Guangyao breathes slowly through the squirming discomfort at being seen through so clearly — it’s his own fault, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“Because I love you.”

Nie Mingjue shrugs and it’s only slightly less irritating today than it had been last night. “I’ve decided everything else is secondary so long as that remains true. Maybe things are clearer after nearly dying, or maybe it was A-Huan’s scolding, but I’ve realised some things… matter more to me than others.”

“You have deserved every scolding I have given you these last two days,” Lan Xichen sniffs, but Jin Guangyao can feel the tension in him again for daring to stand his ground in a way that, by its very nature, involves being something other than conciliatory. Jin Guangyao can empathise.

“I know. Nothing about this has been fair to you, A-Huan.”

Lan Xichen relaxes again ever so slightly. “I would hardly say ‘nothing’ about this has been fair. I can think of a few... select moments that have been better than even I dared hope.”

The innuendo is impossible to miss and though Jin Guangyao resists the urge to lean back enough to insinuate himself into Lan Xichen’s lap, he can’t help but smirk even as Nie Mingjue rolls his eyes.

“Ah yes, of course. So I shouldn’t apologise for this entire ordeal then?”

There’s no trace of teasing at all in Lan Xichen’s voice when he replies, “You do not have to apologise for any of it, Mingjue. You know I would do all of this and more; I would do anything it takes to keep you.”

Nie Mingjue’s expression softens again; Jin Guangyao isn’t entirely certain he can take much more of this. They’re so earnest, and so clearly in love with each other. It’s impossible to figure out if he wants to bask in it or close his eyes so he isn’t forced to witness something that feels like it should be shared in complete privacy.

“You shouldn’t promise that, A-Huan, we still don’t know what will happen in the future even if I try to find some solution with Wei Wuxian-”

“I know, but that can hardly change that I will do everything in my power to help no matter what comes.”

“A-Huan, my love, you have to be realistic-”

“Sweeping statements are best avoided when entering into contracts. If you would just let me begin outlining one we could avoid such promises that could prove too difficult to keep!”

This time he makes it as far as actually rising from the floor before Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen both pull him back down (gently, carefully) until he’s once again kneeling at the table and tucked even more firmly in Lan Xichen’s embrace.

“A-Yao you’ll be just as capable of writing something suitable in a few shichen as you are right now. Sit with us for a while at least, hm? You should still be resting.”

How is he supposed to argue when Lan Xichen is like this? He concedes with as much dignity as he can muster and earns himself a kiss on the cheek for a consolation prize, so perhaps it’s worth it to let Lan Xichen win every so often.

Nie Mingjue props his chin in his hand as he watches them, seemingly content to end the conversation there for now. Jin Guangyao supposes that’s fair — there’s more that they need to discuss, perhaps just the two of them, but he finds that he trusts Nie Mingjue. As sudden as this all is, it doesn’t feel wrong, and in fact on further consideration it actually isn’t all that sudden either. After all, hasn’t Nie Mingjue been calling him ‘A-Yao’ since the day he drained himself and his core down to nothing to try to prove his devotion? Hasn’t Nie Mingjue been softening towards him by degrees for the greater part of a year? Perhaps they were always going to end up here, and it’s only with the benefit of hindsight that Jin Guangyao can see the path they’d set their feet on a long time ago.

Either way, they’re here now, and Nie Mingjue is smiling softly at him as Lan Xichen toys with a lock of his hair just beneath the brim of his hat in a way that would put him to sleep if he were slightly more horizontal, so what is there left to question, really? The rest of it can wait, as they’ve been insisting.

“I agree with A-Huan, the contract or whatever you want to do can be done later. Right now you need to rest.”

“You know, you both keep telling me to do that right after saying things that make it incredibly difficult to sleep,” he gripes, despite the fact that his eyelids are, in fact, growing heavier by the moment. It’s Lan Xichen and his beautiful hands — how’s he supposed to stay awake with gentle fingers combing through his hair like that? But he has a point to make, damn it, and undermining it by passing out cold is going to be annoying.

“Mm don’t worry, my heart,” Lan Xichen murmurs with another soft kiss to his cheek, “I’ve already made it clear to Mingjue that he needs to make it up to you, what happened last night. Later.”

Jin Guangyao grumbles but lets himself be hauled off the floor at least and cajoled (gently) into bed, once Lan Xichen has carefully divested him of his hat, boots, and his outermost robe for the sake of comfort. He makes it as far as laying down with one of Nie Mingjue’s arms beneath him, prepared to pull him to his side, before he sits bolt upright so quickly Lan Xichen has to jerk back lest he get a headbutt straight to the nose.

“Wait — I have to… arrangements, for the guests! A-Ling’s celebration, it’s… well it’ll have to be a funeral and there are things to arrange with the servants before everyone grows too restless-”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Nie Mingjue growls and he doesn’t pull, but he does tighten his grip enough around Jin Guangyao’s hips that it would be more effort than it’s worth to attempt to break it. Besides, even if he did break it Lan Xichen is still standing beside the bed, arms slightly outstretched like he’s prepared to tackle him back to the mattress if need be, and he’s certainly in no state to avoid both of their efforts simultaneously.

Perhaps he should just… lie down again. Just for a minute.

Nie Mingjue pulls him to his chest as soon as he’s horizontal again, tucking both arms firmly around his waist and tucking him under his chin which is really just fighting dirty at this point. He’s warm and sturdy and his shirt is unfairly soft, all his stiff outer layers already discarded with his and Lan Xichen’s usual alacrity.

“There will be time for arrangements later, and quite frankly I would fear for the future of the jianghu if a friendly gathering of fully grown cultivators couldn’t handle themselves long enough for you to have a nap,” Lan Xichen agrees much more softly as he joins them, slinging his hair casually over his shoulder to avoid laying on it as he gets comfortable on his side, facing them. Jin Guangyao’s eyes sting a little as Lan Xichen leans in to kiss his forehead once, and then tips his chin up the few inches necessary to do the same for Nie Mingjue.

“You forget, er-ge, that there has been a poisoning and a nasty… accident-” he barely manages to force the word out at all, it certainly isn’t possible to say it normally, but neither of his partners indicate that they’ve noticed his hesitation, “during the course of their visit. It’s natural they would look for some sort of direction from their host sect as to how to approach the situation-”

Lan Xichen kisses him, which as far as redirection tactics go is both effective and pleasant.

“I haven’t forgotten at all, A-Yao. They are, in fact, my primary motivations to ensure you rest. I believe you will be kept quite busy handling all of this the moment you leave our sight, so will you let us be selfish and keep you to ourselves long enough to feel reassured that you are heading into battle properly rested and armed?”

There’s truly no winning when Zewu-Jun joins the battle against you. What else is there to do but give in? Jin Guangyao relaxes into Nie Mingjue’s chest and only feels a small flash of guilt for the relief of having the choice (lovingly, gently) taken from him.

Nie Mingjue’s hum of approval is nearly subvocal, more of a low vibration in his chest pressed against Jin Guangyao’s back than a true sound. Jin Guangyao’s eyelids droop and he doesn’t fight it. He stays awake just long enough to send a mental apology to anyone who will be inconvenienced by his disappearance, but the guilt isn’t quite keen enough to stop him falling asleep within the next moment.

|NEXT|

[soymemes]

ACT V: HYMNS WITH THE DEVIL IN CONFESSIONAL (2/3)

lyrical starters/prompts from the dear hunter's album "act v"

"The shutters close when they're around."

"They keep their eyes set straight and true."

"Their idle hands won't flit or flutter."

"Never do they slip or stutter."

"Still their mind is menacing away."

"They'll twist your heart until you're manic."

"Pray you're not the one they find."

"Any time the plan'll get a bit off track, they're the only who can bring it back."

"The main manipulator, yeah, the wolf who leads the pack."

"You better lock your doors and shut your windows tight."

"Pull the shades down and turn off the lights."

"Always feed the hand that leads to teeth that bite."

"They'll have you hanging by a string, or noose if they prefer you perish."

"Just look at that shopkeeper peddling their wares."

"Don't you wonder what keeps them there day after day?"

"Blindly, they're bounding a pace, starving for mercy in a merciless place."

"Only a fool would make martyrs from heathens."

"The children keep sadness and suffering at bay."

"Only a monster makes fodder from saints."

"But what better use of hookers and thieves than greasing the wheels of perfect machines?"

"A harmony of industry."

"Just how could you weed them out?"

"But what is the use of cutting them down?"

"You're bleeding them dry."

"They live and die like you and I."

"Someone like yourself could bring worth to worthless."

"These people will just tear themselves apart."

"Don't you wonder what made them so vicious, so sick?"

"Son, your father's not all good."

"I love you more than I thought I could."

"When the menace in my mind finds me, I simply look to your eyes."

"Someday I hope I do see the man you'll grow into."

"When your heart's in disarray, just know that your father, too, has made mistakes."

"Still, I mean every word that I've said."

"The truth can truly cut."

"I've been cruel to the ones who have stayed by my side, and foolish enough to believe in my pride."

"Soon, I'll know exactly where I stand."

"I won't be giving up again. Yeah, I'll be getting up again."

"I heard a voice."

"Bring me your heart, and then you will awake in a state of suprising euphoria."

"I learned to turn emotions into weaponry."

"Don't tell anyone what you saw here."

"I've never heard that sound before."

"I am nothing but an infant wave, stuck in a savage ocean."

"Don't fear the words that I say."

-------

[roosterr]

firewatch | day 01

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john price x gn!reader wc; 2.7k summary; a firewatch tower in the heart of a state park is as far away from your trainwreck life as you can get. the company of the man in your radio is just a bonus.

(if you saw this the first time i posted it no you didn't) my entry for the o captain challenge hosted by the lovely @glitterypirateduck, using prompt 61; first day at a new job! this au lives in my brain now please enjoy!

the air is crisp here. bright orange sunsets, dry summer heat, the gentle sound of birdsong and the wind through the trees – it was all a welcome change of pace, and with the added bonus of being nothing like your home in the city, but isn't that exactly why you’re here? the solitude, a blank slate, and some much needed peace and fucking quiet.

a branch snags your leg as you step through the underbrush, but the sting it leaves behind is little more than an afterthought. your backpack hasn't changed you left, but it feels heavier somehow as you jerk it higher on your shoulders. tiredness hangs from your limbs and makes it a struggle to push forward, but the lookout is in view now, and with night closing in fast, you want to get there sooner rather than later.

the wind is louder all the way up here – and it has a chill to it now, that nips at you through your airy clothes – but as you make it up the first few steps, the wood creaking under your weight, the view over the forest fills you with a melancholy sense of awe that tightens in your chest. it's beautiful. if only you could've had a better reason to see it.

the rest of the stairs are a breeze compared to the trail you've been following all day. the sun has only just dipped below the horizon, bathing the landscape in an indigo wash and shrouding the trees in cool shadows. 

with the last of your energy, and one final glance over the steadily darkening view, you push open the door and step over the threshold. it's completely dark inside once you close the door, with the shutters closed over the windows, but there's a wonderful calmness to it that almost soothes the ache in your muscles. 

you feel blindly for the generator switch, as you'd been told to, following the red glow until it's under your fingers and you can press the button. the bulb overhead flickers to life, and the small room you'll call home for the next few months is bathed in a dim yellow light.

you blink as your eyes adjust, and take in your surroundings. central in the room is an osborne fire finder – which you, of course, knew existed before you impulsively applied for this job – and a small but effective kitchen along one wall. there's also a log burner nestled into one corner, and a desk beside the door stacked with cardboard boxes labelled 'tower 7 supplies'. 

your gaze finally lands on the bed in the far corner, and a sigh of relief passes your lips at the sight of the comforter folded on top. perhaps it had seen better days, but you had reached the point where you simply didn't care anymore. you slip your backpack from your shoulders and drop it in the general direction of the desk chair, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor in favour of smoothing out the bedding.

your fingers barely get to brush the fabric before you're interrupted.

"evenin', tower seven." from a worn yellow radio, partially hidden between two boxes, comes a voice that cuts through the otherwise silent room. his words are distorted slightly by the static, but you can still make out the deep gravel of his tone.

for a moment, you can only blink at the object, hands still hovering over the comforter as your tired mind catches up. you drag your feet back over to the desk with a muted sigh, kicking your backpack in the process and nearly stumbling over yourself, but you manage to grab the radio and stay upright.

"uh… hello? whoever this is?" you reply, the obvious uncertainty in your voice making you cringe as you hear it.

the stranger on the other end shares none of your hesitation, responding within a second of you finishing your sentence. "john price. i’m in tower six, east of you." 

you make a noise of recognition, nodding even though he has no way of seeing it, "right, the guy mentioned you on the phone." 

"saw your light on, thought i'd say hello." john says, with a lot more energy than you can muster right now. it would've been a welcome distraction any other time, but right now you just want him to stop talking so you can finally sleep.

"good to meet you, neighbour. i'm…" you stifle a yawn, and open and shut your mouth a few times trying to decide what to say next. "…i'm gonna go to bed. no offence"

you hear him scoff through the interference, "not even gonna introduce yourself?"

"you already know who i am, don't you?" you grumble, your eyes locking wistfully onto the mattress that awaits you as you try to hold back another yawn. "listen, if i don't go to sleep in the next thirty seconds, i'll probably die."

there's a pause before he responds again with a chuckle. "alright, i won't keep ya, we'll talk tomorrow."

you don't bother answering, and instead just slot the radio clumsily back into its station. you flip the lightswitch, plunging the room back into darkness, and shuffle slowly back over to your bed. you tug your boots off, and you're out as soon as your head hits the pillow.

when you wake up, the sun is already low in the sky, casting long shadows over the park below that don't quite reach your tower yet. your muscles burn and ache like you knew they would, but there's also a relief that comes with knowing you have no obligations to tend to – apart from your duties as a fire lookout of course, but that was trivial compared to what you left behind.

the air is still warm outside, the breeze that passes by your tower cooling to a pleasant degree as you pause on the balcony. you're not sure you like the way the wood creaks as you slowly make your way around, and opening the shutters took a lot more arm strength than you were expecting, but it was more than worth it for the view you got from your desk.

the journal you reluctantly bought at the advice of your therapist sits open in front of you, your pen twirled absently between your fingers as you gaze out at the horizon instead of the blank page before you. wasn't writing out your feelings supposed to make them easier to deal with? then why was it so difficult to come up with a single word to put down?

with a frustrated huff passing your lips, you drop your pen onto the desk and your head into your hands. when your therapist had suggested keeping a diary as a part of your healing journey, you really didn't think it would be this difficult. you've been sitting here for twenty minutes, and all you've managed is the date.

"mornin'," your lamenting is interrupted by john's voice through the radio again. you're almost surprised that he actually wants to talk to you, but then again, there aren't that many people out here to talk with anyway. "i can see you at your desk, so i'll assume you got to sleep on time and didn't die last night."

your lips quirk into a smile as you reach for your radio, flipping your journal shut and shoving it to the back of the desk.

"uh, yeah, sorry. guess i overslept." you reply, somewhat sheepishly. you didn't even bother setting the alarm clock on your nightstand before you passed out – in fact, you didn't even plug it in, but you're honestly not sure if it would've made a difference. "what time is it, like, six?"

"quarter to seven."

you squeeze your eyes shut and cringe to yourself. "...oh."

john chuckles, a deep rumble that slightly eases the embarrassment of passing out for most of the day. "s'alright, that hike knocks everyone out for a day or two."

there's a comfortable lull in the conversation, and you take the opportunity to look over the fire finder, scanning the area east of your tower in an attempt to pinpoint exactly where john's is. you find the annotation for tower six easily and turn to gaze at it through your east window, the silhouette of it clear against the early evening sky.

you wonder if he's doing the same thing, or if he even talks to any of the other towers. you don't have any neighbours besides him, the interviewer had mentioned that to you, but you know john does. he seems eager to talk to you, the same as last night, so either way you suppose he's just happy to have a fresh face to talk to.

it's not long before the quiet is cut short by john's voice crackling through the radio again. "what’s your story then? must be a good one to have you all the way out here."

you make an indignant face at his question, as if he can see it. "what’s that supposed to mean?"

"c’mon love," the nickname should feel odd, he's only one step above a stranger to you, but it flows so naturally off his tongue that you barely even question it. "there’s only one reason anyone takes this job, and that’s to get away– from something, someone, somewhere, all of the above,"

"all of the above, let's just leave it at that." you mumble, brow furrowing. your eyes dart back to the journal laying untouched in the shadow under the window.

"relationship troubles?" he asks. the question itself is innocent enough, but the lingering thought only causes your frown to deepen. "that's why most people come out here."

"yeah, something like that…" you mutter in reply. a sigh escapes you as you drop yourself back into your chair, picking up the stray pinecone on your desk with your free hand. "anyway, enough about me, it's your turn smartass."

you hear john huff, something like a laugh, and the sound lightens your own  expression. "is it now?"

"you said it yourself, only reason people ever take this job is to get away from something." your lips quirk up at the corner now the tables have turned, and you distractedly roll the pinecone back and forth on your palm. "so what are you running from?"

"don’t pull your punches, eh?" he hums, his tone flat. 

"just following your lead, price." there's a long pause as you wait for his response, the smile slowly falling from your lips with every second that passes is silence. "you don't have to tell me, y'know."

"no, no, it's–" he cuts himself short, clearing his throat in an undeniably uncomfortable manner, "i lost someone, a good friend, few years ago now."

your jaw falls open, the pinecone dropping from your hand as you freeze in shock. you try to find the words to comfort, but they get stuck in your chest and all you can muster is a solemn; "i… i'm so sorry…"

"don't be." he replies, quieter than before, in a way that makes your brows pull together. "was my fault."

another long silence, but this time a small guilt forms in your mind. if it was enough to drive him out here, it must be a memory worth forgetting, and you can't help but feel bad for bringing it up – despite the fact that you couldn't have known. still, he sounded so defeated, and you don't actually know him more than the two conversations you've had with him, but he didn't sound like himself at all. you make a mental note to stay away from the topic.

"so, uhm," you stumble over breaking the silence, dropping your head into your palm as the shame creeps up your spine. you need to change the subject, you don't want to leave it on that upsetting note, so you pick the most obvious small talk question you can think of. "what did you used to do, before this?"

"i was in the sas, for about twenty years." john answers, thankfully, still with a distant sound to his voice. you'd half expected him to be done with you after that bombshell, but it seems you didn't completely scare him off.

"oh, no shit!" you reply, your surprise this time a lot more lighthearted. "that's way better than what i used to do…"

john breathes a chuckle, and you smile to yourself in triumph. "highly doubt that, love."

you respond with a good-natured scoff and roll your eyes. "seriously? there's no world where an office job is cooler than the fucking sas."

"i think you'd be surprised." the sound of a door opening and shutting is faintly heard in the background as he speaks, and then the unmistakable creak of the floorboards under him. "it's hard work, y'know."

"c'mon, you got to see the world! all i ever got to see was the inside of a meeting room. for several unnecessary hours at a time." your smile morphs into a grimace at the memory of your old job – you were more than grateful that part of your life was over now.

"i'd've killed for that amount of down time a few years ago," he muses, something nostalgic in his voice as he continues, "never had a moment's peace in the service."

you told your head and hum thoughtfully. "yeah, i guess i never thought about it like that. but don't you find it a little… slow out here?"

"'course i do, but sometimes that's exactly what you need. never'a guessed i'd enjoy bein' bored outta my mind, but here we are, eh?"

"you're probably right." you release a deep breath, your eyes finding the red clouds of the horizon and following the last rays of sunlight to the treetops below. "always wanted to be someone who had things happen in their life, but as soon as things started actually happening to me, all i wanna do is go back to how things were."

you feel the hesitation before he speaks again. "this about your all of the above?"

"yeah..." you sigh, bringing your free hand up to smooth over the crease between your brows. "so maybe being bored outta my mind is what i need."

"you'll get used to it. might even start to like it– i did."

"here's hoping." you try not to dampen the mood, but you can only manage a quiet mutter in return. your stare follows the dark forms of a couple of birds against the indigo sky, and you find yourself wishing for that kind of freedom. you have to shake your head to bring yourself back to the present. "but anyway, i won't be completely losing my mind. i have you to bother, don't i?"

"right back at ya, rookie."

you snort. "rookie? seriously? thought you quit all that military shit."

"old habits die hard." he replies, the smile he's undoubtedly wearing evident even through the radio. "supposed to be a cold one tonight, might wanna stock up on firewood."

"i'll take your word for it, i saw some by the shed yesterday." you stand from your desk and stretc your back with your arms above your head. by now, only the very last of the sun's rays still light the sky, and when you step outside the air has already gotten noticeably cooler.

"think i'll sign off for the night, then." his words draw your eyes over to the barely visible shadow of tower six against the dark blue of the night. "if you ever need anything, just gimme a shout, yeah?" he sounds more serious now, leaving no room for doubt that he's genuine, and after a second he adds in a murmur, "even if it's just for a chat.".

"i will. talking with you is nice." you smile to yourself, soft and more heartfelt than you've managed in a long while. "plus, i'll get pretty lonely out here if i ignore my only neighbour."

he chuckles again. "can't argue with that. g'night, rookie."

"night, john." you return, slipping the radio into your pocket. you'd woken up this morning – evening, actually – with a deep uncertainty weighing on your mind; for this job, what drove you here, what will happen after. for now, though, you find it easy to ignore that doubt and focus on where you are now. you came here to escape, and you'll be damned if you let what happened haunt you here, too.

before you descend the stairs, you give one last glance over your shoulder at the distant lights in john's tower, and thank god that this job listing found you when it did.

[theminecraftbox]

/dsmp /rp

happy one year anniversary to Quackity’s first visit to Dream in prison!!!! Here is a little fic to celebrate the occasion <3

cw: torture

The first day is a Tuesday.

Of course, Dream has no way to know this. No clocks, no calendars, just a black box and a long uninterrupted now.

Dream seems oddly shrunken, in this abysmal little hellhole. The orange uniform hangs loose over his frame. Clearly he’s missed more than a few meals. A feverish light in his eyes and dark bags underneath, the unsettling twitchiness in his limbs—Sam’s doing, Quackity knows, with a satisfying grimness.

“As long as we need to do it,” Quackity promises.

Dream’s still staring at Quackity with disbelief: denial, pure and simple and complete.

They stare at each other for another frozen moment. Like neither of them is quite sure how to begin. Have to start somewhere, right, Quackity thinks; and he grins in a rictus, and he hefts the axe up. Dream’s arms fly up to defend his head, fists cocked in a loose fighting stance—and no, no, that won’t do, that won’t do at all.

He swings the axe low, instead, into Dream’s knee like he’s hacking at a tree. Dream screams and hits back at him, a vicious, desperate blow that nearly knocks him over, and tries to scramble away.

But there’s nowhere to go. “Don’t fucking hit me, man,” laughs Quackity, “don’t do that.”

“You can’t,” Dream insists, blindly, like there isn’t blood leaking between his fingers where he’s clutching his knee.

“Can’t what?” Quackity asks. He slashes again at Dream’s leg. This time Dream doesn’t scream, but the choked-off sound is somehow even more satisfying. Another blow, and another, and now Dream’s crumpled on the ground, eyes so wide and legs so fucking useless.

“SAM!” Dream screams. “SAM!! Quackity—I, Quackity, you can’t!!”

There’s a pathetic look in Dream’s eyes, an impossible puzzle: this can’t be happening. This is happening. This WILL happen. Rock, meet hard place. Quackity’s happy to make introductions.

He grins—he never stopped grinning—and he stands over Dream and stamps right on his chest, leaning in with all his weight as Dream gasps and writhes and claws at his ankle. He flourishes the axe again, and for a brief moment Dream’s struggles pause. A flicker of some terrible emotion crosses Dream’s uncovered face, and something hot and electric lights in the pit of Quackity’s stomach.

He swings the axe down to rest on Dream’s chest, presses the flat of the head into his throat. Dream’s hands go up to clutch at the haft.

“Hands fucking down, Dream,” Quackity hisses, and he stamps down again, and again, and again, until something cracks, until Dream’s gagging and his eyes are screwed shut and his fists are clenched at his sides.

“Sam,” Dream gasps. “Sam won’t…”

Quackity tilts Dream’s chin up with the edge of the axe. “Open your eyes,” he says. “Open your eyes, Dream, I’ve got something to show you.”

Dream’s eyes pry open, one then the other, molten with hate.

“I want you to read something for me, pal. Just a little reading comprehension test.”

“What?” wheezes Dream. “What, I don’t—”

“The axe,” says Quackity smoothly. “My axe, Dream, can you read its name for me?”

Dream’s gaze slides down along the handle. Quackity sees the second it sinks in. Something in Dream fractures. Something in him shutters its windows, closes down and locks the doors. The body under Quackity’s boot goes utterly still.

It’s like nothing Quackity’s ever felt.

“Oh,” Dream says quietly.

“Read it for me, buddy,” murmurs Quackity. “Go ahead.”

Dream takes a shuddering breath. “Warden’s Hammer,” he says, in perfect monotone.

[thearchivistsjournal]

Day 13,

It’s the first time I’ve seen the sky all grey and overcast like this.  Normally any rain or storms around here come on quick and then clear up just as suddenly.  There’s a low mist hanging on the ground too.

*******

The nature sprite kept holding the doors shut when I tried to leave the house this morning.  I ended up climbing out a window.

I suspect this mist is another odd island phenomenon.  I would have expected it to clear up as the morning went on and the sun warmed things up, but it’s only gotten thicker.  When I left it was just a low haze covering the ground, but by the time I reached the library you could barely see across the street.  When I tried stepping out for lunch a few minutes ago I couldn’t see any further than my outstretched arm.  I think I’ll be taking my lunch in here again afterall.

*******

I’m spending tonight in the home of a new acquaintance of mine.  Vernon is his name.  The same young man that came to seek Elder Pat’s counsel the other day whom I met in passing.

I suppose some context is in order.  Around the time I usually close up the library and leave for the day the mist started clearing up, visibly thinning as I watched it for a few minutes.  Figuring at the rate it was going it’d be mostly clear by the time I got to the edge of town I made the mistake of trying to return home as usual.

Within minutes of my departure the mist rapidly came back strong as ever.  It should come as no surprise that I soon became hopelessly turned around.  By now I’d realized that returning to the house was out of the question and was attempting to retrace my steps back to the library.

By the time the unseen sun was down and I was relying on my lantern crystal to see even the limited view the mist allowed me, I still had not made it back.  To make matters worse, the villagers had seemingly all shuttered their windows against the mist this night, or else they were keeping their crystals covered.  Either way, no residential rainbow lit the road this night.

Just as I was getting worried enough to consider knocking on someone’s door for assistance, I thought I spied a familiar landmark signifying an intersection not too far from the library.  Thinking that I’d be able to use it to reorient myself and find my way from there in short order, I made my way over.

And then, in the center of the crossroads, at the edge of my lantern light I saw it.  At first I thought it was a villager, lost out in the mist like me, and I called out to them.  But then I realized they carried no lantern.  And then it turned towards me.  Its face was a featureless black plane save for the eyes - perfectly round glowing points similar to those of the nature sprite.  There was a wrongness to the thing’s movements as it approached me, alternatingly stiffly jerking its limbs and moving its whole body all at once in a smooth glide, its vaguely human form never getting more distinct despite getting closer in the mist.

I ran, of course.  And then nearly ran into another of the entities as it congealed from the mist in front of me.  Around this point I began panicking.  The obvious, rational thing to do would have been to try to get into one of the houses.  The villagers by all signs knew well enough to stay off the streets while the mist was out and had survived this long.  Of course, when you’re in the grip of a panic attack rational thought rarely enters into the equation, or if it does it’s in a distant back corner of your mind that’s screaming in frustration and despair as your body does the opposite of what it’s desperately trying to tell it to.  And so I just kept running and dodging around the shadowy figures standing around in the fog, all of them unearthly still until I alerted them to my presence after which they began following in my wake.  Thinking only of distance I blindly ran on, only dimly registering that I was making things worse by attracting attention.  Up until I blindly ran into a door.

Stumbling backwards to the ground from the impact I dropped my lantern, heard a crack, and saw the crystal pop out of its housing and roll away.  Watching it, still stunned, I saw the approaching shades smother its light.

I scrambled to the door I’d just run into, using it to help prop myself up back to my feet.  I heard a click and fell over once again, this time in the other direction as the door opened inward.  I vaguely noted hands grabbing me and pulling me the rest of the way in, the sound of the door slamming back shut, and a voice saying… something.  I was too busy trying not to pass out from hyperventilating to process the words.

Eventually I calmed down enough to become properly aware of my surroundings.  I was on the floor of someone’s home.  A bit smaller than Norman and Marva’s.  The light in here had a blue tinge to it, more saturated than the archive.  And standing over me with a worried look on his face asking if I was alright was the bespectacled gentleman I’d seen about town but never really talked to.  His signature dapper coat was on a rack nearby.

Gathering my wits I told him I was now and thanked him.  He introduced himself as Vernon.  He already knew who I was by reputation.  He asked what I was doing out on a shade night.  I told him I didn’t know what a shade night was.  This surprised him that no one would have explained something that important to me.

Twice a month - usually around the full and new moons but it can vary several days in either direction - the mists appear during the day.  And then as night falls the nighttime shades rise.  They won’t enter into homes or anywhere else free of mist, but if they find a human, living or dead, they’ll claim them and take them back to the Catacomb Depths where the dead dwell.  It’s been decades since the last time someone living was claimed.  Everyone’s taught from the time they’re old enough to walk not to venture out on a mist day.  The only times anyone ever stays out past morning on one of those days are funerals for the recently deceased, leaving the body for the shades to lay to rest at the end of the ceremony.

The two of us could only guess that no one told me because they all either assumed someone else did, assumed I had the sense to stay out of obvious creepy mist, or simply never thought to mention something that’s such a basic part of life that everyone knows so it slips into the background.

My host split the dinner he had been preparing when he heard me outside (“Shades don’t knock” he commented) and we spent the remainder of the evening chatting, him mostly taking the lead of the conversation to help get my mind off of what I just went through.  He’s a charmingly pleasant sort.  He told me a bit more about himself and his role in the Village, but I’m too tired right now to recount it all.

Given that the shades will be outside until morning (and peeking out the window we could see that the whole pack I’d drawn to Vernon’s door was still there) he offered me a place to sleep for the night.  I had some concerns spending the night with a man I’d just met, but he appears to in fact be a gentleman through and through.  I just checked on him to find him snoring on a pile of blankets out in the living room while I’m in his bed.  “A gentleman is, not does,” as they say.  I think that’s a saying anyway.

Well, I think I’ve written enough to still my mind for now.  Going back to bed to try to get to sleep again.

<==Previous          Next==>

[kiara-carrera]

34. Having them as a background/lockscreen with Leah & JJ?

NO BECAUSE I WAS PRAYING SOMEONE WOULD ASK FOR THIS ONE SO THANK YOU FOR FULFILLING MY DREAMS

having them as your lock screen/background: leah + jj

By the time Leah’s eyes fluttered open, the sun was already beginning to set. The blinds on the windows weren’t shuttered fully, letting the last bit of evening light stream into the room, painting orange-y gold stripes across everything in its wake. Her body felt heavy, thick with just broken sleep, her eyelids like little lead weights struggling to function.

A few blinks and a half-stifled yawn were all it took for her to blearily peer around the room. She’d spent the day at the Chateau with JJ and now that she was able to pick out her surroundings as the pull out couch in the living room, she figured that she must have fallen asleep at some point. 

They’d had plans to go surfing, their days off from work matching up for the first time in two weeks, but they’d gotten rained out before they could even leave. A bolt of lightning and a crack of thunder to follow had been the final nail in the coffin.

It hadn’t been all bad — John B was out working for most of the day, having picked up some oddball jobs around the island taking care of some Kook’s property. That had left the Chateau to just Leah and JJ and whatever they chose to get up to.

In no particular order, it had been complaining about the rain, raiding the fridge for snacks, a very intense wrestling match for the last cookie in the cabinet that had ended up with JJ making a crude joke about being pinned down, smoking the last of the weed JJ had gotten off his cousin Ricky, and a whole lot of making out. Leah couldn’t exactly what the last thing had been that led them to be passed out on the couch, but she was pretty sure it involved cuddling if the heavy arm draped across her waist had anything to say about it.

JJ’s face was nuzzled into the crook of her neck, half-buried in her hair as his short little breaths tickled the skin of her shoulder. She couldn’t see his face and didn’t want to risk turning back and waking him up just to look at him, but she could already picture the content little expression he’d be wearing. The thought made her smile a little.

He was always peaceful when he slept — well, at least, he was peaceful when he slept with her. There were numerous times over the years where she caught him fidgeting and turning over every five minutes when he slept alone, but he’d never been like that with her, sleeping soundly like a rock. Whether he was holding her or, the more likely option, she was holding him, he’d always sleep well, face free of the little wrinkle he sometimes got between his brows.

Sighing happily, she let her hand drift down to where JJ’s was slumped against her, slipping her fingers between his as she readjusted her position on the pillow. Leah was all for falling back to sleep, dealing with dinner and going home later if it meant getting more time relaxing with her boyfriend.

Just as her eyes started to slip close, a bright flash of light in front of her startled her back awake. Squinting a bit, she could see where they’d tossed their phones earlier on the couch beside them, JJ’s lighting up with a few notifications.

Yawning, Leah gently slipped her hand off of JJ’s, her hand patting across the bed for his phone almost blindly through her bleary, sleep-ridden vision. John B’s name was the first thing she noticed, a few new messages about how he was getting off early and was planning on bringing some pizza back home for the two of them, which was nothing out of the ordinary.

What did catch her eye though, just as she was about to shoot him a message to get enough for three and that she’d spot him some cash if he got some garlic knots as well, was the semi blurred image of JJ’s lock screen behind the notifications.

Leah wasn’t sure when JJ had changed the standard preset factory wallpaper, but she knew for a fact that whatever she was managing to make out behind John B’s texts was not it. The majority of the image was blocked, only the bottom half of a person in a bikini left somewhat visible.

What in the world ...  she thought to herself, eyes narrowing in confusion.

She swiped her thumb across the screen, getting rid of the notifications with the intent to get to them later. When the last one was deleted, the full picture JJ had set as his lock screen was no longer obstructed or blurred. Leah wasn’t exactly sure what she had been picturing she’d find, but it most definitely wasn’t what she was met with.

A picture of herself that she’d never seen before was smiling back at her. Leah could recognize the marsh in the background and the back end of the Pogue where she was seated, dressed in her favorite yellow daisy printed bikini that had cost a little too much, a wide smile on her face as a can of Natural Light was held precariously in her hand. She wasn’t looking directly at the camera, the photo somewhat candid as she appeared to be laughing at something behind the person taking the picture.

The screen went black but she was quick to click it back on, once again staring at herself. Her cheeks felt warm as the reality of the situation set in, a pleasant flush that complimented the sudden fast pace of her heartbeat.

He’d made her his lock screen and she felt a smile threaten to break across her face at the pure surprise of it all.

There were things that JJ was and things that he wasn’t. A mild kleptomaniac, a fierce friend, a scrappy fighter, her best friend, and a damn good boyfriend if her biased opinion meant anything — those were things he was. But the kind of boyfriend that made his significant other his phone’s background? Yeah, that seemed like it bordered more along the lines of cheesy romcom shit that he’d make fun of.

Hell, they barely even took pictures together. There were the occasional Snapchats they’d take lying in bed goofing around late at night and there were some pictures in her bedside table from when they were younger, crinkled at the corners. And she had some pictures that Kie had managed to snap at the last second before either noticed, a few candids of them being “disgustingly adorable” as their friend had put it.

Any other photos she had of JJ were just of him. Some were of him doing stupid shit that she compiled over the years, sometimes with John B or Pope making cameos. Some were the Snaps he’d send her that she deemed either dumb enough or hot enough to be screenshotted (which was always followed up by a teasing text message from him that would get a prompt middle finger emoji in reply).

She wouldn’t be surprised if he had pictures of her on his phone, more than likely of her dumb Snapchats she didn’t want screenshots taken of (she knew for a fact he had the picture of her ugly crying to a Disney movie she watched a month ago because he’d started using it as a meme when texting her). But she wasn’t really sure how many pictures he’d realistically keep of her.

JJ wasn’t romantic in any traditional sense. Making someone their wallpaper just seemed very out of place in their relationship. So yeah, she was definitely thrown for a loop seeing herself on his phone, partially obscured by the clock displaying the late hour.

Her heart fluttered in her chest, though. Leah wasn’t anywhere near complaining. She was mildly confused, but it was a happy little surprise for her as warmth flooded her chest, another bout of pure adoration for the boy behind her at the sweet little gesture he’d done in secret.

Biting down on her lip to contain the wide grin on her face, she tapped in JJ’s ridiculous passcode (yes, it was 42069 for anyone wondering), replying to John B about extra pizza and garlic bread. A thumbs up was sent in response, leading Leah to lock the phone and toss it back beside her own where she’d found it.

Shuffling in JJ’s arms, Leah managed to gently nudge his head from her neck so she could turn herself around until she was facing him. He was still asleep, gentle little breaths escaping him. It was hard not to look at him and have her heart swell. Absentmindedly, her hand drifted up, fingers running through his hair as she silently admired him. She’d just found such a simple little thing that he’d done, but nothing was stopping her insides from melting and becoming all gooey over the boy in front of her.

That was just something so uniquely JJ, the ability to have her just become a puddle from the tiniest sweet gesture. Most of them were always unexpected — she’d been his best friend longer than she’d been his girlfriend and not once had she ever really imagined him being as soft as he was when it was just them alone, but she appreciated every second of it.

She’d looked happy and carefree in that picture on his phone and there was just a rush of emotions knowing he thought the picture was good enough to want to see it every time he went for his phone. It might have been dumb, but it made her feel pretty in a way she normally didn’t and adored in a way she’d only ever seen in fairytales or movies.

“Keep staring like that and it’s gonna cost you,” JJ mumbled suddenly, his tired voice startling her just a bit. One of his eyes was opened just a smidge, a sleepy smug grin spreading across his lips as he caught her eyeing him. “I’ll give you a discount for being hot, though.”

A laugh escaped her, eyes rolling as JJ began tugging her closer into him, head falling to her neck again as he pressed a kiss to the skin of her jaw.

“John B’s on his way home,” she whispered to him, gentle as she brushed back some of his hair from his forehead. “He’s bringing pizza.”

He paused in his ministrations, turning his head to peer up at her. “Did you tell him to get garlic knots?”

“The knots have been secured.”

An appreciative groan left him, another kiss pressed to her throat. “You’re the fucking best.”

She giggled again, happily squirming against him as he returned to kissing every spare inch of skin he could find on her neck and jawline. He was already a bit of an attention whore when they were alone, but sleepy JJ was a whole other level of cuddly and affectionate, a side of him that was reserved only for Leah.

They fell into silence, JJ still leaving little open mouth kisses on her skin, his hand drifting down to rub the exposed strip of skin between her shirt and shorts. The movement was comforting, her heart fluttering even more as she fiddled with his hair.

“J?”

“I know,” he mumbled against her neck, not stopping his movements. “No hickeys where your dad can see.”

“What? No — wait, actually yes, but that’s not what I was gonna ask ... when did you take that picture of me?”

He paused once again, although this time it seemed more like he froze against her. Leah pursed her lips together, trying her best not to laugh as he awkwardly asked, “What picture?”

Pulling herself back a bit, Leah gave him a knowing look. “The one of me on your lock screen.”

JJ groaned, eyes squeezing shut. The thing about JJ was it took a whole lot to embarrass him. He took most things in stride, letting everything roll off his back. More often than not, he was the one saying things to embarrass other people — usually Leah. Whether they were jokes or dumb innuendos, JJ was the one dishing it out and if something actually did manage to embarrass him, there was a fifty-fifty shot you wouldn’t even know.

But right now, Leah could see a rush of discomfort wash over him as he was caught red-handed being a softie. She thought it was cute.

“Kie took it a few weeks ago,” JJ replied after a moment of thought, slightly sheepish as he began fiddling with a lock of her hair. “Asked her to send it to me.”

“Really?”

He shrugged. “Saw her take it. I don’t know, you looked nice. Liked looking at it.”

His words were brief, but the simple thought behind it made her heart speed up again. JJ wasn’t good with words and emotions, something she knew from their years as just friends, something even he’d told her himself. He wasn’t good with words, but he was great with actions. There were hundreds of little things she could think of that were just purely JJ’s way of showing that he cared. This was one of them and while his reasoning wasn’t the most articulate, Leah’s heart felt like it was going to fucking burst.

“If it’s weird, I can change it.”

JJ’s words caught her off guard, her head shaking rapidly. “What? No, no. I don’t care. It’s sweet,” she told him. And then, almost as an afterthought, she softly added, “Makes me feel pretty.”

Even in his sleep-induced haze, eyes still not quite focused in the dim late evening sun streaming through the blinds, JJ still squinted at her in confusion. “You are pretty.”

Yup, there goes her fucking heart.

She smiled softly at him, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. Leah could feel him smile against her, his hand still twisting her hair around his finger. 

They laid like that for another moment, before a smug little grin crossed Leah’s lips. “So I guess this means you’ve officially earned your simp card.”

JJ groaned at the ruined moment, rolling away from her to flop onto his back. Eyes narrowed, he firmly told her, “I am not a simp.”

“You totally fucking are,” Leah chided. Laughing, she shifted around the couch until she was sitting up. Swinging a leg over him, she promptly deposited herself in his lap, sitting on top of him while he continued to pout at her like a child. Teasingly, she added, “Looks to me like someone has a big fat crush on me.”

“I’m tossing your ass on the floor.”

“I’m sure you will,” she told him dryly, grinning as she swept her hair over one shoulder before leaning down to kiss him.

[elriell]

i love your meta posts and would really like to see your thoughts on nessian and maybe the next book in detail?? thanks

Thank you, I enjoy doing them. As usual this will be rather long especially with quotes but there is so much Nessian goodness to discuss so bare with me.

[MY FULL THOUGHTS ON NESTA]

We will get in to the good, the bad, and everything in between but let’s start with their future and them being mates. This is not an unpopular belief to my knowledge but let’s talk about it because I feel this will be a part of their arc next book, especially since ACOFAS was kind of setting up the bridge for the spin off.

So take a look at these quotes from ACOFAS,

“Cassian’s face turned uncharacteristically solemn, and he remained quiet for a moment before he said, “I get jealous sometimes. I’d never begrudge you for your happiness, but what you two have, Rhys …” He dragged a hand through his hair, his crimson Siphon glinting in the light streaming through the window. “It’s the legends, the lies, they spin us when we’re children. About the glory and wonder of the mating bond. I thought it was all bullshit. Then you two came along.”

“What about you?” I asked, pulling away after a moment. “Are you … happy?” Shadows darkened his hazel eyes. “I’m getting there.” A halfhearted answer.”

I believe this is just a little teaser for his future with her, there is so much foreshadowing about both of them being mates but also becoming something powerful, especially Nesta.

“What if I tell you what the rock and darkness and sea beyond whispered to me, Lord of Bloodshed? How they shuddered in fear, on that island across the sea. How they trembled when she emerged. She took something—something precious. She ripped it out with her teeth.”

Cassian’s golden-brown face had drained of color, his wings tucking in tight. “What did you wake that day in Hybern, Prince of Bastards?”

He is described as a leader, a prince and a god a few times but the foreshadowing for Nesta becoming a Queen/Leader is unparalleled. I know quite a few people are not fond of the idea but to be honest with all the written breadcrumbs I cannot imagine it going any other way... It is mentioned so often.

“Nesta was waiting at the head of the table, a queen ready to hold court. ”

“But she turned to Cassian, looked him over as if she were a queen on a throne, and then declared to all of us,”

“How lovely she is—new as a fawn and yet ancient as the sea. How she calls to you. A queen, as my sister once was. Terrible and proud; beautiful as a winter sunrise.”

“And proud as any queen, Nesta took Elain’s arm and led her from the guardhouse. Mor trailed behind,”

“A queen without a throne. That was what I’d call the painting that swept into my mind.”

“She kept her chin high, the portrait of queenly arrogance. “I’m not.”

“Talk to me. Nesta. Tell me—” She ripped her hand out of his grip. Stared him down. A mighty, vengeful queen.”

And I feel it will obviously be something to do with the Illyrians, as that is what is being set up. I believe they will become leaders of the Illyrians in a new way not currently present.

Mates

“And what about Cassian? He’s entangled—and enabling this nonsense.” A wry smile. “Cassian is going to have to decide some things, too. In the near future, I think.” “Are he and Nesta …?” “I don’t know. Until the bond snaps into place, it can be hard to detect.”

At this rate I do not even think it is questionable but let’s pretend we have to prove it, here are some key pieces of evidence,

Exhibit A)

Feyre painting the stars for her Mate, and her painting flames for Nesta.

“Nesta,” I said, starting on the other wing, “I painted flames for her. She was always angry, always burning. I think she and Amren would be fast friends. ”

“There was something rough-hewn about his features—like he’d been made of wind and earth and flame and all these civilized trappings were little more than an inconvenience.”

“A matching one lay atop his left hand; and twin red stones adorned Cassian’s gauntlets, their color like the slumbering heart of a flame.”

“So at odds from the male who had gone head to head with my sister, unable to resist matching himself against Nesta’s spirit of steel and flame.”

Exhibit B)

First potential scenting of it/Paralleling Rhys.

“He bowed at the waist, those wings vanishing entirely, and had begun to fade into the nearest shadow when he went rigid. His eyes locked on mine, wide and wild, and his nostrils flared. Shock—pure shock flashed across his features at whatever he saw on my face, and he stumbled back a step. Actually stumbled. “What is—” I began.” [Rhys] “But he did take a step closer, bracing a hand on the mantel, and leaned in close enough to breathe in that scent of hers. It hit him in the gut so hard her could barely focus, and it took five centuries of training to make himself meet her eyes rather than let his own roll back in his head, to keep himself poised there instead of burying his face in the crook between her neck and shoulder, to keep from moving closer, from… touching.”

“Yes, devastating was a good word for how lovely she’d become as High Fae. And in a long-sleeved, dark blue gown that clung to her curves before falling gracefully to the ground in a spill of fabric …

Cassian looked like someone had punched him in the gut.”

Exhibit C)

Feeling each others pain/worry without being there.

“He’d followed. She’d known it in her bones, her blood. He’d kept high in the skies, but he’d followed until she’d entered the building.”

“CASSIAN.” Amren reached for her, but Nesta roared, “CASSIAN!”

“Nesta had known. She gaped up at me, terror and agony on her face, then scanned the sky for Cassian, who flapped in place, as if torn between coming for us and charging back to the scattering Illyrian and Peregryn ranks. She’d known where that blast was about to hit. Cassian had been right in the center of it. Or would have been, if she hadn’t called him away.”

The door opened, and Cassian stalked in, face grave. The sight of the wings, the Illyrian armor in this opulent, pink-filled room planted itself in my mind, the painting already taking form, as he said, “What’s wrong.” [...] But I said, “She senses something is off—says we need to leave right away.” I waited for the dismissal, but Cassian angled his head. “What, precisely, feels wrong?”

“Nesta’s screaming was the only sound. Cassian blindly lurched toward it—toward her, moaning in pain.”

“I whipped my head to Nesta as she went silent. The Cauldron righted itself. Cassian again stirred, slumping on the floor—but his hand twitched. Toward Nesta.”

“You’re hurt.” Rhys snapped to attention at that. [...] Cassian seemed to hesitate, but offered it to her, tapping the Siphon atop his palm. The armor slid back a fraction over his forearm, revealing— “You know better than to walk around with an injury,” Rhys said a bit tensely. “I was busy,” Cassian said, not taking his focus off Nesta as she studied the swollen wrist. How she’d detected it through the armor … She must have read it in his eyes, his stance. I hadn’t realized she’d been observing the Illyrian general enough to notice his tells.”

Underrated Moments?

“Eat or bed?” Cassian had asked Nesta, and I honestly couldn’t tell if he’d meant it as some invitation. I debated telling him he was in no shape.

Nesta only said, “Bed.” And there was certainly no invitation in the exhausted reply.”

I feel like this is such an underrated moment between them, there is so much care and comfort in these moments I love it.

“Is she a witch.”

“She may act like one sometimes,” Cassian clarified, “but no—she is High Fae.” LOL

“Nesta listened to the low-level Illyrian soldiers whispering about how Cassian had thrown that spear, how he’d cut down soldiers like stalks of wheat, how he’d fought like Enalius—their most ancient warrior-god and the first of the Illyrians. [...]

Nesta watched, and listened to it all, while the camp was built around us.”

This part of ACOWAR when she is settling in, helping out and listening to the tales of Cassian I think will come to parallel in ACOTAR 4. I love the idea that she just sat around listening to the legend of warrior gods...

Parallels

“Why do you bother, Cassian?”

His hazel eyes shuttered as we smoothly landed. And I thought he wouldn’t answer, especially not as we heard the others already in the dining room beyond the veranda,[...] But Cassian said quietly as we headed for the dining room, “Because I can’t stay away.”

Nesta gritted her teeth, trying to haul Cassian up once more. A broken sound of pain ripped from him. “Go! ” he barked at her. “I can’t,” she breathed, voice breaking. “I can’t.”

*cries*

“But Nesta was glancing between us all, her back still stiff, mouth a thin line. “Where is he?” “Who?” Rhys crooned. “Cassian.”

I didn’t think I’d ever heard his name from her lips. Cassian had always been him or that one. And Nesta had been … pacing in the foyer. As if she was worried.

“I was almost at the door when Cassian said, “Is …” He swallowed. I spared him the discomfort of trying to mask his interest. “Both sisters will be at the house. Whether they want to or not.” Cassian’s eyes flickered. “How is she?”

Rhysand just stuck in the middle probably thinking these fucking idiots ahaha

“Are you … happy?” Shadows darkened his hazel eyes. “I’m getting there.”A halfhearted answer. I’d have to work on that, too. Perhaps there were threads to be pulled, woven together.”

“Perhaps you should get a place of your own, then.” “I have one in Illyria.” “I meant here.” Cassian lifted a brow. “I don’t need a house here. I need a room.” [...] I chuckled again, but held in my retort. My suggestion that he might want a place of his own. Soon. Not that anything was happening on that front. Not anytime soon. Nesta had made it clear enough she had no interest in Cassian—not even in being in the same room as him. I knew why. I’d seen it happen, had felt that way plenty.”

had felt that way plenty

HAD FELT THAT WAY PLENTY.

HaD FElt tHAt wAY PLenTY

Perhaps this is really why they sent her to Illyria? Is this them weaving? Not sure how I feel about that really, but we shall see.

She only said, “Go home, Cassian.” He could count on one hand the number of times she’d used his name. Called him anything other than you or that one.”

“Cassian.” I didn’t think I’d ever heard his name from her lips. Cassian had always been him or that one.”

Their reactions to each other currently.

“No matter that she could scarcely stand to be around him. No matter that she had once, long ago, in a mortal body and in a house that no longer existed, let him kiss her throat. Being near him made her want to shatter things. As her power sometimes did, unbidden. Secretly.”

“But from the moment he’d met Nesta, the cold fire in her blue-gray eyes had been a temptation of a different sort. And now that she was High Fae, that inherent dominance, the aggression—and that piss-poor attitude … There was a reason he avoided her as much as possible. Even after the war, things were still too volatile, both within the Night Court’s borders and in the world beyond. And the female before him had always made him feel like he was standing in quicksand.”

Training

Quite a few people do not want her to become a epic warrior, and while I understand that especially after her quote in the books about there being other ways to be strong... but after SJM interviews and so forth I definitely think they will go in that direction...

“You’ll what?” Cassian crooned, trailing her at a casual pace as she stopped perhaps five feet from me. He lifted a brow as she whirled on him. “You won’t join me for practice, so you sure as hell aren’t going to hold your own in a fight. You won’t talk about your powers, so you certainly aren’t going to be able to wield them. And you—”

“Something drew Cassian’s attention behind me. And even as his body remained casual, a predatory gleam flickered in his eyes. I didn’t need to turn to know who was standing there. “Care to join?” Cassian purred. Nesta said, “It doesn’t look like you’re exercising anything other than your mouths.”

“Cassian pressed one of his knives into Nesta’s hand. “Ash can kill you now,” he said with lethal quiet as she stared down at the blade. “A scratch can make you queasy enough to be vulnerable. Remember where the exits are in every room, every fence and courtyard—mark them when you go in, and mark how many men are around you. Mark where Rhys and the others are. Don’t forget that you’re stronger and faster. Aim for the soft parts,” he added, folding her fingers around the hilt. “And if someone gets you into a hold …”

Morrigan

Alright let’s move on to Mor, I am sure there are a lot of opinions on her/and her relationship with Cassian. I am going to try not to get in to detail about her personally and keep it too Nessian because I feel like that is a whole other can of worms...

“And then there would be the matter of explaining it to everyone.

To Mor. His blood chilled.”

This is a big reason for why I need both of their own POV’s because there is so much we are limited to being inside of Feyre’s head. But one thing is clear and that is that there is something wrong here, ^^^ that response is not normal for a “friend” to find out you like/whatever someone.

It is not a healthy dynamic at all, I am sorry.

I believe it also alters and changes the way Nesta perceives things, we as readers may know nothing is currently going on between them but as an outside party she would not know that and some of their scenes have got to raise alarms.

“You’re hurt?”

At the sound of Mor’s voice, Cassian snatched his hand back and pivoted toward Mor with a lazy smile. “Nothing for you to cry over, don’t worry.”

Nesta dragged her stare from his face—down to her now-empty hand, her fingers still curled as if his palm lay there. Cassian didn’t look at Nesta as she rose, snatching up the pitcher, and muttered something about getting more water from inside the tent.

Case and point, this was a rather cold and heartless thing to do especially given that she is finally trying to help him and open up. Imagine being Nesta in this situation, it is sure to raise some alarm bells...

“Rhys chuckled. Cassian, however, didn’t smile, every pore of him seemingly fixed on Nesta and Mor.”

I really hope they expand on why he is so afraid of her reaction.

“Just what I always wanted.” He held up a pair of what seemed to be red silk undershorts. The perfect match to her negligee. With Nesta pointedly preoccupied with flipping through her new books,”

“Cassian and Mor fell into their banter, laughing and taunting each other about the battle and the ones ahead. Nesta didn’t come back out again for some time.”

“The general of the High Lord’s armies stuck out his tongue. Mor returned the gesture. Amren scowled at Rhys. “You’d be wise to leave both of them at home for the meeting with the others, Rhysand. They’ll cause nothing but trouble.” His face was indeed controlled, but—a hint of surprise twinkled there. Wariness, too, but … surprise. I risked another glance at Nesta, but she was watching her plate, dutifully ignoring the others.”

I think it is very interesting that SJM put these scenes in here because as readers again we might laugh and enjoy the banter between the circle but she is making it a point to show that Nesta is bothered/has a reaction to these moments. I wouldn’t even call it jealousy per-say but rather wariness over someone she considers a player flirting around, raising red flags.

Especially getting matching underwear with someone, as an outsider how would you perceive that?

“Mor’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if she was trying her best not to say anything. Azriel was trying his best to shoot a warning stare at Mor to remind her to indeed keep her mouth shut. As if they’d already discussed this. Many times.”

I opened my mouth, but Mor beat me to it.

“He’s busy.” I’d never heard her voice so … sharp. Icy.

Mor said flatly, “When he gets back, keep your forked tongue behind your teeth.”

“I tried not to look too obvious as I glanced at Cassian.They had not seen each other since Adriata.But the warrior only gave her a cursory once-over and turned toward Azriel to say something. Mor was watching both carefully—the warning she’d given my sister ringing silently between them. And Nesta, Mother damn it all, seemed to remember. Seemed to rein in whatever words she’d been about to spit and just approached me.”

“So you’re alive.”Cassian bared his teeth in a feral grin, wings flaring slightly. “Were you hoping otherwise?”

Mor was watching—watching so closely, every muscle tense. She again reached for his arm, but Cassian angled out of reach, not tearing his eyes from Nesta’s blazing gaze.

I don’t agree with her at all, especially since she is a hypocrite because if anyone brings up her relationship with Azriel it is unacceptable and not their business. You can be a friend, you can be protective, as I am sure Az also is but you can keep it to yourself, or Cassian.

Her not wanting to loose her buffer is not only selfish but cruel to him.

“Your Solstice present.” “I don’t want one.” Cassian continued past her, tossing the present in his hands. “You’ll want this one.” He prayed she would. It had taken him months to find it. He hadn’t wanted to give it to her in front of the others. Hadn’t even known she’d be there tonight.”

This isn’t directly linked to Mor but it kind of falls under the same theme of him being shy/embarrassed(?) in regards to her, for whatever reason it doesn’t put things in the best light. We can only speculate about what was inside it, and boy do we, so we can’t say if it was personal or private but the idea that he didn’t want to display any... sentiment towards her publicly must rub her the wrong way especially since only Elain got her a present.

Touch

Not much to analyse here I just want to quote and appreciate these moments.

His voice was rough as he said, “Five hundred years ago, I fought on battlefields not far from this house. I fought beside human and faerie alike, bled beside them. I will stand on that battlefield again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this house—your people. I can think of no better way to end my existence than to defend those who need it most.”

I watched a tear slide down Nesta’s cheek. And I watched as Cassian reached up a hand to wipe it away. She did not flinch from his touch.”

“Nesta was standing there, arms around herself, eyes wide. Cassian only stretched out an arm for her. As if in a trance, she walked right to his side. His arms tightened around both of us, Siphons flaring, gilding the darkness with bloodred light.”

“She let out a small, animal sound—like some wounded stag—as she saw him. As he landed so hard his knees popped. He said nothing as Nesta launched herself toward him, her dress filthy and disheveled, her arms stretching for him. He opened his own for her, unable to stop his approach, his reaching—”

“Cassian said to her, “Nothing can harm you here.” He sucked in a breath, groaning softly, and rose to his feet. Azriel tried to stop him, but Cassian brushed him off and strode for my sister’s side. He braced a hand on the desk when he at last stopped. “Nothing can harm you,” he repeated. Nesta was still looking at him when she finally shut her eyes. I shifted, and the angle allowed me to see what I hadn’t detected before. Nesta stood before the map, a fist of bones and stones clenched over it. Cassian remained at her side—his other hand on her lower back. And I marveled at the touch she allowed—marveled at it as much as I did the mud-splattered hand she held out. The concentration that settled over her face.”

“Cassian seemed too weary to speak as well while she wrapped bandages around his wrist, only grunting to confirm if it was too tight or too loose, if it helped at all. But he watched her—didn’t take his eyes off her face, the brows bunched and lips pursed in concentration.

And when she’d tied it neatly, his wrist wrapped in white, when Nesta made to pull back, Cassian gripped her fingers in his good hand. She lifted her gaze to his. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. Nesta did not yank her hand away. Did not open her mouth for some barbed retort.”

“Cassian brushed a thumb down the back of her hand. “You’re welcome,” Cassian called after her, more than a bite to his voice. His hands clenched and slackened at his sides—as if he were trying to loosen the feel of her from his palms.”

“Her gloved fingers scraped against his calluses, but he held firm. “Talk to me. Nesta. Tell me—” She ripped her hand out of his grip. Stared him down. A mighty, vengeful queen.”

Watching

“He studied every inch of her. As if there were nothing and no one else here, anywhere.”

“When I looked ahead, I found Cassian staring back at Nesta as well. I wondered why no one had yet mentioned what now shone in Cassian’s eyes as he gazed at my sister. The sorrow. And the longing.”

“Cassian watched every bite she took, every bob of her throat as she swallowed.”

“Cassian had named about two dozen poses for Nesta at this point. Ranging from I Will Eat Your Eyes for Breakfast to I Don’t Want Cassian to Know I’m Reading Smut. The latter was his particular favorite. Suppressing his smile, Cassian gestured to the pretty piles”

“But Mor waved him off and moved to pass Cassian his gift; but the warrior didn’t take it. Or take his eyes off Nesta as she undid the brown paper wrapping on the box and revealed a set of five novels in a leather box. She read the titles, then lifted her head to Elain.”

“What are you?” Cassian didn’t seem to dare take his focus off Nesta. But my sister slowly looked at Lucien.”

“Good,” Cassian said, glancing at Nesta. “If I end my life defending those who need it most, then I will consider it a death well spent.” Lord Devlon, for once, nodded his approval. I wondered if Cassian noticed it—if he cared. His face revealed nothing, not as his focus remained wholly on my sister.”

“She looked to Beron and his family as she finished. Only the Lady and Eris seemed to be considering—impressed, even, by the strange, simmering woman before them. I didn’t have the words in me—to convey what was in my heart. Cassian seemed the same.”

“I do not want to be remembered as a coward.” “No one would say that,” I offered quietly. “I would.” Nesta surveyed us all, her gaze jumping past Cassian. Not to slight him, but … avoid answering the look he was giving her. Approval—more. ”

“Nesta’s eyes shot right to his face. She spoke quietly to me, to all of us, even as she held Cassian’s gaze as if he were the only one in the room.”

“Nesta had been beautiful as a human woman. As High Fae, she was devastating. From the utter stillness with which Cassian stood beside me, I wondered if he thought the same thing.”

Nesta blurted, “You didn’t come to—” She stopped herself. The world seemed to go utterly still at that interrupted sentence, nothing and no one more so than Cassian. He scanned her face as if furiously reading some battle report. Mor just watched as Cassian took Nesta’s slim hand in his own, interlacing their fingers. As he folded in his wings and blindly reached his other hand back toward Mor in a silent order to transport them. Cassian’s eyes did not leave Nesta’s; nor did hers leave his. There was no warmth, no tenderness on either of their faces. Only that raging intensity, that blend of contempt and understanding and fire.”

Can someone tell them both there are other people in the room? I don’t think they know...

Protect

“Tamlin snarled at her. Cassian snarled right back, “Watch it.” Tamlin looked between my sister and Cassian—his gaze lingering on Cassian’s wings, tucked in behind him. Snorted. “Seems like other preferences run in the Archeron family, too.”

“Cassian had stationed himself by the doorway, I realized, to be closer to Nesta. To grab her if Amren decided she didn’t particularly care for where this conversation was headed[...] Cassian was staring at Nesta—hard enough that my sister at last twisted toward him. Met his gaze. His head tilted—slightly. A silent order. Nesta, to my shock, obeyed. Drifted over to Cassian’s side as Amren replied to Rhys, “No.”

“Cassian casually slid Nesta behind him, his fingers snagging in the skirts of her black gown. As if to reassure himself that she wasn’t in Amren’s direct path. Nesta only rose onto her toes to peer over his shoulder.”

This is a personal favourite of mine because when it is truly dangerous she trusts and relies on Cassian completely. Also just the imagery of her peering over his shoulder is golden.

“Something …” The word was cut off by a low groan. She sagged, and Mor caught her fully, scanning Nesta’s face. Cassian was instantly there, his hand at her back, teeth bared at the invisible threat.”

“I don’t think even the Carver knows what Nesta is. But I wanted to see—just in case.”

“Why?”

“I want to help.”

“How do I fix it?” she asked. Her hair had been tied in a loose knot atop her head earlier in the day, and in the hours that we’d worked to ready and distribute supplies to the healers, through the heat and humidity, stray tendrils had come free to curl about her temple, her nape. Faint color had stained her cheeks from the sun, and her forearms, bare beneath the sleeves she’d rolled up, were flecked with mud.”

Despite any vicious words or silly mistakes they both care for each other, the second anyone becomes a threat or a problem to their counterpart a deeper more hidden feeling emerges. A protective instinct.

Brooding

“He very rarely allowed himself to think of her, anyway. It usually didn’t end well for whoever was in the sparring ring with him.”

“He was grateful the streets were empty when he hurled that box into the Sidra. Hurled it hard enough that the splash echoed off the buildings flanking the river, ice cracking from the impact. Ice instantly re-formed over the hole he’d blown open. As if it, and the present. had never been.”

“Cassian shut out the words. Shut out the image that chased him from his dreams, night after night: not Nesta holding up the King of Hybern’s head like a trophy; not the way her father’s neck had twisted in Hybern’s hands. But the image of her leaning over him, covering Cassian’s body with her own, ready to take the full brunt of the king’s power for him. To die for him—with him. That slender, beautiful body, arching over him, shaking in terror, willing to face that end. He hadn’t seen a glimpse of that person in months. Had not seen her smile or laugh.”

Understanding/Compassion

He may have his slip ups but thus far he has proven to be rather compassionate when it comes to Nesta and understanding where she comes from.

“Mother’s tits, Rhys,” Cassian cut in, wings flaring wide enough to nearly knock over the ceramic vase on the side table next to him. “You think we can just take over her family’s house, demand that of them?”

From before they even met he showed understanding to their beliefs about the fae.

“I don’t blame her,” Cassian said, shrugging despite his words. “She was—violated. Her body stopped belonging wholly to her.” His jaw clenched. Even Amren didn’t dare say anything. “And I am going to peel the King of Hybern’s skin off his bones the next time I see him.”

I think they both have their positive and negative attributes to face but overall they genuinely try their best for each other.

“Dresses aren’t good for flying, ladies.” Nesta didn’t reply.

He lifted a brow. “No barking and biting today?” But Nesta didn’t rise to meet him, her face still drained and sallow. “I’ve never worn pants,” was all she said. I could have sworn concern flashed across Cassian’s features. But he brushed it aside and drawled, “I have no doubt you’d start a riot if you did.”

No reaction. Had the Cauldron— Cassian stepped in Nesta’s path when she tried to walk past him. Put a tan, callused hand on her forehead. She shook off the touch, but he gripped her wrist, forcing her to meet his stare. “Any one of those human pricks makes a move to hurt you,” he breathed, “and you kill them.”

The beautiful thing I love about Cassian is that he loves her wholly and without concern of her abilities, her walls.

“Would you be frightened of her, if Nesta was—Death? Or if her power came from it?” Cassian was quiet for a long moment.

He said at last, “I’m a warrior. I’ve walked beside Death my entire life. I would be more afraid for her, to have that power. But not afraid of her.” He considered, and added after a heartbeat, “Nothing about Nesta could frighten me.”

I swallowed, and squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

These idiots are both as stubborn and silly as each other, “oh you didn’t say anythign to me!” “well neither did you” honestly, these donuts will be the death of me but I love them anyways.

“And you didn’t say one gods-damned word to me the entire night.

Not that he’d said a word to her. She’d made it clear enough in those initial days after that last battle that she wanted nothing to do with him. With any of them.

He understood. He really did. It had taken him months—years—after his first battles to readjust. To cope. Hell, he was still reeling from what had happened in that final battle with Hybern, too.”

But again he acknowledges her pain, her inability to cope and return to normal after her trauma. Which I dive in to a lot more in my Nesta post, but in short my frustration lies with him saying he understands but then in moments she is suffering he seems to forget occasionally and snap.

Funny/Little moments

“I’d asked what, exactly, Nesta had said to him to get under his skin so easily. But Cassian had only snarled and told me to mind my own business, and that my family was full of bossy, know-it-all females.”

“What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” He stalked past me to the ring. “Is it Nesta?” “Not everything in my life is about your sister, you know.”

“Why should I be scared of an oversized bat who likes to throw temper tantrums?”

“Neither of us missed Cassian’s barked, filthy curse, though we didn’t deign to comment. Cassian was a general—the general of the Night Court. Surely Nesta wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.”

“Ready for some flying, Nes?” “Don’t call me that.” The wrong thing to say, from the way Cassian’s eyes lit up.”

“Nesta in a pale gray gown that brought out the steel in her eyes, Elain in dusty pink. Both males went a bit still. But Azriel sketched a bow—while Cassian stalked for the dining table, reached right over Nesta’s shoulder, and grabbed a muffin from its little basket. “Morning, Nesta,” he said around a mouth of blueberry-lemon. “Elain.”

“Cassian took a step away, but looked back at Nesta. Her face was hard as granite. He opened his mouth, but seemed to decide against whatever he was about to say.”

“He knew about the drinking, about the males. He told himself he didn’t care. He told himself he didn’t want to know who the bastard was who had taken her maidenhead. Told himself he didn’t want to know if the males meant anything—if he meant anything.”

Ownership

“His eyes widened, but the scent of his fear remained—not at her, but at who he’d heard at the front door. As he remembered who she was, both in the court, and to Cassian. She chucked his white shirt to him. “You can use the front door now.”

I think this is a big rub for Nesta, this feeling of ownership. I truly belive she knows and has felt the bond for a little while, for sure after ACOWAR. As we saw with her reaction to Lucien “claiming” Elain as his mate she is not here for this sense of entitlement fae males have.

It doesn’t further help when those around her and in Velaris all treat her as if she is his now. And she is most certainly not.

“Starting with the first male she’d taken here, who had no idea that her maidenhead was intact until he’d spied the speckled blood on the sheets. His face had gone white with terror—pure, ghastly white. Not for fear of Feyre and Rhysand’s wrath. But the wrath of that insufferable Illyrian brute.”

Is this Cassian’s fault? NO. But it probably will not help the situation for her.

“Yet as far as anyone was now concerned, the events of that last battle had bound them. Her and Cassian.”

Promises & Mistakes

“Cassian shook his dark hair out of his eyes, slightly longer than the last time I’d seen it. “I don’t think Nesta will ever forgive me for what happened in Hybern. To her—but mostly to Elain.”

“Your wings were shredded. You were barely alive.”

For that was guilt—ravaging and poisonous—in each of Cassian’s words. What the others had been fighting against in the loft. “You were in no position to save anyone.”“I made her a promise.” The wind ruffled Cassian’s hair as he squinted at the sky. “And when it mattered, I didn’t keep it.”

It is so sad that he feels that way when it clearly was far beyond his control, but I am glad that Nesta doesn’t really hold it against him and when it comes to it later on she trusts him yet again to protect her.

“It goes both ways,” Nesta murmured, as if my mate’s words moments before had triggered the idea. “He doesn’t know how much I took. And if … if I make it seem like I’m about to use his power … He’ll come running. Just to kill me.”

“He will kill you,” Cassian snarled. Her hand clenched on his arm. “That’s—that’s where you come in.”

noooow for the scene we probably all equally cringe over...

“Stop following me. Stop trying to haul me into your happy little circle. Stop doing all of it.”

He knew a wounded animal when he saw one. Knew the teeth they could bare, the viciousness they displayed. But it couldn’t keep him from saying, “Your sisters love you. I can’t for the life of me understand why, but they do. If you can’t be bothered to try for my happy little circle’s sake, then at least try for them.”

A void seemed to enter those eyes. An endless, depthless void.

Other than simply being hurt and frustrated I cannot for the life of me understand why he would say that of all things, it is such a hurtful but also random thing to say especially since he seemed to find plenty to like about her prior.

But again they are both akin to make mistakes, saying things they shouldn’t, Nesta certainly cannot complain as she can be very bad for it.

ICONIC.

“Nesta surged to her feet, staggering across the clearing, blood at her mouth from where he’d hit her, and threw herself to her knees before Cassian. “Get up,” she sobbed, hauling at his shoulder. “Get up.” He tried—and failed. “You’re too heavy,” she pleaded, but still tried to raise him, fingers scrabbling in his black, bloodied armor. “I can’t—he’s coming—” “Go,” Cassian groaned. Cassian grunted in pain, but lifted his bloodied hands—to cup her face. “I have no regrets in my life, but this.” His voice shook with every word. “That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta.” She didn’t stop him as he leaned up and kissed her—lightly. As much as he could[…]”

“And even the Cauldron seemed to pause in surprise—surprise or some … feeling as Nesta looked at the king with death twining around his hands, then down at Cassian. And covered Cassian’s body with her own. Cassian went still—then his hand slid over her back. Together. They’d go together.”

“Cassian was sizing up Nesta, a gleam in his eyes that I could only interpret as a warrior finding himself faced with a new, interesting opponent.

Then, Mother above, Nesta shifted her attention to Cassian, noticing that gleam—what it meant. She snarled softly, “What are you looking at?”

Cassian’s brows rose—little amusement to be found now. “Someone who let her youngest sister risk her life every day in the woods while she did nothing. Someone who let a fourteen-year-old child go out into that forest, so close to the wall.” My face began heating, and I opened my mouth. To say what, I didn’t know. “Your sister died—died to save my people. She is willing to do so again to protect you from war. So don’t expect me to sit here with my mouth shut while you sneer at her for a choice she did not get to make—and insult my people in the process.”

Nesta didn’t bat an eyelash as she studied the handsome features, the muscled torso. Then turned to me. Dismissing him entirely. Cassian’s face went almost feral. A wolf who had been circling a doe … only to find a mountain cat wearing its hide instead.”

Nesta

“Nesta is different from most people,” I explained. “She comes across as rigid and vicious, but I think it’s a wall. A shield—like the ones Rhys has in his mind.”

“Against what?”

“Feeling. I think Nesta feels everything—sees too much; sees and feels it all. And she burns with it. Keeping that wall up helps from being overwhelmed, from caring too greatly.”

And I think that is what makes one of the last things we hear from her in ACOFAS where she admits she isn’t feeling anything at all, a stark contrast from before the war. She is traumatised. Unfeeling,

“Until she drew her knees to her chest and stared into the dimness. Still the silence raged and echoed around her. Still she felt nothing.”

"Nesta struggles a lot with her mental health, with facing her past, with healing herself and learning to love herself and open herself up to other people." -Sarah J Maas

As for the next book I think it will be about both of them learning to heal, to grow, and face all the unspoken things between them. I personally cannot wait for both of them to do so, I love them both equally.

They are both flawed and complicated characters but that is precisely what I love about them.

As usual I say, I am always open to discussions and opinions, I love to chat but lets keep it calm and respectful. Everyones opinion is valid ♥️

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

She [4]

Warnings: non-consent sex (series)

This is dark! Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Series Synopsis: Steve Rogers’ life is turned upside down by a reporter.

Chapter Summary: Steve continues his observation.

Note: I’m excited to share more with y’all. I have a doctors appointment today but I don’t know, if you really want Painted Windows too, I have a chapter that can be edited otherwise I can save that for after this is done. Anyways, have fun and be safe.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Steve

Steve was up all night thinking about her. He tried to forget, tried to hide his face in his pillow and doze off but it was hopeless. He tossed and turned until the sky began to lighten through his window and went for an early run. Even at that hour however, he wasn’t alone. He saw the lens as he set off down the sidewalk but managed to lose the photographer by the next block.

He returned home and showered. He was still agitated. He wasn’t used to being angry for this long but the pit in his stomach remained. Her face stayed etched in his mind; her voice echoed in his ears. He caught himself thinking of how her body draped over the lumpy cushions and her chest rose and fell steadily. 

He cranked off the faucet before his mind could float away with the steam. He stepped out and wiped away the clouds that had obscured the mirror. He looked at himself. The wrinkles had been more obvious for a while. After Thanos, the edges had begun to fray. The serum slowed the process but didn’t stop it.

He leaned on the sink as he looked closer. He was a centenarian now but he looked closer to forty. As well as time had treated him, it was running out. How long would he do this? If he did keep his job, how long would he go? Until he was grey and bent? Still alone and even more bitter?

He heard the crack and looked down. The porcelain had broken in his grip and the sink split in a ragged line. He pulled away the chunk and sighed. Well, that would be something to keep him busy. He tossed the piece on the counter and turned away from his reflection.

He went into the bedroom as he dried off. His blond hair stuck out as he pulled the towel away and he smoothed it with his fingers. He dropped the damp terry cloth on the mattress and went to his dresser. His fingertips tapped on the polished wood. He closed his eyes and lowered his head.

“I’m fine,” He said to himself. “Just stressed.” 

He pulled on the drawer and opened his eyes. He took out a tee shirt. He searched through the levels and collected what he needed from the closet.

“I’m just going for a walk,” He said as his imagination conjured the silhouette sitting just behind him; faceless and silent. “Yep, I know. Almost out of milk.”

He dressed carefully and neared the long rectangle mirror that hung on the wall. The aged frame he’d made himself. He zipped up his hoodie and grabbed the cap he’d dropped on the little round table the night before.

“I shouldn’t be long.” He said as he pulled up the hood and turned to the bed. He saw her clearly now.

“Where are you going?” She asked as her hands clasped together in her lap.

“To find you.” He answered and she disappeared.

He was alone again but he didn’t feel so lost.

🖋️

Steve tilted his head as he watched the familiar figure stride down the sidewalk. Why was Fury there? Did he know? Had he somehow found out about Steve’s little adventure? No, he was trained and careful. He would know if he was being watched unlike that foolish woman. Damage control, he assured himself.

It was only an hour before she appeared. She was anxious, he could tell by the way she twiddled her fingers. He could hear her heartbeat above those around her. He followed as he had the day before. He liked this feeling. Of being anonymous; invisible.

She went to an electronics store and he entered after ten minutes. He saw that she was waiting in the cell phone section and he bought a cord he didn’t need before he left. She never even looked in his direction as she walked along the displays.

He returned to his vigil outside and played with the small box. He pulled out the white cord and twisted it between his fingers. He pulled it taut and his vision blurred around it. He pulled harder as he imagined it around flesh; around her brittle neck. It snapped and his trance did too. He shook his head and shoved it back into the box and buried it in his pocket.

When she emerged, he kept on. After a subway ride, she ended up at a small coffee shop in her neighbourhood. It was barely discernible among the line of shopfronts; some abandoned and others close to. He saw her through the window as she sat and stared into a cup. She fidgeted now and then but was fixated on the table.

He exhaled as he crossed the street and neared the door. If she saw him enter, his cover was blown. He shouldn’t but he had too. The chime of the door made him flinch but she didn’t move. He went to the counter and kept his voice down as he ordered a black dark roast. He didn’t really drink coffee but he would today.

He went to the other side of the shop and sat with his back to her. He took out his phone as he placed his cup down and opened the camera. He granted the permissions to access the gallery and messed around until he saw himself on the screen. He figured out how to switch to video then angled it over his shoulder so he could see her clearly. 

He stopped for just a second as his thumb hovered over the red dot. He gulped and leaned on the narrow arm of the uncomfortable wooden chair. He clicked the screen and the timer began to tick. He watched the digital reflection of her as she sipped her coffee. He could hear her tongue as she licked a droplet from her lips. 

He dragged his thumb along the line and the lens zoomed in. He sat like that until she seemed to wake up. She tilted the empty cup in disappointment and stood. She tossed it in the bin and he quickly hid his phone. He kept his shoulders slumped and tasted his cold, strong coffee. He blanched and waited for the door to ring.

When it did, he rose and dumped the coffee in the trash. He waited before he stepped out onto the street. He caught sight of her before she turned the corner. She was going home. He hung back and kept a languid pace. When he finally came upon her building, he was jittery. 

He could go home. Stop this. It had already gone too far. He looked up at the brick facade and cracked his neck. Not far enough.

He went around the alley but a homeless man was drunkenly staggering there. He waited by the mouth of the alley until the man wandered out the other end, his voice trailing behind him. Steve dipped between the building and winced at the smell of piss. 

He climbed up as he had the night before and counted the platforms. He stopped at her floor but as he looked inside, she wasn’t there. He saw her purse on the counter but not her. He ducked back down and listened. 

He heard her voice and his pulse quickened. He moved over to the other side of the escape but found himself blocked by frosted glass. She was singing out of tune. He heard her near the window and he bent down again. The old clasp turned and the window grinded as she pulled it up just an inch.

She walked away and her words turned to a hum. He heard the groan of metal and water begin to splash down. He carefully sat up and glanced through the small slit between the pane and the frame. He watched her shirt fall to the floor, then her pants. He was hypnotised by her movements.

He moved his head as he tried to see more of her. He caught the curve of her breast as she removed her bra and a full view of her ass as her panties joined the heap. He had to angle himself awkwardly to see the tub as she lowered herself into it. Her voice died as she leaned back against the porcelain and stirred her hand in the water.

He watched until she sat forward to quell the water and then some more. He heard the soft movement of water around her. He didn’t realise he was holding his breath until his temples began to pound. Something deep inside him nagged at him. A voice growing louder and louder.

And it was stifled by the other. That one which had ruled him for so long. A sudden pang of guilt stabbed his chest. He tore his gaze away as she began to scrub herself with a loofa. He crawled slowly across the escape and descended, quite enough that any shift was disguised by the noise of the city.

When he was back on solid ground, he was dizzy. And uncomfortably hard. Certainly, he wasn’t the perfect, pious man everyone thought him to be but he’d never felt this… ravenous. He needed relief. Needed it bad.

He adjusted himself behind his belt and walked out of the alley way. He blindly found his way to the subway and rode it as close to his home as he could. He took the back streets and stopped to glimpse the press lined outside his house. He heard an angry voice and an impatient knock.

Shit. He ducked through the gate and let himself through the back door. He removed his cap and his hoodie and hid them in the chest filled with old newspapers and magazines. He closed the lid and the knock came again. He had calmed down, barely. Even after the long train ride, he was riled.

He kicked off his shoes and ruffled his blonde hair just a little before he answered the door. Bucky sneered back at him and sidled through without a word. Cameras shuttered and Steve closed the door.

“What the hell were you doing?” Bucky asked as he stretched his metal fingers.

“Napping, “Steve lied.

“Napping?” Bucky squinted.

“Not much else to do,” Steve shrugged.

“Sure. Not since…” Bucky sighed as he went through to the living room. Steve didn’t mind; he always told his friend this was his second home. “I read the article. You don’t have to get so defensive. I can take care of myself.”

“It wasn’t about you, it was…” Steve trailed off and thought as he lingered by the doorway. “I didn’t like her tone. She was so… I don’t know how to explain. Calm but eager. Almost knowing. I think she wanted me to bite back at her.”

“Was it worth it?” Bucky sat and leaned on the arm of the chair. “Because I can guarantee I have no desire to work with this spider punk. You know what he did today?”

Steve crossed the room and turned on the dial of the artificial fireplace before he sat.

“What did he do this time?”

“Let’s just say my arm had to be calibrated after.” Bucky frowned. “My gun works just fine though.”

“I’m sure Fury enjoyed that.”

“Fury? He’s been storming around somewhere else.” Bucky said.

“Somewhere else?” Steve prodded. 

“This girl that wrote the article. They’ve got eyes on her and they’ve done their research. Fast.” Bucky brushed his fingertips over his stubble. “She pissed off every single person under Fury’s direction.”

“She’s just a reporter,” Steve said. She was his to deal with, not theirs.

“Maybe but she sure knows how to stir the pot,” Bucky lowered his hand. “There’s a new investigation. I could say I’m relieved I’m not the target now but it seems we all are actually.”

“What do you--”

“They want new accords.” Bucky said curtly. “I think Fury’s going to have to start reporting to someone.”

“Fuck,” Steve swore and Bucky blinked. Steve didn’t have a Christian mouth but he didn’ often go past a ‘damn’ or ‘shit’. “It’s my fault.”

“No, it’s hers,” Bucky insisted. “She knows nothing about what we do. What we have to do.” Bucky grimaced. “Fuck her.”

“Yeah…” Steve felt the tic in his jaw. “Fuck her.”

[medeafive]

Blood and Stone - 29

Masterpost

Prague has never smelled so much of vampires. It’s in every street, behind every corner, and she follows the smell as she speeds on her motorcycle towards the screams, through the cold night air. She smells blood, too, human and vampire, though the screams are harder to distinguish. They’re coming closer, right side of the street, and when she sees the broken windows and the glass on the street, she knows exactly where to go.

The strong wooden door has been kicked down with more than human force and she heads straight for the stairs, gun drawn. The screaming has stopped but the smell of blood intensifies with every step. The doors on the second floor are all barred and intact, though heavily scratched, so she heads up one more. The door on the left is ripped to pieces, blood splattered into the hallway. She presses against the wall, keeping her breathing down, peeking in.

There’s a severed arm in the hallway but worse, she hears faint breathing. Oh no. Not again. Steps. She braces herself-

The vampire tries to sink his fangs into her arm and she slashes his face with her knife, he screeches and presses his hands to the graying skin and she takes the opportunity to kick him in the chest, sending him flying down the hallway with a cracking sound, hitting the floor hard. His fangs are bloody, his eyes very dark, not a fledgling anymore. His clothes are shredded, dirty, barely covering the pale white skin. He’s probably one of those lone vampires roaming the countryside, hiding from detection by Schmidt’s goons, hoping to make it long enough on his own to be considered worthy, taking the lucky opportunity of a siege to ensure his own survival and drink as much blood on the way as he can. But now, he’s run into her.

She jumps at him as he scrambles up, sinking the knife into his shoulder, twisting it as he shrieks, she knocks out his right fang. His claws cut through the air and she has to retreat, shield her face. He hisses at her with his bloody fangs and attacks her. She rolls out underneath him, slashing his calf, he howls and drops to one knee, she grabs his head from behind and slashes his throat quickly but not deep enough, he pulls her to the floor with him, her armor creaks miserably under his claws but she delivers a clean uppercut, punches out the second fang and blocks his jaw while his claws try to break through her breast plate, she gets her hands on his knife and stabs him under the chin. It's not silver but it gives her enough time to grab her own knife from the floor, she bats his arms away, gets on top of him and drives it through his chest until the tip of the blade sinks into the wooden floor.

She remembers how darkness crept into Pierce's eyes when he died, flooding the white eyes with dark blood, but Pierce was an old vampire, not like this one. This one, his eyes are already dark, you'd never see it. Pierce is the only vampire she has killed whose eyes weren't red or black.

Okay. Now to the less pretty part.

She still hears the faint breathing. She already knew it wasn't the now dead vampire but the confirmation still hits her uncomfortably. She gets up and passes down the hallway into the apartment.

The crumpled body with the ripped off arm is in the living room, sucked almost entirely dry, definitely not breathing anymore. Faint whimpers coming from what must be the bedroom. Natasha heads there, knife gripped tight, controlling her breathing.

The woman is on the bedroom floor, bleeding from scratches on her arms, thighs and chest, trembling and whimpering, trying to crawl somewhere and just rolling in on herself. She has all the signs, the shaking, the sweating, the blown and twitching pupils. She smells like it, too. Natasha crouches down, carefully turning her head to bare the side of her neck. The woman startles but she can't really see, eyes darting around unfocused, fingers closing around thin air. Natasha stays back as good as she can, sweeping the hair back. The woman chokes with a sob. She must be in a lot of pain. The red bite mark on her neck is unmistakable.

"Please," the woman whispers, blindly flailing around without any force. "Please."

"I'm sorry," Natasha replies. She doesn't feel any hate anymore, it's just what it is, but if she lets this woman turn, she'll rip apart the people downstairs in a few hours. It's not her fault. It just has to be done.

"No!" the woman shrieks. "No, please, don't-"

The silver knife sinks into her chest, piercing her heart, and the begging stops, her arms drop heavily on the floor, empty eyes staring towards the ceiling. Natasha takes a deep breath, twisting the knife, then grabs the woman's head by her hair and cuts her head off with one vampire blood-fueled swing.

Now it's truly quiet. Lots of blood. The window is broken, cold December air streaming in. Maybe the smell will attract more vampires, scavengers, but she can't stick around when there are so many more places like this, so many more helpless victims, so many more vampires. She surveys the apartment once more, finding no survivors, retrieves her gun and then jumps through the window, three floors down, rolling through the impact, the armor protecting her from the glass shards, and before she knows it, she's back on the motorcycle, speeding towards the next unspeakable horror.

It's been a week. It had started slowly, more and more vampires, more and more attacks, and now every fucking night is a nightmare. A real bloodbath. Every vampire on their own is easy to kill, especially now that the vampire strength still hasn't worn off, but for every single one she kills, there are a dozen more the next night. A steady stream that only ever increases.

She's so in thought the falling thing almost hits her, throws her off the bike, but she zips out just barely. When she's steady enough to look up, she sees a window close on the fourth floor, wooden shutters slamming. Oh yeah. Driving through the city at night murdering people, very popular. That's also part of it.

She drives on anyway, catching a whiff of something around Nové Malešice and following it West. The area around the cemetery is deserted, as always, a popular superstition, so she turns South, stopping near the old prison when the smell becomes intense. A figure emerges from the shadows as she climbs off the bike. Sure, it has a few scratches from when she crashed into a bunch of vampires but it's not like she ruined it, no matter what Fury complains about. It's Sam.

He nods towards her blood covered armor and she shrugs, checking that her gun is still there. "Don't ask."

He shakes his head, looking up towards a dark window. "It's a group, five of them. Thought I'd better wait for backup."

"My phone broke two fights ago," she replies. "Are they in there?"

"Made sure they wouldn't leave," Sam confirms. "Actually, I was waiting for your friend but it looks like he's still busy."

It's beginning to annoy her she had a fucking baby with that guy and they still can't bring themselves to call him anything else than your friend. Nobody has mentioned the baby either, not even once, and she can't really complain about that but it still irks her. All the chiding looks, the quiet judgment, the barely hidden disgust. First, she had the benefit of the doubt when they didn't know how intimate she and James were, and then she was pregnant and dying and wasn't going to get too much criticism, or maybe she just wasn't well enough to notice, but now she has neither and she's just waiting until someone dares say something instead of it being clear on their faces, in their eyes.

"Don't need him," she replies. "Let's go."

  It's actually less messy than the previous fight. Sam shoots two before the vampires notice them and she gets the jump on another. Most of all, she doesn't have to kill humans again. It's not a difficult fight, at least for two people.

She takes the moment outside for a breather, staring at the cloudy sky as she grips the bloody jagged knife. This is only going to get worse. More vampires streaming in than they can kill. And then the black cloaks. Well, the ones who aren't already here. Sam joins her. "You okay?"

She nods. She's not even tired. Just weary. "Where are we going next?"

Sam checks his phone. "I don't know. Looks like your friend is still busy."

"Don't call him that," she snaps, regretting it instantly.

"What am I supposed to call him?" Sam asks calmly. "Your boyfriend?"

She doesn't reply. This is all stupid, she knows it. It felt like it would all be okay once she survived the pregnancy but it's the opposite, now she has to deal with the monster baby and the vampire invasion and her own relationship to a fucking vampire, none of it having gotten any easier. Chiding Sam for politely ignoring the nature of her relationship with James doesn't help a thing.

"Look, I know you like him, seriously," Sam adds. "He likes you, too. And I don't blame you for that or anything but- don't you ever think it's wrong ?"

It's never felt that way. But who is she to tell? Her morals are questionable at best. She knows what she's done. She also knows that she has already killed two people tonight, two humans on the verge of turning, and meanwhile she's running around still high on vampire blood and doesn't even really feel bad about it, if she's honest. At least not as bad as she should. Like she would still know what's right or wrong.

"Killing vampires is what feels right, doesn't it?" Sam asks. "Like tonight. You didn't stop for a second to think about whether one of them has feelings, you instantly knew they're bloodsucking monsters and you killed them. Seeing your- your friend's claws on your skin, that felt revoltingly wrong."

She only really has one reply, one counter argument, and she hadn't wanted to use it because it'll only make it worse but now, it slips out. "You're just jealous."

"I'm not jealous and you know that," Sam swats away easily. "I just can't help the feeling that one day, he's going to rip you to pieces. Maybe it'll be Schmidt's mind control, maybe it'll be his true nature coming through, maybe it'll just be an accident. Doesn't really make a difference. Actually, you're lucky if Schmidt kills him before it comes to that."

She shudders. Yes, she knows the prospects are grim. She knows James is still a vampire, still wants to drink her blood, she's dancing on knife's edge and hoping he miraculously has the self-control not to do it. Sam is right, he could slip at any moment, even by accident. She just can't bring herself to get off the knife. "What am I supposed to do? Dump him?"

Sam sighs. "Bobbi says he- he bit you."

She groans loudly. So much for secrets. "Not like that, it wasn't- I'm not turning-"

"I know," Sam interrupts. "I know. But don't tempt him. Don't let him get too relaxed, too close with you."

Dropping into American euphemisms again. "I'm not sleeping with him anymore, if that's what you're asking."

"Good." Sam rubs his nose. "Just, he's in your room a lot."

He doesn't really believe her. And he's not completely wrong, maybe she would sleep with James again if he wasn't- profoundly not in control of his body. Which is exactly Sam's point. "He sleeps in the chair. Sleeps a lot, actually."

"I mean, it's your business," Sam retreats. "But that's a dangerous game you're playing."

"Yeah, because everything else we do is so fucking safe," she returns. "Come on, let's go to Malá Strana, there must be more than enough vampires around."

  The castle side of the river is even worse. She hardly gets to get on her bike between fights, between shooting and stabbing and beheading. Vampires everywhere. She excels at fighting, of course, so it's not all that hard on her. Her constitution doesn't fail her even once. Compared to everything else she put her body through, this is easy.

She kills some and she saves some. Humans, that is. She kills every single vampire she comes across. For the humans, it's often too late.

She has just shot three vampires when she smells blood in the dark back room, human blood. More vampire blood, too. She takes a deep breath and kicks the barred door down.

There are vampire corpses inside, their mangled composition making it impossible to tell their number at first glance. The human smell is stronger. She's about to go through the next door when a man appears, arm wrapped in a fresh bandage, bleeding. Human. He still smells human. He looks wary when he sees her but he doesn't hide. "You weren't bitten," she states.

The man shakes his head. He's young, actually, though she couldn't tell at first. This war ages all of them. "I fought against them. The rest… it was a blur, and then they were dead."

He smells human so she'll believe him. By now, she knows what they smell like when they're about to turn. "I shot those outside. You should patch that up better or the smell will attract more."

The man bites his lip. "You should know- I saw it outside. It had a black cloak."

That could have been just James. Or it could be the Viper already, in which case they're fucked. "Was it a man?"

"Yes." The man shakes his head. "I think. No, I'm certain."

"What did he look like?" she asks. Maybe it's that Karpov guy from Russia. Or the Strucker guy from Germany. Probably not Schmidt himself, the red skin would be too recognizable.

"Dark hair," the man says. "Long. I mean, for a man."

Yep, that's her guy. "Don't worry about that one. I know him."

"You know him?" the man repeats, horrified.

"He didn't kill you, did he?" she asks back. "And you smell like a fucking buffet. Really, you should patch that up better."

The man recoils from her. "Get away from me. You- you monster ."

"Learn to kill your own fucking vampires," she returns. "Without spreading your bloody smell all over the street."

  "Wow," James remarks. "You smell like a thousand deaths."

Yeah, she has all sorts of vampire blood all over. Some human, too, even though she tried to avoid it. "More like a hundred. You should get back to the tower, sun's coming up."

James grins, stepping into her space, looking for her own smell in the puddle. Or maybe he's trying to keep the different smells apart. "You know I like to live dangerously."

He smells of vampire blood, too, though it seems to have gotten less messy for him. "Not much living if you burn to a crisp."

"Make sure Steve gets home safely," he says. "Haven't seen him for a while."

She snorts, getting on her toes. "Yeah, sure. Big muscle man needs to be walked home."

"Thanks," he replies unironically. "Letting him run around just feels unresponsible."

"Yeah, yeah." She kisses his cold cheek. "Get inside already, I'm not nursing you back to health again."

He snorts. "I'll be fine, I promise. Okay, I'll see you at the Tower, or are you doing the daytime raids?"

Fury's idea, but they haven't tried it yet. She sighs, stepping back. "Nah. Should probably sleep."

"Yeah, you should," he agrees, already eyeing the next roof. "Okay. Take care. Don't forget Steve."

Steve with the good smell is starting to annoy her. James' cloak swooshes and he's up on the roof, throwing her a last look before jumping into the cold night air, disappearing.

Okay. She really should get Steve home, everything else would be petty. Clint is waiting down the street, also looking quite annoyed, and disgusted. She snorts, heading towards him. "Shut the fuck up."

"Didn't say anything," Clint returns, checking dents on his bow.

"Your face says it all," she replies, trying to remember where she last left the motorcycle. "Do you know where that Steve guy is?"

"It's like watching you cuddle a tiger," Clint states, ignoring the question. "Sure, you'll say he hasn't eaten anyone for a while and he's really nice or whatever but it's still a fucking tiger. One day, without warning, without reason, it'll rip your fucking face off."

"Spare me your circus tales," she replies. "At least the tiger is really fucking good at hunting vampires."

"No reason to cuddle him," Clint counters. "And to answer your question, no, I have no idea where Golden Boy is."

She'll have to track down his smell then. "I'm not asking you to like it. Actually, someone threw something at me tonight. Out of a window, while I was driving down the street."

"A rock?" Clint asks.

"I don't know what it was, didn't stop," she replies. "Do you ever think… if this ever ends, we're fucking done? Absolutely useless and widely despised?"

"It won't end, though," Clint returns. "But don't worry about it, we'll all be dead in the next week or two."

Natasha snorts. "Well, in that case, might as well go cuddle my tiger."

[daydreamed-snippets]

@gingerly-writing - thank you for this wonderful prompt. I love your blog!!

Prompt #2623 --- “Don’t lie to me,” the villain snapped. “I know your commanders are planning to kill me. Just tell me how they’re going to do it. Please. I’d- I need to know.”

“Don’t think of it as death, per se,” the agent murmured, grabbing the villain by the collar and pushing them up against the smooth, plaster wall of the institute. With a jerk of their head that unequivocally conveyed ‘hands where I can see them’, the agent watched with a satisfied smile as the villain slowly slid their arms up the wall to rest their hands on their head. The edge of the agent’s weapon goading them into compliance. “Think of it more as a rebirth. A release. Think of it like your past catching up with your future.”

“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?” The villain’s expression was tight, the irritation they showed earlier steadily drained into unease. Still, they kept their chin high, the agent noted. Docile in all accounts but this--their eyes. 

The way they looked at them. Glowering, yes, but more importantly questioning.

Questioning them. Looking for the ruse. Searching for the persona of that civilian that they hit it off with--back when they first met. And wondering about this civilian turned agent, or if they were an agent the whole time.

For their part, it was easier than the agent thought it would be. Just act like an unassuming nitwit. A fool trying to do the right thing and befriend the estranged villain. Because the villain would trust that an idiot would pose little to no threat to them.

Stupidity always did invite those who felt a sense of blind superiority to morons, like a vacuum. Well, the right kind of stupidity at least. Act innocently stupid and they won’t notice. Act youthfully dumb and they’ll excuse anything.

But the villain was playing at ignorance too. 

“Is this because I stole your security badge and broke into the institute?” the villain asked, daring to shift a bit.  The agent pressed the weapon closer, jabbing it in their side. They had thrown their full weight against the villain, being the taller of the two, knowing that they had the advantage. Hips pinning them, one knee between the villain’s legs driving them on the tips of their toes. Keeping them off balance. There was little competition between the agent’s more toned muscles to the villain’s lanky form.  “Look, I know I wasn’t…that I haven’t been the greatest friend or the most upstanding citizen. So, yes, I’ve broken a few minor laws, but—but do your commanders really have to do this?”

“Oh, sunshine, this has nothing to do with our farce of a ‘friendship’, or your little excursions around this shithole of a city,” they drawled, and with their free hand they pressed a button on the communicator they kept in their pocket. The security alarm the two had tripped in the scuffle cut out, letting diminished lighting illuminate the room.  

The villain dared to look surprised. The agent only chuckled. “Yes, I know about that. Your ‘secret identity’, your fights with heroes. But all of that is inconsequential, really, to the bigger picture.”

“Which is?” the villain whispered in askance.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” the agent faked a pout, shifting their weight to ease off the villain. Their weapon still trained on them as a reminder to keep perfectly still. “I’m a little perturbed. Had I known what you actually were when I was first sent on this assignment, well.” They shook out their free hand before catching the villain’s belt loop, tugging them close. Off of the wall so that they were a breath away again. They then trailed their fingers up the villain's torso, across their chest, relishing the erratic beat of their heart. They skimmed a thumb over their chin, before grabbing them by the throat, ignoring the villain’s agitated expression.

“I would have likely kept you for myself. My commanders be damned. I don’t know exactly how I would pull it off. Probably make up some little lie that you skipped town. That you slipped my grasp.” They let go of the villain’s throat and  fished in their pocket to pull out a syringe, concealing it at their side. “I get excited even now thinking about the ways I could have played with you. Played with your powers. The power you so rarely use.”

“What I am?” the villain echoed. The confused look was endearing, if not strained. Like if they could only stick to the role of cluelessness, maybe they could stop what was about to happen next. “You seem to think that I know what this is, but I don’t. Please…”

“You can drop the sniveling coward act. It’s unbecoming.” It was their turn to snap. “You may be easy on the eyes. A punk of a villain, but my commanders and I know who and what you are.” The agent makes a showing of licking their front teeth, as they lean in and brush their lips against the villain’s ear. 

They whisper their name. 

Their real name. 

An ancient name that once spoken was said to immediately draw the aid, power, and ambition of that being. A name only found encased in tomes hidden in long-forgotten burial mounds. A name which whispered of gods and powers beyond temporal appetites.

Something changed then. The agent can feel the villain shutter and grip the front of their shirt as they let out a quivering breath. Perhaps they'd get their wish after all. Perhaps, this was all it took, and the villain would now bend to their myriad of passions.  

But the villain finally spoke, with an incensed sigh. “That’s not how it’s pronounced.”

The agent blinked, letting out a line of curses in their head. Keeping their fortitude, they laughed and leaned back. “I’m sure it’s close,” they said. The villain let go of their shirt, flickering their gaze to the floor. “We'll figure it out. It will be enough for my commanders to proceed with your conversion by killing this body. Setting the immortal residing in it free. And by saying your name, your true name, in the binding ritual, you will have no choice but to lend your strength to us.”

Without warning, the villain lunged, ignoring the weapon pointed at their side. Believing that it wouldn’t be used against them. That they were too precious an asset to risk injury to.  

The agent didn’t hesitate. 

They discharged the weapon as they were driven back, stumbling to land on their back. There was barely a grunt, as the villain righted themselves and stocked towards the agent.

“You’re right. What use is there for pretense now?” the villain said, lowering into a crouch. Blood oozing through their fingers as they clutched their wound. It splattering on the floor. “You mortals are always confident that your schemes will work. But you’ll soon realize that when mortals plan, gods laugh.” 

They grab the agent by the throat and lift them onto their feet like they were a ragdoll. “I haven’t’ heard my true name spoke properly in over four thousand years. I very much doubt you, or anyone for that matter will be able to say it correctly. And I won’t respond anything less.”

The villain squeezed hard, grinning madly. The agent claws at their arm with one hand, remembering their concealed syringe in the other. Black spots dotted their vision, but it was enough. They plunged the needle in the villain’s arm, emptying its contents. The villain let go and they fell like a sack. Hitting the ground they gasped in air, coughing rudely into the tiled floor, half expecting the villain to topple over them, unconscious. That serum was enough to knock out three grown men. But the villain stumbled back.

“What…was in that?” they stammered, looking at their fingers, running a hand over their face. “It’s not supposed to—”

The agent coughed up phlegm, practically giggling. “Modern medicine's a bitch, you damned immortal.”

The villain staggered towards the door, hearing movement down the hallway. Wishing they could kill this idiot, this monument to their own nearsightedness, but they had bigger problems. Namely footfalls of the rest of the agent’s comrades eager to secure them in chains. 

Making their way out the door, their vision swayed again; rising, and falling. They clutched the wall for support. Leaned against it to regain composure. Making a run for it, the villain stumbled down the hallway, towards what they’d hoped was the way they came in. The wound at their side was slowing them down. They couldn’t heal properly with that serum in them. They could feel their blood trying to burn it’s way though the sedative--the added benefits of this body not being entirely mortal. And on the other hand, being mortal enough. 

They tripped again, begging whichever god that they would make it out of there. And put as much distance between themselves and this blasted facility. The irony of that wish was not lost on them. 

They looked back to catch a glimpse of facility guards. Blindly rounding the next corner, the villain slammed into something solid. Toddling backward, they righted themselves just in time for someone to grab them by the arm.

It was the hero. 

The alarm must have alerted not only those in this compound but also to the outside authorities. Hence their hapless appearance here.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” the hero said, throwing a glance at the direction the villain just came. “Come with me.”

“Like hell!” The villain gasped, attempting to back away. Wrenching their arm free. “Don’t you—”

“That wasn’t a request.” 

A well-aimed punch to the villain’s solar plexus knocked the villain out cold. More blood splattering on the floor and wall. Apologetically the hero threw the villain over their shoulder and darted out a side window.

[benditlikepress]

i love you (i still hear your voice inside my sleep)

for @indestinatus, thanks for always being such a sweetheart ❤️

read in full on ao3

//

Ziva woke with a start. Forehead sweaty, hands shaking. Same old, same old.

She kept her eyes closed and tried desperately to cling onto the remnants of her dream. The same one that had woken her up too early every day for the past week: the two of them there, in front of her, smiling but looking straight through her. Tali running off, away from them, and him standing there with a blank look in his eyes. She approached him but he still couldn’t see her – didn’t react until she’d walked straight through him. The feeling of his body passing through hers like shards of glass digging into her chest.

It had been over a month since Cairo, but this had been going on since long before that. Climbing up on three years since she’d asked him to leave.

She thought it would've got easier by now.

She knew she had no right to think of him the way she did: to have spent every day of the last few years running thoughts of him on a loop all the while keeping secrets and pushing him away. She hoped he could understand, now, why she had thought it was the right thing. How she saw an inevitability to something like this happening: an inextricable web linking him to her and thus to danger and harm and other things that would ruin his life.

He deserved better. He still does.

Still, the reminder that struck her after seeing the two of them together for the first time when they’d showed up at the hotel in Egypt hadn’t managed to aid her in keeping her distance. She wasn’t sure what had been going through her mind when she’d booked the train ticket to Paris a couple of days ago.

She'd wanted to give them some time to settle into their new surroundings before throwing any kind of flame into the mix, keen for him to be able to get his feet on solid ground. Maybe she'd done it for selfish reasons, too: not having the strength to go over there and see them struggling.

When she had eventually made the trip she'd arrived in the evening. She hadn't known an exact address but he had told her in Cairo of a cake shop near their new apartment and she'd wandered the streets all night, scarf wrapped rightly around her head, hoping blindly she might catch a glimpse.

She'd found them, eventually, not long after sunrise. First people on the playground, before anyone else was even awake. She'd stayed 100 metres away, obscuring herself behind a canopy, and when they'd left the park Ziva had caught the first train out of Paris with tears irretrievably falling.

She knew it was risky, but that first glimpse had burrowed a hole in her head, digging and digging until she was powerless to stop herself. Another train from another city under another identity.

Never visit the same place twice. Once you leave, that's it. It was a rule that had served her well over the last couple of months, but she'd never been able to stick to them when it came to him.

She didn't dare stick around to watch them this time, weighing the risks against the fact that she wasn't sure she'd be able to leave ever again if she did. She thought about their early morning visit to the park. Memories of him sticking his head up through the climbing frame, roaring, making Tali squeal with laughter, and taped one of the phones she’d purchased on her way to the station to the top ceiling of the place where he’d come through.

She’d intended to ring him as soon as she got to the place she was staying that night but 48 hours without a wink of sleep had caught up with her and she’d collapsed onto her sleeping mat immediately upon arrival.

It was dawn now, though the room was kept dark by the heavy shutters over the windows. She could hear the sounds of the city starting to open up outside the front of the building, and the other women in the room were starting to stir.

She pulled the second burner phone she’d purchased yesterday out from her pocket and squinted at the harshness of the light as she held it above her face.

The woman curled up on the other side of the floor, the only other one in the room who’d had nightmares all night, lifted her head and cursed Ziva in a language she was both too tired and too wired to fully process. She climbed out of her blankets and stepped over sleeping bodies, leaving the room out through the small backyard.

Her shoes had been soaking wet when she'd got in a few hours earlier and left them outside the back-door but she pulled them on regardless, options limited as they were.

Surprisingly they were almost dry as she settled her feet inside the heavy-toed boots. One small blessing amongst a million lacking.

There was nobody out the back of the row of buildings as she opened the gate out into the alley. Boxes and weeds surrounding her, she sat on the floor with her back up against the garden wall and dialled.

She wasn't expecting the sudden hammering in her chest as she waited for the rings. Then again, maybe she should have: it was hardly the first time he had made her heart speed up like that. Not quite anxiety, though that was the root that had made her so familiar with that feeling in recent years. A kind of trepidation, usually mixed with excitement though that was a stark difference to the accompaniment this morning.

One ring. Two. The sound cut off, and there was a split second pause in which Ziva's stomach dropped through the floor.

"Hello?"

She exhaled at the sound of his voice. Present. Reassuring, hesitant though it was. A notch on her heart that was just enough to slow it down.

"Tony. Is it too late?"

continue reading on ao3

[zippiestdraws]

Choking Curiosity Ch 17

Michael Myers x ftm reader

tw: needle mention

Read on ao3

The deeper october nights were getting colder, but Danny’s face was beaded with sweat behind the mask that captured the heat of his breath. It wasn’t safe for him yet to enter the house already occupied by Michael, but he knows how to be patient. The chill was starting to bite through the leather gloves curled around the camera, fidgeting his fingers as he approaches the back of the house. Sliding the flash on and off, he waits.

The kitchen window by the back porch is almost perfect, granting him visual access to one of the busiest areas of a house. Even better, his idol spends a lot of time here. The obsessive in Danny analyzes the idiosyncrasies of his subjects in fascination. Michael Myers eats a lot and, he regards curiously, seems to have a penchant for sweets.

Craning his neck for a better view, his concentration is interrupted by the entrance of his prosecution. Facing the man in the fridge, a brief surprise flits across your face followed by discomfort and trepidation. Danny remembers his camera, pulling it up and lying in wait for the perfect picture.

The rapid fire click of camera shutters is silent to the house on the other side of the glass.

***

Your hunger outweighed your need to avoid awkward situations, and you’ve been glaring uselessly at Michael from your corner of the kitchen for at least five minutes now to no avail.

Finally you stomp over with as much visible annoyance as you can muster and try to interpose yourself between him and the open fridge, blindly reaching for whatever you can grab.

You feel the rough shove of a large hand impact on the back of your skull, Michael abruptly pulling you back by your hair with an indifferent look.

An outraged grunt is drawn from you as you backpedal in pain, futilely squirming in his grasp, hands prying at his.

“Come on, Michael-” you stumble, breathing heavily, when he finally releases you. You meet his neutral eyes behind the mask.

Michael stares back at you, patiently waiting. He’s been pushing all your buttons for a week trying to find the reset. It’s too introspective to expect him to regret, he wants both sides of you and you’ll be the target of his frustrations until he gets it.

Your eyes aren’t confused anymore, just hurt, which is what happens to be infuriating him. Why can’t you just go back to normal?

You watch warily as Michael struggles with a silent tantrum and storms out, throwing open the back door with enough force to mark the wall.

*** The Ghostface watches Michael Myers leave from a safe distance, frowning at the ‘out of character’ emotional outburst.

“Looks like the toy is outgrowing its entertainment factor. Good~.” Danny toys with his hunting knife and reclines in his hiding spot, waiting for the lights in the house to snuff out.

The town’s first serial killer doesn’t return by the time the back door squeaks open just like Danny predicted. Listening carefully and rubbing his fingers in the heat difference of the house, he almost laughs at how easy you’ve made it for him.

He knows the way through your house already, after all you’re the one who showed it to him. He skips straight to the good stuff, snooping through whatever personal items you keep on the bottom floor, pocketing a few things to piss you off before growing bored.

Venturing up the stairs, he decides to save your room for last, passing the closed door with a promise to return.

Camera flashes light up Michael’s room, immortalizing every inch so he can pour over it in private. Danny’s fingers itch to touch, but he restrains himself as if it were a museum, each artifact precious and fragile. If even a hair was out of place, Michael could catch on and his house of cards would fall.

The bathroom is an obvious stop, considering what he keeps under the sink.

Opening the cabinets in the low light, Danny purses his lips as he rifles through everything. Reaching to the back, he pulls out a milk carton with a curious look until recognition dawns on him and he peers inside.

”Ooh needles, huh? What have you been playing with (Y/n)?” The flash of a camera snaps a picture for safekeeping before the sharps container is returned to its place.

The flash goes off again, lighting under the counter for a brief blinding moment. Ghostface picks through the items, first aid kit, alcohol swabs, other normal bathroom stuff, a cloth wrapped object-

His hovering hands stop above it, withdrawing it slowly, even more intrigued by the odd density of it. The cover slips away to reveal a shockingly realistic fake penis that Danny almost drops. Wiggling it around, he has to cover his mouth to stifle his laughter and decides to stuff it into his pocket if not for blackmail then for his own immaturity.

Now he has to get into your room. He doesn't know whether you’re asleep or not. Either way he’s coming in, ’he’d just end up gutted a little sooner than planned’ he smiles.

Testing the door handle meets resistance and he curses under his breath, stopping for a moment.

Well, you see, that’s the thing with old houses, sometimes the door frames will settle and you can just-

Danny twists the knob, lifting up and towards the hinges on the door while pushing inwards. The door opens with only the soft click of the metal to give it away and Ghostface returns his sickly grin.

Your body is lying still under the blankets as he steps in, pausing when the floor creaks but twisting his knife excitedly all the same.

The moon tonight doesn’t offer much in the way of ambient light, but he can see well enough to approach your bed on the side you’ve faced in your sleep. Danny bends down close to your face, pulling up his mask for a better look. Your eyes flit behind your eyelids indicative of REM sleep. perfect~.

Fixing his posture, his eyes travel lower as he raises his camera.

”Hm? What’s this?”

In the fashion of an investigative journalist, he begins to connect the dots and smirks. Maybe he’ll take his time with this little dissection.

A flash lights up your sleeping form.

[earthnashes]

Sakura bodily jerks awake, nearly sending the controller in her lap catapulting across the room. There’s a brief bout of her juggling it in her grasp before she finally gets ahold of it, and with a relieved sigh she sets it on the coffee table, right next to the culprit responsible for dragging her back to awareness. She flops back against the couch with a loud groan, and opts to ignore the obnoxious blare of her phone in favor of looking around.

Outside the quiet glow of the paused menu of her game, her living room is dark, and she can hear the rumble of thunder shuttering at her window. A quick glance at the wall-mounted clock Evangeline was so adamant on sends another groan out of her; who calls anyone at this hour?

Quincy, I swear to god if you’re callin’ bout a raid again...

Without bothering to look at where her phone is and relying on sound, she grabs blindly at the coffee table before her hand settles on the cool surface of the cell’s case. Lazily she holds it over her head and squints against the brightness of the screen, scanning over the long stretch of numbers flashing with no name in sight.

She’s half the mind to ignore it and go back to sleep, but something in the pit of her gut tells her not to, and so she begrudgingly presses the bright green icon directly underneath the number. 

“Hello?” She yawns into the phone, rubbing at her face with her free hand in an attempt to scrub away the remnants of sleep. A beat passes in silence, and while Sakura thinks she can hear something on the other end, it’s too low to make out. She waits another moment before she says “hello” again in a clearer voice, and once again she’s met with no answer. She shoots her phone a glance, one eyebrow raised, before she shrugs and goes to hang up. Must be a wrong number then.

“S-sakura?”

For the second time Sakura startles, eyebrows shooting up as she stares at her phone. Her name comes from the receiver again, quieter this time, but it’s enough for her to fit the voice to a face in her head.  “Kaela?” She responds loudly before remembering to bring the phone back to her ear, repeating herself with the beginnings of a smile.

“Kaela, hey! Finally decided callin’ me at, ah....” A quick glance at her phone this time, actually taking in the time that blinks in the corner of the screen. Her expression crumples up a little in confusion. “...well. Didn’t take ya for a night owl.”

“M’sorry.” The girl’s voice is quiet and rough with something she can’t quite place, and Sakura pulls her phone away to look at it again before she brings it back to her ear. “I didn’t mean to… to wake you, but--”

“Oh psh, it’s fine! I’m usually up ‘round this time anyway, jus’ surprised is all.”

She’s more than just a little surprised; Sakura had given her number to Kaela weeks ago, but even then she hadn’t fully anticipated her actually calling with how timid the other girl seemed at work. And so late no less. Still, she’s pleased as punch despite the suddenness of it all, and she lets that cheer seep into her voice as she continues on.

“But it’s nice to hear from ya! What’s up?”

“Um--”

The loud crack of thunder is enough to draw her attention to her window for a split moment, but not enough for her to miss Kaela stop mid-sentence. Sakura waits patiently for a time, and when she gets an answer it comes out ragged, breathless, almost like a whimper. It’s too quiet for her to hear.

“Mm? Kaela?” She says, smile falling away to mimic the downward curve of her furrowing brows. The girl repeats herself, a choked “sorry”, and Sakura feels something in her gut twist with worry.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Didn’t know who else to-- I just… t-the storm, and I ca… I can’t-”

A bright light flashes through the window before it’s quickly followed by the crackling roar of thunder, loud enough to make Sakura jump abruptly. She hears it echo on the other end of the phone, the shaking sob that trails behind it, and she feels her skin prickle with concern. She’s fully sitting up now. “Are you okay?”

Stupid question, she thinks to herself, but it’s all she can think of. There’s a beat of silence, broken only by the occasional sniffle, and she has to coax the girl with another call of her name. This time, she hears Kaela drag in a breath. “No.” “You home?” 

“..‘Ae.”

“Is your roommate?” 

“ʻAʻole. No, no no no.”

Her answers are haggard, short, accent growing thicker with each singular word, and even then Sakura can almost feel the mounting stress through the phone, the growing terror with each crash of thunder and flash of lightning. She drums her fingers hard against her knee, feeling the need to fidget. She hates feeling useless. “I...What can I do? What do you need?” 

Kaela doesn’t answer immediately, only whimpering as another bout of thunder sounds out against the relentless pounding of the rain, and Sakura raps her fingers against her knee again, feels tears threatening to prick at her own eyes at the sound.

“I can stay on the phone with you if-” 

“Come over?”

The request takes her off guard enough to earn her own bout of silence, and it’s only then Kaela starts babbling, quiet as it is. “I-i-i can’t, I can’t, I think I’m... I, i-it’s too-- please?”

The tail end of that “please” sounds small and feeble, scratchy with what Sakura finally realises is tears, and it's enough to feel like a punch to the gut. Within seconds she’s saying “okay” into the phone, “okay, it’s okay, I will, I’ll be there soon,” shooting up from the couch and rushing into her room for her jacket and shoes. She waits for Kaela to hang up before she’s out the door and in her car, thumbing quickly through the long history of her phone’s map app before she finally comes across the address she vaguely remembers.

She’s out of the parking lot and down the street before the phone can begin giving her directions.

-----------

Sakura may have been lucky enough to still have Kaela’s address in her phone’s maps, but it doesn’t really help her in terms of actually finding which apartment is hers outside a fuzzy memory. It takes a few tries and her getting soaked through her clothes before she finally finds the apartment door she needs, rapping her knuckles against the wood of the door and trying not to be too worried when there’s no immediate answer. “Kaela?” She calls, mindful of her voice despite her nerves, and knocks again.

Nothing. 

Sakura suddenly feels the urge to pace but keeps herself in place, letting the silence stretch for who knows how long as she waits. After what feels like forever she goes to knock once more, but just as her fist is raised and she’s opening her mouth to speak again, the door swings open hurriedly and she’s suddenly pulled into the apartment with surprising strength. She’s barely past the threshold before her breath leaves her with an “oof”, stopped short by a small body and fingers digging into her arms through her jacket, and she doesn’t have to look to know it’s Kaela.

Instinct drives her in grasping at the smaller girl’s shoulders, taken aback, and she doesn’t quite know if she should pull her closer or take a step back to properly speak to her. She settles on trying for her name: “Kaela, wha--?”, but that’s all she gets out before she feels more than sees the girl’s state.

Sweat is coating Kaela’s skin, even through her shirt, and as she clings tighter Sakura can feel her chest shuddering against her belly in sobbing, choking breaths. They’re barely even breaths to begin with, more like a wheezing gasp for air, as if it’s getting caught in her throat, and that’s enough for Sakura to step back in alarm, Kaela’s name on the tip of her tongue. She takes in the clawing fingers still digging deep in her jacket, the shivering, how much of those light eyes are eaten away by the wide expanse of her blown pupils. Recognition flashes through Sakura’s mind as fast as panic does, and she has to swallow it down before she speaks up again.

“Kaela?” 

She stoops to a knee so she can stare into the shorter girl’s hazy eyes, sliding her hands up from her shoulders to gently cup her cheeks. “"Kaela, Kaela. Cariño, mírame. Look at me, please?”

Sakura watches long lashes flutter before silver eyes finally focus onto her, tears drawing wet trails down her face and onto her hands. She opens her mouth to speak but all that comes out is another choked sound, and Sakura can almost feel the girl’s pulse quicken against the edge of her palm.

“Respira. I want you to breathe with me, okay? Can you do that?”

She doesn’t exactly wait for an answer, but she can’t help the beginnings of relief when Kaela manages a small, shaking nod. She whispers “okay,” before taking in a loud draw of air through her nose, holding it for a beat before releasing it through her mouth in a slow exhale. She repeats the motion a few times, never once taking her eyes off Kaela, watching her attempts at mimicking carefully.

A sudden crack of thunder makes Kaela jerk, her nails digging hard enough to get a wince out of the larger girl despite her jacket protecting her arms. Even still she keeps her breathing level and repetitive, thumbing away renewed tears gently as she gives the quiet reminder: “Tan sólo respira conmigo.”

When Kaela clenches her eyes shut Sakura gets audibly louder, moves one of her hands from the girl’s face to gently take one of Kaela’s and press it against her shoulder. Her fingers rap against the broad expanse anxiously before curling into the cloth of the jacket there, and Sakura lets her shoulders move alongside her breaths to give Kaela more than just sound to focus on.  It seems to help, and before long she hears the girl begin to follow more closely to her rhythm. Her breaths are shuddered and tight, but as they finally begin to sound clearer and less strained with each pass, Sakura feels her relief mounting.

"Ándale, estas haciendo muy bien. I'm proud of you Kaela, keep breathing with me okay?" 

She doesn’t know for how long they sit there, simply breathing together, hers loud and steady and Kaela’s shaking but quieting, slowing. It feels a little like ages yet no time at all, and finally she lets her shoulders sag along a long exhale of palpable relief when Kaela’s breath steadies, the trembling subsiding slowly. The smaller girl lets out a ragged, tired sigh of her own and finally opens her eyes, and Sakura is glad to see they’ve returned to normal, even against the darkness. She doesn’t see them for long though; Kaela’s looking at the floor now, her brows furrowed, and the hand that rests on Sakura’s bicep moves away to scrub at her eyes.

“Ah… I apologize. You shouldn’t have had to do that--”

“Oi,” Sakura interrupts firmly, and it’s enough to get Kaela's gaze snapping back up to her, “none of that, yeah? I’m glad I could help you.” She sits up more to give Kaela a little more space, removing their joined hands from her shoulder, but the moment she tries to let go the smaller girl’s weak grip tightens almost reflexively, so she doesn’t. Instead she tilts her head with a concerned frown, a little unsure with what to say.

“So. This uh, this happen before?”

Kaela hesitates before she nods slowly. “‘Ae, ah… yes. Back home, when I lived with my brother.” She feels Kaela’s fingers flex against her palm briefly, quiet for a short moment before she continues. “But, it has been long since the last one. I… Mal wanted to go out to the storm. I thought I would be okay alone.”

“But the lightning, i-it struck so close. Power went out. I thought… it felt like I was in the storm again.”

Sakura licked her lips tentatively, cautious, as she asks quietly, “ya wanna talk about it?” Kaela opens her mouth, only manages to get out “I…” before she stops and looks away again, shaking her head in what seems like shame. Sakura squeezes her hand gently, mindful of her strength. “Hey, that’s okay. We can do somethin’ else, then. Unless ya want me to leave?”

Thunder chooses that moment to roar in the background, and Sakura nearly loses her balance when Kaela huddles against her in a caught breath. It isn’t quite panic in her eyes but Sakura can hear the fear in her voice when she loudly says “no!” She catches herself then, hunching her shoulders to her ears as she moves out of Sakura’s personal space. “I apologize, I... You may leave, if you want. I just… I don’t want to be alone.”

The way Kaela says it makes her seem smaller than she truly is, as if she were afraid to admit it, and Sakura feels her heart rend at the sound. She leans deeper into her kneel so she can catch Kaela’s downcast eyes, a reassuring smile on her face. 

“Okay. I’ll stay.”

Her answer is how she finds herself a couple of hours later in the middle of Kaela’s living room, a long-cooled mug of tea in her hands, the other girl leaning heavily into her arm. She’s fallen asleep a little while ago, exhausted, barely able to watch the movie they put on her laptop before her eyelids fell shut. Sakura isn’t really watching it either; instead she’s looking at the girl curled against her in a ball, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the frazzle of her hair, and while she doesn’t wake she unconsciously flinches when thunder muffles against the windows.

Sakura feels a frown curl her lips. She doesn’t know what to make of Kaela’s apparent fear of the storm, but she isn’t blind. While nothing quite like tonight, she’s seen how skittish Kaela gets when it rains at work, how she jumped at even the briefest flashes of distanced lightning, and she can assume that it must stem from something. But as much as she’s curious she also can’t help but feel as if she won’t like the answer if Kaela ever gave her one. It must’ve been bad if it draws out such a reaction.

Kaela winces again in her sleep, mumbling, and Sakura feels an instinct to brush some of the wayward hair out of her face. The girl settles as she does so, burrowing deeper against her side, and Sakura sighs into the quiet air of the room. 

Her fingers absently tap against her mug.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In which a terrible storm ends up being the catalyst in jumpstarting Kaela and Sakura’s friendship. uwu

WHEW! This one took me a few days to work with it because I kinda planned each step out, a bit moreso than what I typically do with my original compositions. Maybe I’ll show ya’ll the overall process if you’re interested, but outside of that, the piece in question!

The part that took me the longest is definitely the writing, and  thankfully I had a few folks that were kind enough to look it over and help me with the spanish Sakura speaks! I wanna try having the characters speak their native languages more when I can, so don’t be surprised if I ask for more help in the future. Until then, huge shoutout to Jackii-in-the-Box, catCrazie, and NicoTheTDPinkiePie for your help! And a shoutout to everyone else who volunteered their help!! ^.^

Alrighty, so some quick funfacts!

-Kaela’s fear of thunderstorms stem from a terrible car accident she was in, one of which I’ll talk more about sometime in the future. It was back in highschool and the fear has somewhat abated since then, but all the stress she’s had after moving to the country may have somethin’ to do with why it’s cropped up tenfold again.

-Sakura and Kaela are coworkers in a small bar/diner restaurant, and while they were cordial they weren’t necessarily friends. Sakura certainly tried to be, but Kaela kinda kept her distance, so she never pushed too hard so not to make the girl uncomfortable.

-The “Quincy” mentioned is a friend of Sakura’s, though his concept isn’t any farther past that. Maybe ya’ll will see him in the future! :3

-Mal loves thunderstorms and revels in flying in them, hence why she isn’t present. While she did ask if Kaela would be fine on her own, she has absolutely no idea about the girl’s fear of storms, otherwise she would have stayed with her.

Aaaand I think that’s all I have to say for now! If you’re curious about the characters and the world they live in, just visit the Feathers and Flowers tag, of which I’ll link below! In the meantime I hope you enjoy the writing and the artwork, and thank you for taking a looksie! ^.^

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