slanted light

There’s a Certain Slant of Light, Ch. 1

Based on this post by @gutsybitsies. Title taken from the poem of the same name by Emily Dickinson. No actual Stanley Cups were harmed in the process of writing this fic (please suspend your disbelief; I know the keepers of the Cup would never permit such blasphemies as occur in this first chapter. Thank you for your patience. :))

Disclaimer: Characters are not mine; all credit goes to ngoziu.

ETA: Now also found on ao3!

There’s a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.

Kent Parson peers down at the Stanley Cup with considerable distaste. Sticky brown caramel is stuck to the rim, and the metal is shiny with oil from the leftovers of the popcorn from Swoops and Mags’s date night—which, like, good for them, Kent had liked every one of their photos on Instagram, but to not have the decency to wash it out afterwards? He thought better of them, he really did.

“Isn’t there a rule or something to prevent this type of blatant desecration?” he complains to Richards, the representative/so-called “keeper” of the Cup from the Hockey Hall of Fame, since the actual Trustees of the Cup are both pushing ninety and can’t be bothered to follow a fancy metal trophy around the world on its adventures with hyped-up jocks.

Richards gives him a look. His eyes are dark and a mix of slightly haunted and completely done with this shit. It’s a look that tells Kent loud and clear that he has Seen Things. “You’re a hockey player,” he says. “You’ve done this before. What do you think?”

Kent grimaces. “But isn’t it common courtesy not to leave clean-up to the next guy?”

“Jeffrey Troy said, and I quote, ‘It’s payback, bitch,’” Richards says, completely deadpan.

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Burnt Knuckles

Draco Malfoy x Reader
Word Count: 805

Draco wants to write her letters, but settles for bite marks instead. Digs the whorls of his fingers against her hips until his fingertips are like ink blots scattered across the page.

He wants to write her a sonnet, to proclaim his undying love, but they’re backs up on the Quidditch Pitch and she’s between his legs so all he can do is press his lips to her pulse and hope that she understands.

Because this - she tells him, time and time again, him and her and his hand between her legs, its nothing. A fling. A remnant of summer burning orange in the fall that will crunch like leaves beneath his boot.

She’s dating Potter and she’s wrong for him and what would his parents say?

There’s never a good enough answer. Only the stilling of his hips and the hitching of his breath as she reaches down to run her fingers along the scar ridged across his stomach. The scar that Potter had left, Potter had caused. The scar that his girlfriend takes to tracing with her tongue.

Somehow Draco always fails to mention that he sees her as more than a fuck.

And she’s right, he knows; his parents would be furious and Potter would pull fists, they don’t work and wouldn’t work and he doesn’t understand why there’s an aching in his chest whenever either one of them confirms that fact.

But he’s memorized the way that early light slants through the blinds to paint against her skin; wants to keep the image of their clothes mingled across his floor like a photograph in his mind; never forgets the way that her bones fit neatly against his and fuck if he isn’t digging his own grave.

He watches her across the Great Hall, sometimes. Catches her eyes and feels a thunderstorm kick up in his chest until Potter sits beside her and delivers a lion worthy snarl.

And he smirks when its later and her legs are tangled in his sheets and he’s coaxing a roar from her open mouth, with her claws dug across his back, with a dangerous sort of contentment swelling in his stomach because “this can’t happen,” she says, and yet it always does. Because the no’s meld into yes’s and Draco wants her, he does, despite her blood and despite her house and despite the flaws dug between them.

He wants her for more than just sex.

Wants to lace his fingers through hers without a mattress there to mold their knuckles, wants to kiss her cheek when she’s wide awake and laughing, wants to write her love letters in bleeding, dripping pen. He wants her and he wants her and he doesn’t anticipate them falling apart.


The last time never feels like the last time until it is.

Until the clang of his belt buckle is resounding in the hollow of his ear drums as she curls her fingers around the edge of the door and glances back at him with light breaking around her shoulders.

“This is the last time, Draco, ” she says. “I’m serious, this time.”

And he knows, somehow, that its true.

Understands in the marrow of his bones that this had to end, but he’d never thought and never considered and now he’s sitting on a moth bitten couch with something like heartbreak in his mouth.

Because he wants her, and she doesn’t want him back.


The end never feels like the end, and sometimes its not the end.

Because Draco is a white knuckled grip around his suitcase, is a sharp profile against the countryside rushing by and he’s locking eyes with her in the corridor of the train.

And he’s seen her undressed, has mapped his hands across the landscape of her body and allowed his mouth to follow. He’s seen her flayed open with live wires wrapped around the notches of his spine but there’s never been a moment more electric than this -

Her tucking her hair behind her ear and his loosening his grip.

A sigh that comes before a confession as she says, “I shouldn’t have picked him” and he can’t help but agree.

“I shouldn’t have picked him and I’m sorry that I did and -”

His suitcase thuds against the floor. He’s wrapping his arms around her shoulders in a way that he’s never done before. Because her ribs are cracking open and he’s looking her in the face in this - him and her and their clothes on while their chests are touching - this is right and this is perfect and this is what he’s wanted since that first time that he met her, six years ago with a hand outstretched on this very train.

“I know,” he murmurs, wants to be saying “I love you” instead.

The Last Marauder (Part One)

At five years old, Remus Lupin was precocious. He didn’t believe in the monsters under his bed… even when the mean neighbour kids put them there. Every full moon, he would climb out of his bed, being as quiet as possible, just in case his mum or dad might hear his little feet padding across the cold wooden floorboards. His dad said that the most dangerous and deadly monsters came out on the full moon, that there were things worse than death. Remus refused to believe that anything could hurt him. His dad was the smartest man he could ever imagine, and knew every spell there was to know. His mom was the most beautiful woman in the entire world, and nothing could ever hurt her or the smile she perpetually wore. And besides, there was just… something about the full moon. The way the light was almost as powerful as the sun, but completely different. Remus would just sit there on the bay window seat for as long as he wanted, peeking through the curtains and wishing he were on that moon, swimming in the light. He knew what magic was, but this was a whole other level of it. Something even wizards as adept as his father couldn’t tame.

A shadow crossed the street. Remus blinked, and there was nothing there, but he hopped off the window anyhow. Sure, he liked to think he didn’t believe in the monsters, but he was still only five, and his heart was skipping wildly in his chest at what he thought he might have seen. He had forgotten to shut the curtain all the way, and a glimmer of moonlight slanted across the floor, lighting on his bed. He shut his eyes as he clambered back under the covers, trying to ignore the way the window creaked against a slight breeze. He didn’t want to call out to his parents because he knew that there couldn’t possibly be anything there. He curled up into a ball, tears leaking out of his eyes until he finally drifted off into sleep.

He didn’t wake up pleasantly. The thing that actually woke him was probably the snout that was grunting and snuffling up to him from the end of his bed. But the first thing he was aware of was the rancid stench of rotting meat rolling off the creature in waves. Immediately, his heart kicked its pace up, and obviously the creature sensed it. It let out a growl. Remus whimpered. Where was his father with all his spells? His mother with her smile and warm arms that chased all the bad things away? The creature moved closer, and Remus made an impulsive move, rolling out from under it and onto the floor.
“DADDY!” He screeched as loudly as his little voice would allow. “HE-” But he was cut off by a body six times larger than his own slamming into him and pinning him to the floor. Claws dug into his sides, puncturing his skin. He was now crying, and all he could make out was a horrendous maw yawning above him, the rotten meat breath wafting over him as tears streamed down his face. He heard footsteps running up the stairs and over the next few years he’d think about that face and be certain that the creature had been grinning as it ripped into him.

The Sound of Her Face

She was my first love and my last. My first kiss and my last.

Our first kiss wasn’t even a kiss. It was just her blowing pot smoke towards my face as we sat in her parents’ dim basement, autumn light slanting through the tiny window, pillars of pot smoke dancing in the beams. We’d skipped school to get high, unable to stomach one more day of Mr. Carruthers’ horrid take on world history (“Those who aren’t learning from stuff in the past will have to do history again”). The kiss came soon after.

Love followed, promises of undying, eternal love. One thing was different – our thing. We always kissed before and after we went anywhere, even short, minutes-long trips; the store, the gym, work. A kiss before leaving, a kiss upon return.

“Life is uncertain,” she’d always say. “I never know when I’ll be able to kiss you again.”

When the contagion came, what the media were calling The Virulence, we stuck it out, this time in my basement, minus the pot. We had one window that we could see the outside world through, one small window that let in a little natural sunlight. Walled off from the world, armed with only each other, protein bars and the water in the toilet tank, we waited for the global panic to subside.

It didn’t.

We each made trips out for provisions and to look for something to protect our little basement fortification. She made trips by day, when the virulent were less active, mine usually at dusk. We came back with armfuls of what we could carry: cans of beans, bottled water, once an AR-15, picked from the car of some unfortunate who’d been eaten. The virulent were fast, insatiable, unkillable. Even decapitation didn’t render them harmless; they’d keep marching forward, arms swinging in wide arcs while the head still gnashed and snapped its teeth on the ground. Stupid, lying zombie movies.

She was bitten on one of her sorties. We’d kissed before she went out. She came back for one more.

She leaned in towards me, skin already ashen, eyes dead, the tendons in her neck stretching and creaking as her jaw opened wide, wider, wide enough to black out the sun, the little window, and everything I could see.

anonymous asked:

Random KakaObi prompt that won't get out of my head. "You are a storm constrained by human skin." (Obito, referring to Kakashi.)

Somehow it turned into Akatsuki!Kakashi, only not. Evil overlords KakaObi? I don’t even know anymore. *dumps it here*

Kakashi finds him in the Mountains’ Graveyard, six months after Rin dies.

It’s strange, jarring, to turn the corner and find a fragment of his old life waiting. Obito stops dead, caught unmasked and unawares, and stares at Kakashi with one of the eyes they share, not entirely able to believe what he’s seeing.

The silence stretches for a long moment, and then Kakashi laughs, sharp and ragged, and pushes his slanted hitai-ate up. The Mangekyo Sharingan darts across Obito’s face, practically drinking him in, and Kakashi breathes, “I knew I wasn’t just going crazy.”

It’s the wording, more than anything, that makes Obito pause instead of reaching for a weapon or giving in to the tempest-lash of rage that splinters through him. He looks Kakashi over, takes in the unwashed clothes, the limpness of his hair, the bags under his eyes. It’s like he hasn’t slept since Rin died, half-manic as he trembles under Obito’s stare.

A part of Obito wants to burn him alive. Another part, deeper and far more desperate, wants to throw his arms around Kakashi and sob the way he hasn’t been able to these aching, festering months, caught up in the throes of grief with no outlet to be had. The rage helps, sometimes.

More often it doesn’t.

“How did you know I was alive?” Obito asks, and it comes out steadier than he expects, less like he’s cracking to pieces on the inside, falling apart now that such a clear reminder of his past is in front of him.

Another ragged breath, and Kakashi reaches up, pressing a hand over his Sharingan eye. “We see the same things, sometimes,” he says. “I just…followed.”

For the first time, it occurs to Obito to wonder if Kakashi is alone. He looks past him, down the tunnel that leads to the surface, takes a step to go and check—

“No!” Kakashi catches his arm, trips and stumbles and falls to his knees. He buries his face in Obito’s robes, clutching at him, clinging like a small child, and says, “Don’t leave, please, don’t—”

That tone sends a shock right through Obito, almost as much as the contact does. Carefully, hesitantly, he lifts a hand to Kakashi’s hair, lightly rests his fingers there and feels as much as hears the sob that shakes through his former teammate. It’s…familiar. Painfully familiar. How many times has Obito wanted to break just like this, over the last few months? More than he can count, really, and the only thing that’s stopped him is a complete lack of people he can trust to catch him when he falls. He hadn’t really thought there was anyone like that left in the whole world, with Rin gone.

Now he has to wonder if Kakashi’s world is a black hell right now, too.

“I’m not leaving,” he says, and the words crack in his mouth. He frees himself from Kakashi’s hold for just long enough to drop to the ground in front of him, their knees pressed together and his hand still in Kakashi’s hair. “I just—why are you here?”

“Where else would I be?” Kakashi asks, and he sounds honestly bewildered by the question. “You’re alive, and you’re here, so where else would I go?”

Obito can’t even begin to make sense of that answer. “But Konoha—and Minato-sensei—”

Kakashi raises his head, meets Obito’s gaze with one of the fiercest stares he’s ever seen, and suddenly his short, skinny teammate looks like the jounin he is, deadly and determined.

“You’re my best friend,” he says, like it’s as simple as that.

Maybe it is, but hearing the words like that—

Something inside of Obito cracks right down the center, and it’s like the ice at his core is finally giving way. The heat of rage and the pain of grief aren’t welcome, aren’t pleasant, but—

Surely it’s better than feeling nothing at all.

Somehow his hands are curled around Kakashi’s, holding so tight it’s like he’s daring the world to pull them apart. There are tears on his cheek, sliding crooked and uneven down his scars, but Kakashi makes a quiet, shattered sound and reaches up, brushing them away.

“I want,” Obito starts, but his breath hitches, he shakes, and an instant later Kakashi is dragging him into a hug so tight it aches, desperate fingers in his hair and hitching breaths on his ear. Kakashi’s cheeks are wet, too, and Obito curls his fingers into worn cloth and says, “I want to destroy the world, for what it did to her. For what it did to us.” And maybe it’s the first time he’s acknowledged it, that this isn’t solely for Rin but for himself as well, selfish grief and self-centered anger directed at everyone and everything, but with Kakashi right here, suffering just like Obito is, he can’t do anything but admit it.

Kakashi doesn’t immediately recoil—doesn’t even loosen his grip, upon hearing that. He pauses for a long, long moment, and then whispers, “Rin would hate that.”

A sob tears from Obito’s throat, and he shakes apart, the ice falling away to leave the gaping wounds beneath visible. He hasn’t said her name out loud since the night she died, hasn’t allowed himself to think just how much she would hate him for this plan, how he doesn’t care as long as she’s back.

There’s no way to block out those four little words, though.

Kakashi clutches him tighter, drags Obito in until it’s hard to figure out which limbs belong to whom and where each of them definitively ends. “She would,” he says, almost an apology. “But…if we can’t destroy it, we can save it. So there’s never another story like hers.”

Obito swallows, wants to pull back to look at Kakashi but doesn’t quite dare in case this all shatters into a dream. “I—yes,” he whispers. “We have to change it. We have to—I just want her back—”

“There has to be a way.” Kakashi’s fingers are tight in his robe, and Obito can feel him swallow. “There—somewhere. Someone must have a way.”

If they do find it, they can’t bring her back to this world, though. Can’t bring her back just so she can face more war, more death, more children slaughtered. Something that’s almost a laugh shakes through Obito, and he wonders why he never thought of his alone. Too much time spent listening to Zetsu, probably, and his devotion to Madara’s plan. Obito isn’t devoted, though, and this is Kakashi.

“We’ll save the world, and then we’ll save Rin,” he whispers, and feels Kakashi’s slow, steady breath against his cheek, the faint tip of his head in agreement.

“Together,” Kakashi says, and somehow, when he pulls back and kisses Obito hard, it feels like the most natural thing in the world to kiss him back.

Thirty is approaching old age for a shinobi, but Kakashi wears it well, Obito thinks, still sprawled out on their bed. Kakashi moves through the half-dark with even more grace than he had as a child, or a teenager, and a self-assuredness that doesn’t come from all but ruling half the world, though Obito supposes that can’t hurt.

In the slanting light of the full moon, Kakashi is a thing of starlight. His hair is the silver of distant clouds, and his eyes are the deep, dark grey of rain breaking. Easy enough to look at him and see the lightning he hides away in his bones and the fire he keeps in his veins, the only man who can challenge Obito and the only one he’ll ever surrender to.

The world is theirs. Fire Country, Earth Country, and Lightning Country might not know it yet, but they’ll learn. All the other countries have already.

(Minato looked at them with grief and bitterness, the last time they met on the battlefield. He didn’t seem to notice that none of the shinobi on their side were under sixteen, that no children haunted the lines even at the very back. Didn’t seem to know or care that under Obito and Kakashi the smallest nation has exactly as much say as the largest. They’re emperors, but they’re not despots.

If they were, half the countries they rule wouldn’t have accepted their banner without even putting up a fight.)

“You’re looking thoughtful,” Kakashi murmurs. He drapes black and crimson cloth over Obito’s back, bending down to lay a kiss to the bare skin between his shoulder blades.

Obito shivers with pleasure at the touch, feels his breath catch at the sweep of Kakashi’s hand down his flank. By all rights they should be sleeping, gathering strength for the politics and power-jockeying that will come with the morning, but a little indulgence makes the whole day sweeter.

Rolling over, Obito lets Kakashi’s Akatsuki cloak pool beneath him, twists to wind it partway around him just for the hunger it puts in Kakashi’s eyes. In a moment, Kakashi is sliding on top of him, bracing his elbows on either side of Obito’s head as he leans in to kiss him, and it sparks like heat lightning through Obito’s veins.

“You’re like a storm,” he says, and can’t tell if it’s its own thought or an answer to Kakashi’s implied question. “A storm constrained by human skin.”

Constrained by him, he sometimes thinks, in the darkest parts of the night. He isn’t one to doubt, to waver, but sometimes he thinks of Minato, of Kushina bristling with fury at his side and Jiraiya behind him, and thinks that there’s an empty place that Kakashi should be filling. One of the resistance, a hero of Konoha, a pillar of the Will of Fire instead of this…tyrant Obito has turned him into.

Kakashi is his everything, is all the bits of Obito that he can’t quite bear to lose, but sometimes he looks at him and wonders how it would be if things were different.

With a light, thoughtful sound, Kakashi kisses him again, slow and deep and filthy, more intimate then some sex they’ve had. Obito moans into his mouth, and Kakashi chuckles, nipping his lip as he pulls away.

“That means you’re a wildfire,” he murmurs, right into Obito’s skin. “Always burning, always my light, scorching the earth but leaving fertile soil for new growth.”

“That’s all I can hope for,” Obito says, a little wry. He hesitates, and then offers cautiously, “Minato thinks my eye corrupted you.”

“Minato can think whatever he likes,” Kakashi says flatly, and it’s a sore point that Obito usually tries not to pick at, but—

Kakashi’s kiss stops his next words, and he gives in gratefully to the distraction, wrapping a leg around Kakashi’s waist and flipping them easily. Kakashi makes a low, intent sound as Obito settle astride his hips, and Obito shoves down the vague shadows of doubt that linger.

Kakashi is a storm in the moonlight, and the world is theirs. They’re saving it, even if some people would call it conquering.

Obito’s never been afraid to stain his hands, and neither has Kakashi. They’ll do what they need to in order to bring a brighter future, even if it means that ruin comes before redemption for some of the countries.

Between a storm and a wildfire, the world can be remade, and there’s no one who can stop them.

He kisses Kakashi, and it tastes like rain and lightning on his tongue.


I’ve been meaning to write something for the Hell’s Studio AU because I love it a lot, and these posts finally inspired me. Anyway I wrote this really fast so it’s not great but here we go. AU belongs to @doodledrawsthings

Bendy uses invisible ink for practical jokes. Sammy’s revenge is a dish served sticky.

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Weapon (Thorin x Reader)

Originally posted by daoriginalhigh

Summary: In the modern world, the reader was turned into a weapon against her will. Now part of Thorin’s company, she has to deal with the fallout of Thorin’s close call after the company barely escapes Azog’s ambush and takes refuge in Beorn’s home.

Notes: Written for the dear anon who underwent chemo a while ago. I hope it’s what you were hoping for. :)
Warning: It gets quite violent in the beginning.
Words: 4164

Sweat drips into your eyes as you twist and slash your dagger across an orc’s bare thigh. The orc howls. Blood spurts from the femoral artery. You lean sideways to evade the spray and twist again to evade a clumsy mace blow.

The orc stumbles, dragged off balance by the momentum of his own weapon. To your enhanced senses he seems to move in slow motion. For a moment, the orc’s chin lifts, exposing his throat above the armor. You feel a short pang of dismay as you flip the dagger and slice again.

Time speeds up as you dip beneath the flashing arc of a mace blow meant for your throat. You turn, quicksilver fast, and make use of the opening it affords you. Another orc drops to his knees. You leave him to choke on his own blood and press on.

Around you, the forest is burning.

You are forging a path toward Azog. The Company is cornered and outnumbered, and time is running out. There are entirely too many orcs; killing their leader is the only way to survive. Thorin was right about that. But he shouldn’t have tried to go it alone, weakened as he was by a persistent bout of illness that had swept through the Company for days.

Taking refuge in the trees had been the only option. Not for you — you had been subjected to years of experimentation and conditioning for this very purpose: infiltration, Guerilla tactics and the whole array of wetwork skills. So you had signaled Thorin and went to ground, making your silent way towards the white warg. Undetectable. Deadly.

Your whole body is a precision instrument engineered for this specific purpose. Even your sweat adapts to mimic the scents around you. You could stand right in front of a warg and it wouldn’t be able to smell you.

But none of that matters now.

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anonymous asked:

this is an invitation for you to expand on cassian andor's and mon mothma's relationship if you want

‘Relationship’ isn’t the right word. ‘Relationship’ implies something between them, the existence of ties beyond spy and senator, general and soldier, and that just isn’t true. (A pyromaniac has no relationship with the matches she tosses into the pool of accelerant. There’s no special love between between a weapon and the hand cradling the blaster.) Whatever they have lives in the negative space of what they are. ‘Relationship’ isn’t the word.

But then again, Cassian suspects matches don’t feel anything about the pyromaniac. Or about the fire, either.


Technically, Cassian has a supervisor, the way that technically, the rebellion is a coalition of militarized terrorist cells undermining a democratically elected authority. (Namely, these things might be true, but they’re not exactly relevant. They’ve waded too far out into the storm to be discussing whether the water is cold.)

Still, Mothma likes to bring it up sometimes. Mostly when he sidles into her meetings, her office, her caf breaks, her—

“I’m fairly certain you are meant to report to General Draven, Captain Andor,” she says coolly after her rank and file have filed out, and he ducks his head, smiles. His smile is like a blaster-shot, brutal and unerring, carving bloody lines into where it lands. Mon Mothma is draped in stainless funerary white, she is a woman already wearing her shroud, but she let out an awful hiss of breath the first time Cassian Andor smiled at her. (It still aches.)

“And you, Senator Mothma?” he asks, his dark eyes fixed on her, already flaying her open, bloody. “Who do you report to?”

“All free peoples,” Mon answers with the practiced ease.

“I don’t think I know them,” Cassian says mildly, because Mon is good at nothing so much as finding these men, full of so much unrealized and violent strength; their sharp teeth, their bright determination, all masked beneath mildness. “You should introduce me, next time.”

“I shall,” Mon Mothma says, and then Cassian Andor is very close to her, smelling of the particular bitter chemical discharge of a blaster. “Do you doubt me?” she asks archly. (When she turns her head, her jugular is bared. Is this deliberate, or weakness?)

“Of course not,” Cassian Andor says. “To doubt you is to doubt the Rebellion.”

“That is not an answer,” Mon Mothma says sharply, but he is already gone, vanished from the space she commands. And then she is alone.


There’s a very beautiful lie he tells sometimes, about how they met. That he was a boy with a flower in his hand, and she was a junior senator, very young and yet already grave, draped in purple. That he had made her smile.

The truth is that he burned her in Separatist effigy before he ever met her. Knew her name, and cursed it. When they did meet, she was still young but he was younger, rawboned and furious, just over the edge of youth into manhood. (It was strange to see her in the flesh at last; how small she was, standing there before him. 

They’d gotten her eyes wrong on the effigy, he thought.)

“War makes strange bedfellows,” are Senator Mon Mothma’s first words to Cassian Andor.

His first words to her are crude and unrepeatable. "Senator,” he tacks on after a long minute of silence.

“You do not have to like me,” Mon Mothma says, though the corner of her mouth quirks, and he knows then that she likes him. “You do not even have to speak to me, after this. What—will be asked of you, you do for the Rebellion. I do not enter into its calculus.”

Cassian Andor looks at her. Remembers flames.



She kills him.

She kills him over and over, on a dozen, two dozen planets. Not herself, of course—he doesn’t think she’s ever actually held a blaster, regards them with thinly-veiled contempt whenever they enter into her line of sight, which means her mouth is always pinched in a thin, unpleasant line, as though to keep her lip from curling. But she authorizes Draven’s orders regarding his missions and that’s much the same. 

Cassian is a good soldier. (Has been, since—) He doesn’t take it personally.

“Your microexpressions indicate anger,” the Imperial droid they’ve saddled him with for this mission says, in the neutral, pleasant voice that drives Cassian mad. Gods spare him from kriffing droids.

“Do they,” he answers dryly, watching as Mon Mothma disappears into one of Yavin’s makeshift conference rooms. She does not look in his direction, though she only just signed the order to make him a killer.

Well. More of a killer.

“In fact, there is a ninety-four percent correlation between Senator Mothma entering your line of vision and—”

Cassian whips around to glare at the droid. (Kaytoo, to his credit, does not bring up this subject for discussion again.)


She is still there, posture very straight and draped in white, whenever he returns. She is always there, standing or sitting at the head of the war-table, watching someone else speak her orders for her. (She doesn’t talk much. It’s an odd realization, when she looms so large in Cassian’s mind, when her voice, her commands, seem thick in the air on Yavin. But she lets others give orders, and Cassian isn’t certain how to feel about that.)

Once—exactly once—he comes across her falling asleep, her head tilted back against the cushion of the chair. It is just between shift-change, and so they are alone in the command center. Her face is older, asleep; she has lines at the corners of her pursed mouth, her shuttered eyes. Her copper hair is falling in her eyes.

He gets close enough to his breath stirs her hair, and he very gently touches her forehead, just with two fingertips.

Cassian doesn’t feel the knife until it is already between his ribs and twisting home. He drops to his knees, finding himself laughing despite himself. (He can feel the warmth of blood gathering thickly at the back of his throat.) He has the unique pleasure of watching Senator Mothma blanch, shoot to her feet and shout for a meddroid—

“Knife?” he rasps, as she drags in a ragged breath.

“Vibroblade,” she says dazedly, sounding more shellshocked than Cassian feels. She can’t stop staring at the hilt, sticking out of his chest. “We’re at war. No—traitor to the Empire would go unarmed. Even among friends.”

“And here I thought you were incapable of violence, Senator,” he says, grinning, and the grin is helpless too.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she breathes. Her eyes are wide and very pale, colorless fish-eyes, reflecting light when they flick to the door. The med staff rushes in, their noise almost eating up the next words: “I send sentients to their death every day.”

(When Cassian returns to the command center, still smelling of bacta and metal hands, Viceroy Organa stands at the head of the war table. “Chancellor Mothma has recused herself from duty, citing lack of sleep,” Organa says. “She’s—she regrets the harm her lack of judgment caused,” he adds, glancing at Cassian’s chest and then away.

Cassian is disappointed, for reasons he can’t quite name.)


The first time—

She is thirty-four, and is sure she will die sooner rather than later. But then, she has known that since she stood up in the Senate chambers and called for a vote to remove the usurper snake from his Imperial throne.

(She had been alone, more alone than she had been before or since, and looked into Sheev Palpatine’s eyes. She had thought, I am not afraid. You can hurt me, but you cannot use me, because I am not afraid.

Palpatine had smiled.)

Cassian Andor is twenty-five, and dead. He shows her the holonet notice with a grin, all his teeth bared the way Mon’s noina cat had once left mice on her doorstep. ANDOR, CASSIAN (CONFIRMED DEAD) watches her face as she reads the official Imperial record, which says he was blasted apart by a trooper on Morand.

His skin is smooth and brown, for someone who was supposed to have died with a hole burned through his skull.

“A dangerous rebel has been eliminated,” Mon says dryly, handing the datapad back to him. “Hurrah.”

“Aren’t you proud of me, Senator?”

She’s not, really. She’s somehow annoyed he made it to the grave before she did. (MOTHMA, MON is only LOCATION UNKNOWN.)  “Of course, Captain Andor. It was a successful mission, losses were minimal and we have every hope the intelligence you gathered will lead us to Imperial weapons caches. You have a good deal to be proud of.”

“Not the same thing.”

She glances at his face. He is better than he used to be at keeping it blank. “No.”

“No,” Cassian echoes, a little more softly. 

Something about the way the shadow falls on his face is—

He bridles when she reaches out, though he forces himself back into stillness so quickly she almost misses it. (He is better at that too.) Still, he does not resist when she presses her fingertips just below his jaw, where the stubble softens into throat. Underneath her hand, his pulse beats, fast and strong. “You seem very alive to me, Captain.”

He swallows, her hand moves. She can feel the rumble of his voicebox when he says, “Yes, Senator.”

She withdraws her hand, but he catches her by the wrist, tightly as binders. She wonders if he can feel her pulse, how hard it’s beating against her skin. But he doesn’t say anything, a faintly quizzical look on his face, as though he’s not sure how to proceed. 

She kisses him out of clumsy uncertainty, more than anything. (She skipped the mother, went directly from virginal maiden to sexless crone without stopping. She has practice in defying demagogues, ordering men to die, not to—)

It is a fumbling, cold affair. But afterwards, he rests his cheek against hers, and she rests her palm over the place where her blade went in between his ribs. It is the closest to human contact either of them has come in some time, she thinks.


“What will you do, after?” Mothma asks once. Cassian is gathering up his things, pushing an errant lock of hair behind his ear, and she is studying the way the light slants onto the dust. Neither of them is thinking about the other, but then, they are not supposed to be. (It is easier, if they are looking separate ways.)

“After what?” he asks.

“After the war. What will you do?”

He twitches, and then goes very still. “You seem sure there will be an ‘after’ for me, Senator,” he says lightly, the corner of his mouth curling.

Mon has no answer for that.


She keeps killing him; there’s a war on.

He keeps killing; ditto.

(Who cares what the dead do, in those snatched moments between dying?)


Senator Mon Mothma is forty-one, and sure she will die—sooner, rather than later. But she has known that for nineteen years now; its sting no longer can pierce her. She is a dead woman, she wears her white shroud. Everything else is…

Captain Cassian Andor is thirty-seven, and dead. Truly dead, this time, nothing to reach for and assure herself with, no proof of life.

(She does not think of his pulse, hot and steady under her hand. She does not think of his mouth curling, the way he had said after. She does not think of anything. No true pyromaniac would pity a match burnt up to ash. No soldier cries, firing a blaster.

She hates blasters.)

She personally changes his Alliance file to read ANDOR, CASSIAN (CONFIRMED DEAD).

anonymous asked:

Hey if you do prompts could you write something about Alec having a nightmare after the finale and Magnus comforting him? Thanks!

The rift to Edom.

It’s a perfect, destructive circle, mouth opened wide like a pulsing, living thing waiting to swallow whoever gets too close. A trip to hell, a fall too far, and Magnus stands at the edge of it, toes just inches from the lip, arms dancing in red flames while Alec runs toward him, lungs aching as he shouts for him, feet moving too slow.

To his relief, a gust of hot breath rises from the rift and sends Magnus reeling backward toward Alec, and Alec steadies. He’s close enough now to see the glint of light off Magnus’s hair, the seams in his gray jacket, the drop of sweat beading down the back of his neck.

Magnus,” he shouts one more time, arms outstretched, almost touching.

And then Magnus loses his balance, swaying forward too far, and Alec watches Magnus tumbles into the rift, falling silently and growing smaller and smaller –

Alec gasps himself awake, lungs feeling too empty of air, the edges of a sob in his throat and sweat on his brow. It takes a moment for him to realize where he is, that the battle’s over, that the rift is closed and the demons are gone and Magnus…

Magnus is here. Magnus is fine.

Magnus is holding him.

Shh, he hears, soft in his ear, the tickle of Magnus’s breath warm on his cheek. Magnus’s strong arms are wrapped tight around him, fingers threading through the coarse hair at the nape of his neck, playing at the fragile skin there. Alec latches onto the feel of it, grounding himself in the reality of Magnus’s touch, even though he still feels his blood pumping too fast through his veins, making him antsy and jumpy and anxious.

“Bad dream?” Magnus asks, voice husky and rough from sleep.

“Mm,” Alec mumbles. He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to remember any of it. He just keeps melting into the sensation of Magnus – his fingers still stroking, his chest warm under Alec’s palms, his feet cold on Alec’s calves.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Magnus asks gently.

Alec knows the answer. But he lets the words sit on his tongue as he pushes up instead, pressing his lips to Magnus’s, demanding and needy, feeling an insistent curl of heat in his stomach every time they kiss. He relishes the way his brain fuzzes out whenever he does this, and lets the sensation erase the remnants of a nightmare that still linger like a storm in his mind.

For a moment, Magnus lets Alec kiss him like this, lets Alec ravish his mouth with despair and desire all mixed into one. It feels like the way they might kiss after a fight, after a hard day at the Institute or a long day with clients. But within a heartbeat Magnus softens, guiding Alec with his touch and forcing him to turn the desperation into something sweeter, something more indulgent. He murmurs under his breath, an endless litany of Alexander and it’s okay and I have you that Alec swallows into his lungs until all he knows is Magnus’s voice and the feel of his lips.

The line between kissing Magnus and falling asleep is a blurred and foggy, a gold-tinted thing in his head that turns to smoky black. All Alec knows is that when he opens his eyes again, sunlight is streaming into the loft and he’s curled into Magnus’s chest, their fingers tangled between them, nightmare replaced by dreamless sleep and the sound of Magnus, snuffling as morning light slants across his face. It glints off dark eyelashes, the curve of his cheek, the fullness of his mouth, and Alec sighs and smiles as he reaches up and presses a kiss to every spot where light hits skin.

The Long Way Home

We walk out of the world
onto the mirrored paths
of a strange future
just beyond our fingertips;
one in which,
slanted light tells us,
all may yet be well.

We thought there was
an end to dreaming, yet
we are only beginning,
only just barely beginning
to hope against past hope,
to slide tomorrow’s eye
open, and walk right in.

Distance (or lack thereof) Part 8

Originally posted by yofidfids

Summary: You have just moved to Santa Cruz to help take care of your parents after their recent car accident. While applying for jobs using your literature degree around the city, you decide to make some extra money at Beach City Grill. You end up with a massive crush on Priestly, but unluckily for you, your parents are strict and hate tattoos and piercings. So how on earth are you supposed to deal with all his flirting? (Plus-sized, comic nerd!Reader)

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

You and Priestly lay on the couch at his apartment, watching Sherlock. You’re nestled up against him with your back to his chest and his arms gently wrapped around you. You’re both snuggled under the super soft Marvel comforter that now lives at his place (specifically for this reason).

Having already seen every episode, you check some emails while your vibrant haired boyfriend watches in fascination as the case unfolds.

You scroll through random mailing list things, deleting here and there. It’s when you reach the one from the local Santa Cruz library that your heart jumps to your throat.

Fingers shaking just a bit, you open the message.

Dear Miss L/N,

We are happy inform you that you have been accepted for the position of librarian at Santa Cruz Memorial Library.

…start Monday…

…….look forward to working together…


Patty Malone

Head Librarian, Santa Cruz Memorial Library

You don’t take in a lot of what the email says aside from the major details. With an excited cry, you leap up off the couch. As you’re doing your happy dance, a startled Priestly pauses the show, looking confused.

Keep reading

  • ………..okay so. @brightbluedot and i have been thinking about a fusion of black sails and stardust
  • where it’s like canon except james is a star
  • and stars are known about and hunted and james has managed to evade detection for years and years bc when he fell he landed in the sea
  • james who is such a good sailor partly bc the stars literally talk to him when he’s navigating
  • thomas and miranda noticing that james starts to glow sometimes
  • when thomas gets close, or praises him, or touches him
  • thomas would be so goddamn happy - he knows he’s not imagining it, and he knows what it means, what it has to mean - but he’d also be afraid for him, because dear god, there are people who would carve out that heart of his
  • but james doesn’t know that they have worked it out until he starts glowing when thomas kisses him and james is like ‘oh god no’ and thomas is just. 'i always knew’
  • james hadn’t even noticed he was glowing before this point though
  • and that really did worry thomas a little
  • james and thomas can’t touch around other people bc james will start glowing
  • thomas has so many nightmares about someone - usually his father - carving out james’ heart
  • then after they get together, when he wakes up, james is there, glowing faintly, and thomas can just pull him closer, hand over james’ heart like he’s going to protect it
  • thomas calls james 'light of my life’
  • think about them looking out thomas’s bedroom window, and james showing him where he used to be in the sky, guiding his outstretched finger right….there. and thomas would just. be so awed. he’d have to ask 'do you miss it?’ and james would reach out and hold the hand thomas had pointed at the sky, bring thomas’s knuckles to his lips and tell him that no, he doesn’t. not anymore.
  • thomas asking if james would go back, if he could. james saying that he doesn’t ever want to leave him
  • but: thomas loves james so much. more than his own life. 
  • …….of course thomas found him babylon candle 
  • because he never believed the stories about the hearts of stars making the person they love immortal. because he thought james would one day be left alone. and wanted him to have a way to return home
  • and so he keeps it somewhere secret and safe. and when they come to take him he tells miranda where it is and tells her to give it to james
  • 'James, my truest love, you must not grieve for me. For having loved you, I never spent a moment in darkness, and my life was happier than I ever could have wished for. As a final gift, let me give you a light of my own. Light the candle and think of home, and you’ll be returned to the sky, where you might watch over the world, as I shall watch over you. As I write these words, I love you, and as you read them, I love you still.’ ( @brightbluedot)
  • from when thomas kisses james, to him being taken, he never knows darkness
  • thomas is desperate when alfred’s men come to take him that they don’t get james because if they do - god, if his father finds out….
  • and imagine when peter comes to see him, peter says something like 'it doesn’t matter, he’s useless now’ meaning of course that his heart is broken, and thomas just. wants to kill peter for it
  • 'get out.’ 'I only meant nobody would want to - ’ 'GET OUT.’
  • because more than anger at anybody calling him USELESS - how can he be so goddamn blasé about james’s heart being SHATTERED
  • peter makes sure that in the plantation, thomas is never allowed outside during the night. he is never allowed to see the stars
  • because if the stars see him, they might be able to tell james
  • after thomas is taken james almost destroys the hamilton’s house before miranda calms him down
  • then he doesn’t shine for ten years
  • well. a little bit when he decides to agree to peter’s plan
  • when he does that little smile
  • just the tiniest glimmer
  • and in that moment miranda knows she’s lost him - he’s decided to die for thomas’ dream
  • maybe one or two people realise that james is a star during the ten years but. his heart is irreparably broken so he’s 'useless’
  • but he can still hear the stars whispering to him sometimes
  • they say 'you are not alone’
  • sometimes the stars whisper for james to come home
  • but he just. he can’t.
  • so many times during his career as a pirate he must try to use his powers for destruction
  • but he can’t
  • he can’t even shine
  • also like. stretching the mythology a bit. what if once or twice someone tries to stab or shoot james in the heart
  • only it obviously doesn’t kill him
  • because his heart. it isn’t his anymore. and it’s dead (or at least that’s what he assumes)
  • also going off the fact that in the film the witch was going to use this weird magic dagger to cut out yvaine’s heart and one assumes there was a reason
  • and during the reunion….. thomas would have to squeeze his eyes shut because james would just be blinding
  • he destroys the plantation in that moment 
  • HOWEVER. a part of me wants to have instead of what happens in canon, someone working out james is a star who also knows about thomas. and doing what they do in the film
  • probably peter 
  • 'oh hey this star just rolled up that might be useful’
  • 'and i know how to fix his heart isn’t that convenient’
  • 'and im meant to execute him anyway so why not get something useful out of him’
  • he could rationalize it with his hatred of pirates, etc
  • also i think that the general consensus would have to be that stars are subhuman, otherwise how could people justify cutting out their hearts
  • imagine james all bound up and enraged and terrified, then seeing thomas and shining properly for the first time in a decade
  • for a moment he’s so happy
  • also this would have to be after vane arrives. just so someone can be all ’…’
  • but thomas would scream
  • yeah he’d be fucking terrified
  • and then vane’s men start firing on charlestown so james can escape
  • and he and thomas run to each other
  • james tells him to close his eyes, so thomas tucks his nose against his neck and holds on tight
  • and he’s so bright they can see him from the man of war
  • vane would just be like. um
  • he’s been like 'um’ since the fucking governor of carolina tried to cut out flint’s heart
  • 'i mean, im not a fan of the guy but?? overkill much??’
  • and then james destroys charlestown almost singlehandedly and vane is just. okay i APPROVE
  • that first night after they reunite, thomas wouldn’t be able to sleep until james did - he’d still be shining too brightly until sleep dimmed it somewhat
  • and like. they would still be on the ship at this point. so no one’s sleeping until james does
  • men belowdecks just look up at this brilliant light slanting through the cracks in the ceiling like. fuck.
  • also. hoo boy are we gonna brag about our captain when we get back to nassau
  • People assume it’s been exaggerated somewhat - but EVERY MAN on the crew tells the same story
  • and they can also see it - every time flint smiles - and he smiles now, jesus fuck - he glows
  • when they get back to nassau and people are like 'hey a star…..could get some good money for-’ james sees not only thomas step in front of him (which is gratifying, if unsurprising), but also Charles Fucking Vane
  • honestly it’s probably just jack being jack and not really meaning it, but still
  • jack: ’…I feel compelled to point out that - ’
  • everyone: ‘fuck you, jack’
  • james, who now knows he’s capable of vaporising the entire island again, is more amused than anything
  • people start referring to him as captain flint, star of the sea
  • many years later, sailors - pirates and non-pirates alike - talk about him actually being polaris, the pole star - when james hears these stories he’s like 'but How - polaris is in the sky RIGHT NOW’ and thomas just grins and kisses him and says 'does it really matter? you’re remembered. generations see you as a sign of hope, a sign of home. as i do’
  • (that’s a strong point in favour of this version, if im honest. james gets to be remembered as more than a monster) 
  • and then. years and years later, james and thomas light the babylon candle together

earth-fire-skye  asked:

Hi (again)! What is with you and dragging people onto your popsicle-stick sailboats? Because suddenly I'm finding myself cut into pieces and boating in several of them. Also, you are a horrible enabler, and I'm knee-deep in Fugaku/Hiashi/Hizashi angst hell. Thanks a lot. God, I love you and your works. Feel free to throw me a rope, though. I could use a lift out.

xD I can’t help with the Hiashi/Fugaku/Hizashi, because twincest is absolutely not my thing, but…

Fugaku’s head hasn’t hurt this badly since Minato’s bachelor party.

(It’s possible that thought should be warning enough, given how Fugaku woke up the morning after that disaster, but hangovers aren’t exactly conducive to logical thought.)

He remembers—if vaguely—heading for the bar after Mikoto finished her explanation of why second chances and resurrected lost loves meant that she was ending their amicable, if less than blissful, marriage. Not that Fugaku is overly upset—marrying your best friend from childhood is lovely in theory, but results in rather too much sexual frustration when one feels a greater attraction to other men than one’s wife—but the mere thought of the Clan Elders’ collective reaction is more than enough to drive even the hardiest man to drink.

Fugaku would be the first to admit that while he is a hardy man, he’s not that hardy, and his wife leaving him for another woman is aggravating, if only conceptually.

(Of course, as Mikoto pointed out with all the mercilessness one would expect from a former ANBU captain, if Minato had reappeared, unattached and open to a relationship, it would have been Fugaku doing the dumping the instant he got Mikoto alone.)

Still. Being abandoned doesn’t sit easily, even if intellectually Fugaku is quite aware that Mikoto isn’t actually going anywhere. He’d beaten a swift retreat to the nearest jounin bar and settled in to drink his way through a good portion of their stock. And then…

And then what?

He pries his eyes open with an effort, squinting against the slanting light of an unfamiliar room. His sense of direction says those windows are west-facing, which means it’s headed towards afternoon. Gods, but how much did he manage to drink last night? And…this is most certainly not his bedroom, so—

The dark head resting on his arm groans, shifting slightly, and Fugaku winces at the pins-and-needles sensation of blood rushing back into his limb. Then, belatedly, he realizes what a companion in bed means, and that hair is slightly browner than Mikoto’s ink-black, if almost as long. It’s not Mikoto, because the body is larger, a man’s muscular build rather than his former wife’s sleeker one, and he can feel a hint of stubble against his skin.

Fugaku takes a careful breath, steeling himself, and reaches out to carefully brush some of that dark hair back. At the same moment, his unexpected partner rolls over, and pale, nearly-white eyes flutter open.

Hyuuga Hiashi, Fugaku thinks, and it’s possible there’s a note of hysteria to it. Oh gods.

Hiashi stares at him for a long moment, clearly just as startled as Fugaku, and then shifts enough to get an elbow beneath himself and push up a little.

“…Uchiha,” he allows after a second. “It appears we had rather too much to drink last night.”

“Not enough,” Fugaku mutters, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until starbursts bloom behind his eyelids. Hells, but Mikoto is never going to let this go. Not because they’re technically still married—she made it clear that would only last until the correct papers could be signed—but because she’s the only living soul to know about the massive, belligerent crush he’d had on the Hyuuga heir as a genin.

Of course, Fugaku is an Uchiha, and therefore anyone outside the clan would probably find his actions more closely resembling infinite loathing than a crush, which Fugaku was absolutely fine with both then and now.

Things are coming back in bits and pieces now. The bar, Hiashi drinking with his old team in the corner, and then drinks together when the night wore on, and then—

Well. Given that he and Hiashi are both naked, Fugaku can guess.

“Oh, hells,” Hiashi says suddenly, and flops back down onto his back on the pillows, draping an arm over his eyes. “Tsume saw us leave together. Tsume knows.”

For a moment Fugaku can’t think how that’s relevant. Then, as a thought occurs to him, he chokes, twitching away from Hiashi. “You—you and Inuzuka?”

Hiashi’s pale eyes go wide, and he blanches. “What? No! Of course not, we’re just friends! And beyond that, I think Shibi would gut me.”

Fugaku makes a face, both at calling the Inuzuka woman a friend and the idea of her and Aburame. There are lots of things Fugaku has never needed or wanted to know about his Academy classmates, and who they go to bed with is a very large percentage.

Hiashi must see, because he snorts softly. “Loosen up, Uchiha. Just because they don’t confirm to your standards as Clan Heads doesn’t make it wrong.”

“You do realize the irony of you telling me to loosen up,” Fugaku retorts, but despite himself his eyes are drawn to Hiashi’s bared chest. Before the mission to retrieve Killer Bee, Fugaku hadn’t seen him in anything but his voluminous robes in years. He’s leaner than they make him look, broad across the shoulders and still sporting the musculature of an active shinobi.

There’s a dark bite already purpling on the line of his long neck, and Fugaku can’t quite tear his eyes away from it.

Not seeming to notice his straying attention, Hiashi makes a sound of quiet amusement and stretches, and Fugaku’s mouth goes truly dry at the sight. “I realize it, yes, but I’ve recently come to the understanding that the world will not crumble if I allow myself to live.”

They certainly lived last night, if Fugaku’s patchy memories are to be believed. He has a flash of Hiashi on his stomach with Fugaku on top of him, reaching back desperately to grasp at Fugaku’s hip as he tried to form more than fractured words, and—

Fugaku swallows hard, and manages to keep his voice steady enough to ask, “Inuzuka wisdom?”

Hiashi drops his arm, and the smile he’s wearing is faintly bittersweet, but there’s a pained sort of peace in his eyes as he meets Fugaku’s gaze. “Hizashi’s,” he corrects, and it’s somewhere between sad and fond. “Though I think we both forgot somewhere along the way.”

Fugaku knows very well what that’s like, and he sighs before he can help it, reaching up to rub his forehead. He and Mikoto used to talk about love, even though they knew they’d never feel anything beyond platonic love for each other, and Fugaku can remember telling her to take the chance if she ever found it again. The Uchiha don’t love easily, but when they do, it’s a powerful thing, and well worth upsetting the Elders over.

With that in mind, Fugaku doesn’t try to hide the way his eyes sweep down over Hiashi’s body, right to the edge of the slipping sheet. When he glances back up, the old sadness has faded, and Hiashi is watching him with a heated sort of amusement. “Really, Uchiha?” he asks, though he makes no move to resist when Fugaku leans over him. “I didn’t think one-night stands were supposed to indulge in morning sex.”

“What happened to loosening up?” Fugaku complains, even as he slides his fingers into Hiashi’s long hair and angles his head for a deep, lazy kiss.

As they break apart, Hiashi laughs, and it’s breathless enough to make Fugaku’s want just that much deeper. “I can’t have you think I’m easy, Uchiha,” he retorts.

Fugaku snorts, sliding fully on top of the other man. One of Hiashi’s arms loops around his lower back, and a leg drapes lazily over his, sliding them together in very interesting ways. “Then you shouldn’t have let me pick you up in a bar in the first place, Hyuuga.”

One elegant brow arches, only for the expression to be lost the moment Fugaku’s hands find their way under the sheet. Hiashi’s head falls back, breath catching in his throat, but an instant later the leg hooked over Fugaku’s tightens, and in a blur Hiashi flips them over, coming out of the roll sitting astride Fugaku’s hips. He’s smirking, and Fugaku is recalling exactly how it feels to want to punch someone and kiss them at the same time.

“I think you’re forgetting exactly who did the picking up last night, Uchiha,” he says archly. “Really, the way you were throwing yourself at me, you’re lucky I didn’t—”

Fugaku flips them again, and feels no remorse for shoving Hiashi’s face into the pillow.