From the team! #pw alt10, Holding Hands

Here's some fanart I did recently as my own lil' entry for Pridewrite! The hands are of Yamada Hizashi (left, with the glove) and Aizawa Shota (right) from My Hero Academia, but feel from to imagine anyone else! I chose the ace, aro, bi, pan, polyamory, trans, nonbinary, and genderfluid pride flags for the backgrounds since those are the most common headcanons for these two!

(Feel free to use them as icons on Tumblr or Ao3 but please like &/or rb if you do! But likes & rbs are also very appreciated even if you don't use them!)

Xie-wang doesn't sleep with a knife under his pillow. That would be insane; who would take the extra seconds to twist and fumble for something they need so immediately? Not to mention the risk of an attacker searching the pillow first and using his own blade on him, which he would absolutely deserve for being such a fool.

No, Xie-wang doesn't keep a knife under his pillow. He keeps poisoned needles in his hands.

Small ones, easy to manoeuvre, easy to hide. It wouldn't be any better to keep a blade in his hand than under the pillow, after all; any enemy attempting to attack him at night would see it and know, would target the weapon or have time to prepare for it. He'd only do such a thing as a decoy, and that would just get in the way.

But needles? No one will see them coming.

To make them a viable option he's had to train his body into a very specific kind of sleep since he first began his training to be an assassin. A careful, motionless sleep, so he doesn't risk stabbing himself. For security, it's small price to pay.

--

It is four years into Xie'er's life at Siji Shanzhuang, the first time Wen Kexing forgets his fan.

He notices this not because Wen Kexing makes a fuss but because noticing things is what Xie'er does. And because like recognises like.

He assumes that fact is also the reason why he was never asked to leave once he'd completely healed, and has never once been asked to swear fealty or accept discipleship. Instead he is allowed to wander the grounds as he wishes; the most anyone asks of him is if he can run an errand, or his opinion on new decorations. No questions, season after season. He even spends his days garbed in familiar pretty blues and whites that no one has ever demanded he take off.

Like recognises like.

So Xie'er recognises the way chronic survival shapes a life:

the way Zhou-zhuangzhu's pockets practically jangle with potions and antidotes, or how on good days he's somehow always the first to taste any food that reaches the table and on bad days he's the last;

the way that Xiang'er still takes an involuntary tiny step toward whatever direction her ge should be in whenever she's startled or threatened, before the conscious stance she takes at her husband's side;

the way Liu Qianqiao never turns her back on an unexamined corner of any given room, or how her idle fingers make perfect knots in any stray strip of fabric;

the way that Wen Kexing never so much as takes a bath without his fan in arm's reach.

Until he does.

Until they're ushered out of the dining hall to see Xingming make good on his boast that he can finally outpace Chengling at the signature swift-moving steps. They've only just hit the courtyard when Wen Kexing idly pats his sleeve, then his other sleeve, hands coming away empty, and gives a little laugh, quiet and to himself, turning back without a word to fetch his fan from the table inside.

Xie'er is the only one who even notices him slip away--ah, no, he's not; he catches Zhou-zhuangzhu paused as well to look thoughtfully back at the doorway for a brief moment before nodding and turning back to the group. Xie'er himself can't seem to do the same. He watches until he sees Wen Kexing re-emerge, sees his hand withdraw from his sleeve as he steps over the threshold again.

Xie'er almost lets out an undignified huff of disbelief. Even after that, the fool is going to simply keep it in his sleeve? Not hold onto it, not remind himself that the comforting weight of his weapon is still his to command?

Indeed, Wen Kexing seems entirely unaffected, the way he all but dances up to Zhou-zhuangzhu's side and leans into his personal space, only to be pinched affectionately by the latter. Kexing waves his hand imperiously at something Weining says, and then grins to follow it up.

Realising that he hasn't so much as taken another step and the group is pulling far ahead of him, Xie'er reminds himself to breathe and strides back into place. He does not look toward Zhou-zhuangzhu or his chattering wife; like recognises like, and he does not want to know if he was observed in his own observation. It happens unnervingly often, here at Siji Shanzhuang. Sometimes he wonders why he even stays with how irritating they can be about it.

No, he doesn't look over. He does, however, take stock of his own blades still strapped to his wrists, on impulse, and tries to imagine ever going without them. Impossible.

Wen Kexing is certainly a skilled weaponless fighter. And logically, of course, there are many skilled and trusted fighters here. Former assassins, ghosts--the sheer level of competence in this small group alone, the rest of the sect aside, could take on a small army, most likely. And further, why should they ever have to? This place is safe. As safe as anywhere Xie'er could imagine. Safer.

But how can even that be enough for Wen Kexing? To such an extent? Xie'er grinds his teeth, trying to let it go and failing.

Ever oblivious to his moods, or at least refusing to pay them heed, Xiang'er sidles up beside him and yanks on his arm, her hand closing unknowingly around one of Xie'er's daggers, pressing the flat of the sheath into his skin as she tugs. Strangely, his shoulders untense.

"Xie-gege, don't be so slow! I've bet so much on Chengling and you have to help me laugh at A-Ning when Xingming loses. Lai, lai, lai!"

Xie'er rolls his eyes but lets Xiang'er pull him out of his thoughts and into the evening's tomfoolery.

--

Later that night Xie'er sits on the edge of his bed, alone in the near-dark. Voices and a bit of music, followed by the faint scent of wood smoke, still float delicately to his open window from the main courtyard where the most reckless disciples occasionally stay up a bit too late drinking. Aside from them the pleasant hush of nighttime at Siji Shanzhuang falls soft in the corners of Xie'er's room, in the hall outside.

His muscles are pleasantly sore now from the spar Xiang'er talked him into after the dessert she'd also talked him into, and then the subsequent activities in her room with Xiao Cao which they had not needed to try very hard to talk him into. The back of his neck is still damp from the cloth he'd washed up with and the breeze from the window blows a chill down his spine. All in all, it's a perfectly ordinary night.

By the light of one candle, Xie'er turns a little glass vial this way and that in his hand. Inside it are poison-tipped needles.

How long he sits there he doesn't know. The voices outside grow dim; the moon glows brighter. The night noises of insects and frogs keep his controlled breath company. It's a perfectly ordinary night.

With shaking hands, Xie'er puts the vial down on the table beside his bed. A moment later, he gets up and takes it to tuck into his locked box. He blows out the candle. He lays down on his bed.

It's a perfectly ordinary night.

Heart/roses

I've been coughing up petals for years now

Choking on the thorns that line my throat

Love is love is love is love

They want to be soft

I still taste blood

My heart might not have beat in months.

My fingers drum against my collarbone-

Something rhythmic as a temporary replacement,

I think it died in there.

I line my mouth with roses to cover up the smell.

I flush my system with reassurances

I choose not to care

This too shall pass

I can be a whole person by myself

I don't need anyone else

I cut desire out of my tongue

Bleach the stains of others' touches off of my skin

Sexuality is

By definition

About others

At least a little bit

I choose not to care

I've never kissed a girl before

I choose not to care

I fill my ribcage with poetry

This is what I was meant to house

I learn not to care

I don't need a heart anyway

I turn to tin and rust

I rest

I wait

Zandek was on the far side of the lake when he heard the teleportation, a sharp crackle that managed to travel all the way from the cottage and across the waters to his large, flat ears. It stood out well against the sounds he had grown used to while alone within the forest valley. The stillness of late summer had quieted the usual rustling of the trees, leaving it to the insects and birds to fill the air with their own melodies.

It was nearing evening, and he had just reached the treeline when the stark sound of magic drew his attention from his own song he had been humming. He stopped, taking a moment to readjust the entire trunk of a tree he had been carrying on his massive shoulder, and beamed as he heard the magic end with a light flourish. There was only one person he knew who crafted his spells with such embellishments, and him being here only meant one thing.

He set off quickly along the bank, moving as fast as he could without losing his grip on the tree trunk, a feat his eagerness made quite difficult. Less than two minutes later, Zandek had reached the path leading through a patch of wild shrubs and up to the cottage’s front door. It opened, and the small figure who emerged was barely out the door before she used her wings to leap into the air directly towards him. The blue kobold covered the distance between them before he even had time to set the log down. When she collided his chest and threw her arms around his neck (barely making it over his collarbone on either side) he let the trunk roll off his shoulder and thunderously crash onto the ground behind him without a second thought. What else could he do, of course, but wrap his own colossal arms around the person he loved more than anything else in the world after two whole months apart? 

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin Characters: Sirius Black, Remus Lupin Additional Tags: Don't copy to another site, 1890s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Green Carnations, Fluff, Pridewrite Challenge 2022, Pridewrite 2022 Summary:

Sirius has a gift for Remus 

The Athena took a pitstop at the next civilization they'd come across to restock on supplies since they were running low. The crew (minus Nyl and Zo) was supposed to head to the marketplace, get the needed supplies, and return to the ship. It was that simple.

However, there was some kind of festival going on in the town they visited, so naturally, the crew wanted to check it out—it was voted on; the members who were against it lost.

Which was what led the two to get separated from the rest of the group. Again.

“Why the fuck does this only happen to us?!” Piras raised both of his arms in the air in a display of his frustration as he walked through the crowded streets. His companion didn’t answer, only huffing out a sigh, as if wondering the same question.

The two former Nova citizens had gotten swept up in the crowd while sightseeing the festival with the others. Faen would’ve noticed the crew’s lack of presence immediately if it wasn’t for a certain redhead constantly distracting him.

Said redhead was looking around aimlessly trying to find the others, tiptoeing and doing small jumps to try to see over the ocean of people. Due to him not focusing on where he was going, he kept bumping into people. He ended up stepping on a guy's foot by accident while trying to look over people and Faen had to drag Piras away before a fight started.

Now both of them are taking refuge in an alley to get out of the crowd. Watching people pass by, Faen leans on the stone wall at the entrance of the alleyway while Piras kicks the ground lightly, disturbing the sand.

“They’re probably worried ‘bout us right now…” Piras mumbles under his breath, fiddling with his jacket—specifically where the inner pouch is; where his dagger is.

Without looking at the other, Faen replies “We should head back to the Athena, that’s our best option right now.”

“Do you know the way back? We did get swept up in the crowd…”

“Yes. Unlike you, I was paying attention to my surroundings.”

“Hey! It’s a festival, they have cool shit. How can I not get distracted?”

Faen lets out a sigh, exasperation imminent. “Just stay focused this time, brat. The last thing we need is you getting lost and making some grand mess.” He eyes Piras at the corner of his vision, daring him to say otherwise.

The brat rolls his eyes at the rude, but true, words. He gazes back outside the alley, watching as the crowd moved like the sea.

It’s still gonna be hard to navigate through all that though… Piras thought to himself. With how thick the crowd was, the two could easily get separated, they were lucky they hadn't while pushing through earlier.

Then an idea came to mind. He looks over at the dark-haired man, lifting his hand as if offering it.

“Well, since we have to go through all that again,” he jerked his head towards the crowd of people, “why don’t we hold hands?”

“What.” The speed in which Faen turned his head to look at him almost made Piras worry that he might’ve strained a neck muscle (or whatever those are called).

“Well, uh, y’know since we might get separated and shit in there, right? So we won’t, like, lose each other,” he explained lamely. He could feel the tips of his ears and cheeks turning warm, the realization of what he was implying finally settling in. The way Faen was staring at him with this look he couldn’t discern wasn’t helping.

The two lapsed into an awkward silence. Faen continued to stare intensely at Piras while the poor boy’s face turned into a deeper red than his own hair, refusing to look at the violet eyes judging him.

After some time, Piras stuffed the hand he offered into the kangaroo pocket of his jacket harshly, face still flushed. “Just say you don’t want to instead of staring damn it! It's weird.” He was no longer looking in the remote direction of the ex-lieutenant, not because he was embarrassed, just that he couldn’t stand the bastard’s staring.

“Don't blame me if I get lost,” and was about to walk back out into the streets. The only warning he gets is the ever-familiar sigh from behind him then the tug of his arm, dragging him out of the alley and into the busy crowd.

“Wha–?! Woah, Faen, slow down—!!”

He stumbles a bit on his feet, trying his best to dodge people as he is dragged by his arm. Faen doesn’t say anything nor does he look back at the slightly struggling redhead, focused on weaving through the crowd and returning to the Athena.

“Okay, dude, can you at least not death-grip my arm??” Piras exclaimed, now getting his bearings as he followed behind his dark-haired friend, keeping pace just behind him.

It seems that Faen isn’t completely cold-hearted, since the grip on his arm loosened, and was maneuvered into having both of their hands interlocked. Piras let out a sigh of relief now that he could feel his hand again.

Oh, his hand is warm…

He felt his face turn red once again when he realized what went through his head. Shaking his head, focusing on trying to get back to the ship and not the embarrassing position the two of them were in.

The whole walk there was kept in awkward silence as the pair weaved through the crowd and back to the Athena.

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Do check the comic here: https://www.awakencomic.com/