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jesuis-melodrama · 3 years

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LadyNoir Inequality: Chat Noir’s Fall from Significance

How does Ladybug and Chat Noir's roles differ between the seasons? How was responsibility, positions, duties delegated between them? This essay analyses in detail how the LadyNoir fallout of Season 4 came to be, and how Chat Noir ultimately fell from hierarchal significance.

What attracted me to Miraculous, apart from the stellar animation and the potential of the in-universe powers, was the dynamic between Ladybug and Chat Noir. Like the camaraderie of the Phantom Thieves in Persona 5, the partnership between Ruby and Clancy in Ruby Redfort and the hierarchy of respect and power between the Hashira of Demon-Slayer, Marinette and Adrien interested me, because they are two very dissimilar people on separate standings who mutually trusts, supports, and depends on one another despite being different in almost every single way. Their powers, although complimenting, are not comparable, and their personalities, although cordial, are inverse. But despite these odds, Ladybug and Chat Noir are not just friends, companions, and confidants, but equals.

The first episode of the series, The Bubbler, demonstrates this splendidly (Author’s Note: The Bubbler is the first episode available on Netflix. Chronologically, Stormy Weather is the first official episode, but the same values hold up). It was a jarring introduction to a new show. The audience has no idea who Adrien and Marinette were, what Tikki and Plagg were or why these magical girl transformations suddenly granted them the powers to fight the maniacal butterfly man, but we can recognise the symptoms of two people already deep into the composition of their friendship. The Bubbler threw the smoothness and effectiveness of their teamwork directly into the faces of the audience, and it was brilliant.

We weren’t weighed down by the gritty details of the beginning, we don’t have to watch the awkward bumbling, the introductions or the unsurety of two strangers who have yet enough reason to trust one another. We were immediately thrusted into the middle of their partnership. The first thing Chat Noir did when he stepped onto the scene was to defend Ladybug and the first thing she did was to joke around comfortably, clearly relieved that he had finally arrived. After watching Marinette obsessively creep around Adrien’s house, trying to show love to a boy she barely knows, and watching Adrien uncomfortably trying to enjoy a social event which he desperatedly wanted but is clearly inexperienced in, the sudden switch of persona and their sudden familiarity and reliance on one another was a fresh breath of air and it made Miraculous a show worth investing in.

We may not know what happened between them, how they received their powers and how they know each other, but it is obvious some catalytic event has tied Ladybug and Chat Noir together. And by all the features exhibited (another great thing, the words spoken were only secondary to the demonstrative body language) the audience was immediately aware that they have stepped into something sacred, something unbreakable. And even with the thick wall of secret and unspeakable identities between them, we feel comforted when we see them together, because they are comfortable and happy with one another.

So, fourteen monster-of-the-day episodes later, when Season 1 presented the first inklings of Miraculous’ overarching plot, watching Marinette and Adrien receive their Miraculous, meet each other as civilians and then as superheroes, the scene is nostalgic and sentimental, and aided by the fantastic animation, the audience can appreciate and remember the defining passage as an evocative and triggering moment for years afterwards.

But that is not to say their partnership hasn’t been without fault.

The cracks were always present, but as the seasons rolled on, it only became more obvious. Their roles were disparate. Ladybug comes up with the plans, Ladybug comes up with the solutions and more often than not, Chat Noir is used as a tool and a distraction for Ladybug’s success. Ladybug had the Lucky Charm and the Miraculous Cure. Chat Noir can stand on his own, defend and attack as an individual, but apart from using the Cataclysm as Ladybug directs, Chat Noir has no outstanding impact on the defeat of any akuma. He does not contribute to any tactics, and he cannot win without Ladybug because he has nothing to offer strategically.

Assets aside, there is also the matter of leadership.

The audience finds out that Chat Noir initially took the frontman role in The Origins. He attacked Stoneheart first while Ladybug dithered behind. But as Ladybug regained confidence, she took the leadership position in both episodes, and Chat Noir was more than happy to follow. Thus, their dynamic was laid down. They both showed satisfaction with their place in the relationship, Chat Noir often yielding to her judgement, such as in Stormy Weather and Dark Cupid, and Ladybug asserts that Chat Noir was in her team in Antibug.

The first big indicator of disagreement in this mutually agreed arrangement was in Syren. A contentious episode, the consequence of Chat Noir physically rebelling against Ladybug’s decision for the first time. All the way to Season 4, Rena Rogue has stirred conflict and mistrust between the duo. When I watched Ladybug leading Rena Rogue away while Chat Noir stared angrily at their retreating backs, I remembered hoping that the episode would end with Ladybug telling Chat Noir everything, so that they could have their Season 1 relationship back. Where they navigated this confusing and alien new world together, hiding so much from the public and each other, but never their authenticity and belief in one another.

I wished that Ladybug had told Chat Noir about the Guardian. I wished that both of them had been privy to the information from the very beginning and I wished that both of them knew who the other Miraculous Holders were because they chose them together. Realistically, someone in the show should’ve connected the dots, and realised that most of the Miraculous Holders were attending a specific class in Collège Françoise Dupont and were all associated with a specific person. That was the only reason I could think of why having Ladybug and Chat Noir choosing the Holders together is a bad idea. It would threaten their identity (which at that point, was still a concern).

But canonically, Ladybug constantly chose Holders who were dangerously close to the situation. Kagami in Ikari Gozen, Chloé in Malediktator, Rose in Guiltrip and Max in Startrain. The only Holder Chat Noir has chosen wasn’t even chosen by his particular identity. Adrien suggested that Luka might be a good Snake, and Ladybug heeded his words, not Chat Noir’s. I wished there was a single scene where Ladybug and Chat Noir analysed the situation and the potential Holder together, looked at each other, no words needed to be said, just a nod and a telepathic agreement shared through their eyes, and Ladybug would present the next Holder with a Miraculous with her and her partner’s approval both given.

What was the point of keeping their identities hidden?

In Season 1, it made some sense. They had no idea the Guardian existed. Even if Chat Noir was reluctant, they can both agree that they could not take their chances, should one of them be captured. But with the reveal of the Guardian’s identity in Season 2, the need for secret identities is almost eradicated. Clearly, there is someone who is an even bigger threat to their civilian lives than Ladybug and Chat Noir are to each other. Ladybug is now burdened with a bigger cache of knowledge. Should one of them be captured, it can only be hoped that it would be Chat Noir, because unlike Ladybug, he could not spew information about potions and kwami and secret books and the Guardian’s location.

In Season 3, the climax of Miracle Queen places the duties of the Guardian directly in Ladybug’s hand. She is now in charge of all the heroes in Paris, she is now the leading physical and strategic force in the battle against Hawk Moth and she is now officially stated as Leader, not just holding a de facto position.

In Season 4, the need for secret identities is gone. Ladybug is the Guardian. She and her original partner, Chat Noir, has no more safety nets in keeping their identities hidden from each other because there is no longer a background link tying them. Should Marinette be incapacitated, should Adrien meet an accident, there is no one reading their news who is available to inform the other person. The only reason why Chat Noir’s identity continues to be hidden from Ladybug is because she does not want to know. The only reason why Ladybug does not reveal her identity to Chat Noir is because she does not want him to know.

Chat Blanc could be inserted as a contending factor. Chat Blanc saw to it that the reveal of their identities to one another could lead the end of the world.

But Chat Blanc was not the only factor.

Season 4 Marinette is overwhelmed and stressed and guilt-ridden. Season 4 Marinette tore herself apart trying to maintain the kwami, her Guardian duties and continue moonlighting as Ladybug. Season 4 Marinette was at the end of her tether, and at this point, Chat Noir’s presence and his insistence was no longer a support or a comfort but another chore and responsibility to be balanced.

Her support network as both Marinette and Ladybug were extinguished. Thus, in a peaking moment of weakness, she finally revealed her identity to Alya.

Marinette met Alya and Chat Noir on the same day. Two strangers both became her friend, two insistent strangers who were united in their goal to find out Ladybug’s identity. Marinette hid her secret life from Alya, Ladybug hid her civilian identity from Chat Noir. As Marinette, she was supported by passionate, fierce, and rash Alya who jumped to conclusions and unnerved Marinette with her determination to find out the truth about Ladybug. As Ladybug, she was supported by passionate, fierce, and rash Chat Noir who impulsively leapt into battles and irritated her with his constant declarations of love.

But Marinette had connections to Alya as both Marinette and Ladybug. She found herself acknowledging Alya’s true character and learned to rely on her through a multitude of trust falls and confrontations. Marinette made the decision to trust Alya, she made the decision to depend on a person she knows as both a citizen and a superhero.

She had no choice with Chat Noir. She never knew who he was, only that he was thrusted into the same situation as she was. Truth was an important concept to Marinette, she stated multiple times that she could not stand liars. And subsequently, she could never really trust Chat Noir because she does not know who he was.

Chat Noir was an emotional crutch during the finale of Season 2 and Season 3. He was the reason why she found the courage to go on despite the anxiety of her failures and the culmination of her carelessness. Throughout Antibug, Heroes’ Day, Gamer 2.0 and Miracle Queen, it was demonstrated that the only way Marinette could trust him and confide in her vulnerabilities was through Ladybug with him as Chat Noir. She couldn’t afford the trust the boy behind the mask, so, when it came to the end of her line, when she has no other choice, Alya was the one to receive the relinquishment of her identity, not Chat Noir.

Gang of Secrets signified the end of Chat Noir’s reign.

He was a founding member, one of the original team, once upon a time on equal par with Ladybug. But now, his presence only matters as much as a temporary hero’s. The released episodes of Season 4, Mr Pigeon 72, Sole-Crusher, and most noticeably, Optigami and Sentibubbler, demonstrated the redundance of his company. Both physically and emotionally, Rena Rouge (now known as Rena Furtive) has filled in as Ladybug’s partner. Chat Noir has to be sneaked around, shield from the fact that there is a new permanent hero and shield from the fact that now, there is one other person in the world who knows Ladybug’s identity, that isn’t him.

With Ladybug’s circle of temporary allies expanded, she no longer needs to rely on Chat Noir to be her support. She could gather up any number of useful powers she has at her disposal and expend them as she wished. In Megaleech, among the five-men team Ladybug had gathered, each one of them has contributed to the defeat of the akuma, with Polymouse outshining as the victor over the army of mini Malediktators, and each one of the other heroes playing a vital role in Ladybug’s plan. Chat Noir’s delegation? To distract the enemy while Ladybug gathered up her soldiers. In the end, he didn’t even use his power, marking the first time in a Miraculous episode that a hero was called upon and left without use. The Cataclysm is no longer necessary for the defeat of an akuma. But the Lucky Charm and the Miraculous Cure are as relevant now as they were when Stoneheart first attacked.

Optigami and Sentibubbler reached the apex of his unimportance. Both times, he was more of a hindrance than a reinforcement. He unconsciously prevented Marinette from becoming Ladybug, which derails the plan to Rena Rogue’s command. He has to be told by Marinette, the civilian, to stay out of the superhero’s plan, because there was nothing he could do that Rena Rogue wasn’t already doing.

The Cataclysm is a one-use power, Chat Noir is a one-trick pony. He’s still stuck in Season 1 mode while Ladybug has broadened to new powers, new suit, new duties, new partners, and new goals.

Hawk Moth knows the identity of all the heroes but Chat Noir don’t. Chloé knows the identities of all the heroes but Chat Noir don’t. Alya has more privileges and inside knowledge than Chat Noir has, and with Rocketear, Nino is now another confidant privy to more secrets than Chat Noir is.

All Chat Noir is left with, is the comedic side-kick routine he is now entrenched too deeply in to crawl out, the knowledge that his best friend in both his civilian life and superhero life think he’s annoying, and the realisation that Ladybug truly no longer trust him, because the heroes around him, his subordinates in a sense, now ranks higher in prominence.

Did Ladybug mean for this to happen? Absolutely not.

But Chat Blanc is no longer a reason big enough to cover all the discrepancies. And she has grown so used to keeping him in the dark to realise how much the darkness was causing the chasm between them to grow. Chat Noir is now outwardly lying to Ladybug that he’s fine, refusing to tell her that he knows to some extent the secrets she has kept from him. In Season 2, he angrily confronted her about being left behind. In Season 4, now that Ladybug holds all the power, now that he no longer has the authority to demand reasons and explanations, the only thing he could do is keep his mouth shut and hope that the sheer cliff he’s balancing on does not shear away even more.

Because Chat Noir is still fun for him, isn’t it? Being a hero, being himself? Chat Noir isn’t a role for him to act, to fake being happy, to pretend to be something he’s not. Chat Noir is a persona where he can be as expressive, as temperamental, as coquettish, and childish and experimental he wants. An entity where he can safely explore all the emotions children his age usually experiences without consequences. A place where he isn’t held under fear of abandonment or emotional abuse, where he can explore his identity and speak his mind without retaliation or repercussions.

Isn’t it?

Chat Noir’s presence is still prevalent at every akuma fight because he is a founding member. Ladybug has no reason to tell him to go home, and he’s still useful in the sense that he can provide distractions while Ladybug figures out her plan, and feed information to Rena Furtive who is hiding and watching and waiting. And there is still the Cataclysm, a power that is supposed to rival the Lucky Charm, whose potential is still yet unearthed.

But Chat Noir has no more standing to rely on. He is no longer a principal participant in the encompassing war between Ladybug and Hawk Moth, even if he is a principal target. Each side gathers up their warriors and equipment, and Chat Noir is just another treasured pawn in Ladybug’s army. He is alone in the fact that no one knows his identity. Ladybug has someone, Hawk Moth has someone, and both of them has an arsenal of champions to pick from.

He’s a wild card, he’s an anomaly. He was once Ladybug’s partner, he was a prototype for the modern Miraculous hero, and by himself, he had a visible presence. But he lost the novelty quickly.

Even in Season 1, people preferred Ladybug. She was the one to fix their city, she made the flashy speech at the Eiffel Tower, it was explainable. In Season 2, Hawk Moth began to ignore his Miraculous multiple times in favour of Ladybug’s earrings. Chloé called him Ladybug’s second fiddle. In Season 3, Fu’s obvious favour of Ladybug as future Guardian emphasised Chat Noir’s emerging sidelining. And in Season 4, Ladybug herself begun to omit her partner.

What does this have in store for the future? Rumours and headcanons fly, whispers of an akumatization on par with Chat Blanc looms closer and closer. Personally, I hope that something more substantial is done with Chat Noir’s character. There’s still so much to be expatiated, his family history, his own personality, and his unlocked powers. If the Black Cat Miraculous was truly the harmonizing consort of the Ladybug Miraculous, then logically, Chat Noir should be receiving the multiple new upgrades in the near future.

A climax where an issue that has spanned for four seasons ending within two episodes sounds stereotypically Miraculous and nightmarish. But the show has three more seasons to go, and hopefully this conflict will be used as a starting point for what may be in store for those seasons.

What if Chat Noir decides to deflect? What is he decided to derail, and what if Chat Noir becomes the next villain? ShadowMoth is a recurring joke at this point, and with the development of Season 4, ShadowMoth’s return in Season 5 sounds exhausting and repetitive. Looking at the overarching picture, there is only one person that has enough incentive and power to become Ladybug’s future archnemesis.

Love and hate are the opposite sides of the same coin.

But no matter what is in store for the distant narrative of Miraculous, this essay concludes on the now.

We look at Season 1 Chat Noir, and the Chat Noir of the latest episode. Even if his powers and position hasn’t grown, he has developed into his role emotionally, in an unfortunately negative way.

Chat Noir is no longer Ladybug’s partner, and analytically, no longer as important as he once was.

I really hope the show does something good with this.

#miraculous les aventures de ladybug et chat noir #ladybug #chat noir #analysis

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kiyodu · 3 years

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The Letters of Vincent van Gogh (Part II)

Quotes I Enjoy:

• When one lives with others and is bound by feelings of affection, then one realises that one has a reason for living, that one may not be utterly worthless and expendable, but it is perhaps good for something, since we need one another and are journeying together as compagnons de voyage.

• I find it hard to bear this thought and even harder to bear the thought that so much dissension, misery and sorrow between us, and in our home, may have been caused by me. Should that indeed be the case, then I might wish it were granted me not to have much longer to live.

Yet when this thought sometimes depresses me beyond measure, far too deeply, then after a long time another occurs too: 'Perhaps it is only an awful, frightening dream and later we may learn to see and understand it more clearly.'

• It is sometimes so bitterly cold in the winter that one says, 'The cold is too awful for me to care whether summer is coming or not; the harm outdoes the good.' But with or without our approval, the severe weather does come to an end eventually and one fine morning the wind changes and there is a thaw. When I compare the state of weather to our state of mind and our circumstances, subject to change and fluctuation like the weather, then I still have some hope that things may get better.

• It is true that I have forfeited the trust of various people, it is true that my financial affairs are in a sorry state, it is true that my future looks rather bleak, it is true that I might have done better, it is true I have wasted time when it comes to earning a living, it is true that my studies are in a fairly lamentable and appalling state, and that my needs are greater, infinitely greater than my resources. But does that mean going downhill and doing nothing?

• If I do nothing, if I study nothing, if I cease searching, then, woe is me. I am lost. That is how I look at it - keep going, keep going come what may. But what is your final goal, you may ask. That goal will become clearer, will emerge slowly but surely, much as the draft turns into the sketch and the sketch into the painting through the serious work done on it, through the elaboration of the original vague idea and through the consolidation of the first fleeting and passing thought.

• You said, we used to agree about many things, but, you added, 'You have changed since then, you are no longer the same.' Well, that is not entirely true. What has changed is that my life then was less difficult and my future seemingly less gloomy, but as far as my inner self, my way of looking at things and of thinking is concerned, that has not changed.

But if there has indeed been a change, then it is that I think, believe and love more seriously now what I thought, believed and loved even then.

• Can you tell what goes on within by looking at what happens without? There may be a great fire in your soul, but no one ever comes to warm himself by it, all that passers-by can see is a little smoke coming out of the chimney and they walk on.

• You may never have thought what your country really is, he continued, placing his hand on my shoulder; it is everything around you, everything that has raised and nourished you, everything that you have loved. This countryside that you see, these houses, these trees, these young girls laughing as they pass, that is your country!

The laws that protect you, the bread that rewards your labour, the words you speak, the joy and sorrow that come from the people and things in whose midst you live, that is your country! The little room where you used in days gone by to see your mother, the memories she left you, the earth in which she rests, that is your country!

You see it, you breathe it, everywhere! Imagine your rights and your duties, your affections and your needs, your memories and your gratitude, gather all that together under a single name and that name will be your country.

• Sometimes he is a person whose right to exist has a justification that is not always immediately obvious to you, or more usually, you may absent-mindedly allow it to slip from your mind. Someone who has been wandering about for a long time, tossed to and fro on a stormy sea, will in the end reach his destination. Someone who has seemed to be good for nothing, unable to fill any job, any appointment, will find one in the end and, energetic and capable, will prove himself quite different from what he seemed at first.

• I should be very happy if you could see in me something more than a kind of ne'er-do-well. For there is a great difference between one ne'er-do-well and another ne'er-do-well. There is someone who is a ne'er-do-well out of laziness and lack of character, owing to the baseness of his nature. If you like, you may take me for one of those.

Then there is the other kind of ne'er-do-well, the ne'er-do-well despite himself, who is inwardly consumed by a great longing for action, who does nothing because his hands are tied, because he is, so to speak, imprisoned somewhere, because he lacks what he needs to be productive, because disastrous circumstances have brought him forcibly to this end.

Such a one does not always know what he can do, but he nevertheless instinctively feels, I am good for something! My existence is not without reason! I know that I could be a quite different person! How can I be of use, how can I be of service? There is something inside me, but what can it be? He is quite another ne'er-do-well. If you like you may take me for one of those.

• A caged bird in spring knows perfectly well that there is some way in which he should be able to serve. He is well aware that there is something to be done, but he is unable to do it. What is it? He cannot quite remember, but then he gets a vague inkling and he says to himself, "The others are building their nests and hatching their young and bringing them up," and then he bangs his head against the bars of the cage.

But the cage does not give way and the bird is maddened by pain. 'What a ne'er-do-well,' says another bird passing by - what an idler. Yet the prisoner lives and does not die. There are no outward signs of what is going on inside him, he is doing well, he is quite cheerful in the sunshine.

But then the season of the great migration arrives: an attack of melancholy. He has everything he needs, say the children who tend him in his cage - but he looks out, the heavy thundery sky, and in his heart of hearts he rebels against his fate. I am caged and you say I need nothing, you idiots! I have everything I need, indeed! Oh, please give me the freedom to be a bird like other birds.

• A justly or unjustly ruined reputation, poverty, disastrous circumstances, misfortune, they all turn you into a prisoner. You cannot always tell what keeps you confined, what immures you, what seems to bury you, and yet you can feel those elusive bars, railings, walls. Is all this illusion, imagination? I don't think so. And then one asks: my God, will it be for long, will it be forever, will it be for eternity?

Do you know what makes the prison disappear? Every deep, genuine affection. Being friends, being brothers, loving, that is what opens the prison, with supreme power, by some magic force. Without these one stays dead. But wherever affection is revived, there life revives. Moreover, the prison is sometimes called prejudice, misunderstanding, fatal ignorance of one thing or another, suspicion, fake modesty.

• If you ever fall in love, do so without reservation, or rather, if you should fall in love simply give no thought to any reservation. Moreover, when you do fall in love, you will not 'feel certain' of success beforehand. You will be a lost soul and yet you will smile.

• When he reads something profound, he doesn't immediately come out with: that man means this or that. For poetry is so deep and intangible that one cannot define it systematically. But Mauve has a keen sensibility and, you see, I find that sensibility worth a great deal more than definitions and criticisms.

• Books like that are filled with reality, but what is more real than reality itself and where is there more life than in life itself? And we who are doing our best to live, if only we lived a great deal more!

• Who is the master, logic or I, does logic exist for me or do I exist for logic, and is there no reason or sense in my unreasonableness or my lack of sense?

• I am anything but a man of learning, and I am so amazingly ignorant, oh, just like so many others and even more so than others, but I am unable to judge that myself and can judge others even less than myself and am often mistaken. But we pick up the scent as we wander about and there is some good in every movement.

• The world, however, does not reason like that and never sees or respects man's 'humanity' but only the greater or lesser value of the money or goods he carries with him so long as he is on this side of the grave. The world takes no account at all of what happens beyond the grave. That is why the world goes no further than its feet will take it.

#vincent van gogh #the letters of vincent van gogh

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mollymawkwrites · 3 years

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Geralt/Eskel/Jaskier: Geralt brings Jaskier to Kaer Morhen and Eskel/Jaskier get their shit together first (communication skills!!) and Geralt comes to a Realization - dp/spitroasting - the turn of seasons, contrast of bright/dark, warm/cold

... this took way too long and I am so sorry about that. As an apology, here’s more than 5.5k of feelings, pining and misunderstandings, with a sprinkle of smut (as an apology, and not at all because I have zero self-restraint). Thank you so much for the lovely prompt, I hope this lives up to expectations 💖

I’ll post the link to Ao3 in the replies when this is beta’ed, sorry if there are any big mistakes!

CW: post-Mountain break-up, smut, Geralt’s Canonical Self-Loathing.

Falling in love with Eskel is the easiest thing Jaskier has ever done.

It happens slowly, but with a certainty that Jaskier has rarely felt before. Like sinking into a feather mattress, silk sheets caressing your skin.

It was never that easy with Geralt. Jaskier fell in love with him fast, sure, but he also fell hard, had to pick himself up afterwards, bruised and bloody.

The first day he arrives at Kaer Morhen, two weeks after his rescue from Nilfgaardian spies, Jaskier is miserable. The trek up the mountain has been hard on him, but harder even was his underwhelming reunion with Geralt, who barely acknowledged him, grunting that he'd be safer in Kaer Morhen before leaving Jaskier to decide by himself what he wanted to do.

His heart aches with two years of missing his best friend, finding he misses him even more now that they’ve been reunited. He'd always told himself he didn't hold any hope of his relationship with Geralt ever evolving into something more, but getting his heart broken on the top of a mountain had made him realise he'd somehow managed to fool himself too.

So he's prepared to spend a winter avoiding his former friend, though Geralt would probably not even call him that, holing up in whatever drafty room he's been attributed, and then he'll find a new name and dye his hair a different colour and hope it's enough to fool the Nilfs. It's a hard choice to make, renouncing the name he's made for himself, the reputation he's built over twenty years of hard work and songs he's still proud of today. But it's all tied too tightly to Geralt, and neither him nor his heart will survive it. Maybe, if Jaskier the Witcher’s bard is forgotten by everyone, his heartbreak won't be so obvious.

That pathetical plan is countered as soon as he steps foot in Kaer Morhen, and Geralt's brothers and mentor introduce themselves to him. They are similar, yet so different to the Witcher he's known for more than half his life.

They welcome him, if not with open arms, at least with warmth and smiles and, in Lambert's case, snarky banter Jaskier takes great pleasure in reciprocating.

Eskel doesn't draw his attention much at first. The dark-haired Witcher is friendly, tugging Geralt in a bear-like embrace as soon as they've passed the gates, and shaking Jaskier's hand with a kind, genuine smile Jaskier can't help but return.

But over the next couple of weeks, Jaskier spends more and more time with the amber-eyed wolf, discussing music and poetry and history as they execute their respective chores. After only a few days, Eskel is the one who searches him out when Jaskier is helping Vesemir in the kitchen or feeding the chickens in the courtyard. He shows him around the keep, more than the customary tour Vesemir gave Jaskier on his first day here. Eskel is full of stories from his childhood in the keep, and he is not greedy with the details. Jaskier can sense the underlying grief when the Witcher talks about the boys who didn't make it in the Trials, but Eskel doesn't linger in the sadness and makes sure to tell Jaskier all about his and Geralt's most imaginative antics.

The Witcher's company is a delight, and a nice distraction from Jaskier's heartache. When he can't take Geralt's silence and avoidance anymore, he seeks Eskel and his warmth, bathing in the man's attention. After a month, he finds himself dreaming of tanned hands and dark hair as much as pale skin and silver strands.

At first, he feels guilty about it. Eskel does not deserve to be someone's second choice. What he deserves is unconditional, untainted love.

But as days pass, frost a little thicker on the blades of grass in the courtyard every morning, the mountains losing their warm autumn colours to shades of blue and grey, Jaskier and Eskel gravitate towards each other until they collide, softly and without a sound. It happens so naturally, Jaskier almost thinks he’s dreamt it when he wakes up one day at dawn, and instead of his freezing room, he opens his eyes to a broad, golden-skinned chest. His cheek rises and falls with the slow breaths where it rests on one plush pec, a pool of his own saliva glistening in a smattering of dark hair.

He hasn’t felt that relaxed in years, and only part of it is due to the frankly fantastic post-sex bliss he’s still basking in. There is no anxiety, no second thoughts. Eskel made sure to make his intentions clear before they fell into bed together, shocking Jaskier into silence with how open with his feelings he was. The bard still can’t help but compare how completely different Geralt and Eskel are.

They agreed to take things slow, to enjoy each other for the winter and then see where things take them. Jaskier knows he’s falling in love with Eskel, but it doesn’t feel scary. He won’t be alone once the time comes to make a decision.

It takes another week for him to move into Eskel’s room completely. They don’t bother hiding their new… entanglement, to the others. No secret can be kept in a keep full of Witchers, and neither Eskel nor Jaskier cares to pretend.

Lambert gives them shit, to no one’s surprise, and Ciri squeals in delight, the gossiping princess resurfacing for a few moments. Vesemir claps Eskel on the shoulder, before reminding all of them that they have chores to do.

Geralt doesn’t say anything.

Jaskier didn’t expect him to jump in joy, he’s not sure the Witcher is even capable of such displays of emotion, but the white-haired Witcher doesn’t even look at them, only ushers Ciri outside to the training grounds.

Over the next few weeks, Jaskier only sees him at supper. He’s gotten used to avoiding Geralt, to keep out of his way, but until then they would still meet in the hall when the weather was too bad for the Witchers to train outside, or at lunch when they would accidentally come in for a bite at the same time. Eskel and Geralt spend a considerable amount of time together, and Jaskier would often find them together doing whatever repair was needed, but these days, when he manages to escape his chores long enough to seek his lover for a stolen kiss or a quick fuck, Geralt is nowhere in sight.

When Jaskier asks his amber-eyed wolf one evening after they retired to their room, Eskel confirms what he already suspected.

“I haven’t seen him in a while, no,” the Witcher rumbles softly, a hand tracing arabesques on the bare skin of Jaskier’s back. “He goes hunting alone almost every day. He does that, sometimes, when he’s upset, though I’m not sure what it’s about, this time.”

Jaskier hums, pensive. His heart clenches at the thought of Geralt avoiding his own family. Guilt creeps on him, its long, sharp claws burying themselves under his ribs. How dare he come to Geralt’s only home, his only place of peace and acceptance, and claim a place in his brother’s heart? He’s done a shit job of fulfilling Geralt’s wish of having him out of his life, hasn’t he?

A strong arm wraps around his shoulders, pulling him closer to the furnace of Eskel’s body.

“What’re you thinking of that makes you smell so sad, songbird?”

Jaskier smiles at the endearment. His wolf is generous with his affection, and Jaskier is selfish. He wants it all. But does he have any right to it, if he is taking it from Geralt?

“Do you think it’s because of us?” He asks, turning his head to rest his chin on Eskel’s sternum. “That Geralt is keeping to himself, I mean.”

Eskel frowns pensively. “I… don’t know. I suppose, in a way. But I think he’s mostly wallowing in his own self-loathing.”

“When isn’t he?” Jaskier teases.

The Witcher huffs, a sad half-smile tugging at his scars. “I was afraid he’d be jealous, or upset, hoping maybe it’d help him pull his head out of his own ass, but I’m afraid it’s buried even deeper than I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I didn’t want to get between the two of you, but I know Geralt. He ain’t gonna do anything about it, and then he’ll regret it once it’s too late.”

That doesn’t make any sense. “Eskel, there’s nothing between me and Geralt.” Well, that’s not quite true. “I wanted there to be something, for a very long time, but… well, turns out I was the only one wanting it. If anything, I thought I was the one getting between the two of you.”

“Songbird, there hasn’t been anything but friendship between Geralt and I since before you were born.” Sadness clouds Eskel’s eyes for a second, and the piece Jaskier has been missing clicks into place.

“You and Geralt were together?” He asks, voice tight with emotion.

“Not sure we can even call it that,” a bitter smile twists Eskel’s scars in a painful grimace. “We found… comfort, with each other, when nothing else could give us that. But it hasn’t been like that in a very long time.”

“Why?”

Eskel shrugs with one shoulder, almost dislodging Jaskier from his position. “People change, songbird. And when you live as long as we do, well… you can’t expect things to stay the same forever. I’m glad we stayed as close as we are, despite him not wanting us to be anything other than friends anymore.”

The Witcher kisses the crown of Jaskier’s head and flicks his wrist, snuffing out the candles, a clear sign that the conversation is over. Jaskier doesn’t push, conscious this is a sensitive subject, but that doesn’t keep him from staring in the darkness for a long time after Eskel’s breaths have slowed and deepened, troubled by this new facet of the two men he loves.

Geralt’s reaction makes more sense now, why he would act so uncomfortable around Eskel and Jaskier now that the two of them are a thing. If Geralt still has feelings for his friend, then… seeing Jaskier, the man he hates and despises, whom he holds responsible for his every trouble (quite unfairly, in Jaskier’s opinion, but still), taking his place in the arms of the man he’s been in love with for longer than the bard has been alive… well, Jaskier can understand why he’d be upset.

There’s just a tiny bit of pettiness coming from the selfish, ugly part of him, that sings at the idea. Geralt broke his heart on that mountain top, isn’t it simple justice that Jaskier breaks his heart in turn?

But that line of thought is quickly smothered by guilt, and, more upsettingly, love. He’s loved Geralt for half his life now. No matter how hurt he might be, all he wants is for him to be happy. Or as happy as a self-loathing Witcher can be.

And it’s so obvious that Eskel loves him, too, now that Jaskier thinks about it. There’s a softness in his eyes and the corner of his mouth when he looks at Geralt that isn’t there when he’s around anyone else, an ease and a trust that Jaskier used to attribute to long term friendship but can only come from two bodies knowing each other intimately.

Jaskier can’t put himself between the two of them, can’t bear the idea of robbing both men of the little happiness they can find in a world that doesn’t accept them. And if he was Geralt, he would probably let Eskel down gently, taking himself out of the way and hoping the other two would get their shit together and talk, but he’s not, and if there’s a way that the three of them can find even a little satisfaction in this mess, then he’s going to try his best and make it happen.

He only hopes Geralt will listen to him.

It takes him a few days to work up the courage to approach the sullen White Wolf, and then another two to catch him alone, one night after dinner.

Unsurprisingly, he finds him in the stables, brushing down a Roach who seems more interested in nipping at Scorpion’s flanks than in the brooding Witcher in her stall. A wave of fondness overcomes Jaskier at the familiar sight, and he has to shake himself to remember what he’s come here to do.

“Geralt,” he says, softer than he intended. The Witcher doesn’t startle, but he tenses visibly, his grip on the brush turning white-knuckled. Jaskier lets out a trembling sigh, his resolve the only thing keeping him from turning away and finding shelter in Eskel’s arms to cry his heartache away. “We need to talk.”

Geralt doesn’t gratify him with an answer, like maybe if he ignores Jaskier long enough the bard will go away. How he didn’t learn that doesn’t work in the twenty years they’ve known each other, Jaskier has no idea.

“It’s about Eskel.” That, at least, has the merit to catch Geralt’s attention, the Witcher turning his head just enough to peek at Jaskier from the corner of his eye.

“He told me, about… about the two of you. What you were to each other.”

Geralt sucks in a harp breath. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”

And Jaskier can see this is a lie even with the Witcher turning his back to him. His heart clenches, for his best friend, despite everything that happened, and his lover, who have not allowed themselves to have what they both so visibly crave. “It does, though. It does matter. I’m not… I have no wish to keep you from each other, Geralt. I… I love him.” Jaskier chokes out, and something painful flashes in Geralt’s eyes. “And I… I…” he almost lets himself say it, bare his heart for Geralt to see, but he’s gotten too used to protecting himself, to hiding his most shameful truth. “I know you do, too.”

Geralt hangs his head between his shoulders, face hidden in the shadows, the warm, low light of the oil lamp he brought with him playing in his pale hair. “You’re making him happy. The two of you… you’re good, together. I am glad you found each other.”

“Are you really, Geralt? Because you’ve been avoiding us for weeks. It’s hurting him.” It’s hurting me, Jaskier doesn’t say, because none of this is about him. “Listen, I… I know you don’t want anything to do with me, I got that loud and clear, but if there’s a way… for us three to… to find satisfaction, then maybe…”

“Speak plainly, bard.”

Jaskier exhales, nerves making his throat tight. “You know I don’t believe in exclusive relationships,” and Geralt doesn’t, either; Yennefer and him both had lovers on the side, it was no secret between them. “If you and Eskel wanted to… start again where you left things, I see no issue with that. I want him to be happy, too. I… I want you to be happy, Geralt. You’re still important to me, even after everything.”

He’s said more than he wanted to, and Geralt doesn’t even deign to look at him. That’s so familiar it hurts. Jaskier smiles, an ugly thing full of regrets and unspoken words, and turns on his heels. He’s done his part. It’s up to Geralt to make a choice, now.

“Jaskier,” a broken voice says as a hand wraps around his wrist. He startles, and turns to find Geralt watching him with pleading eyes. It’s such an absurd sight, it leaves him speechless for a minute, and Geralt takes it as an encouragement to speak. The Witcher clears his throat. “I don’t… You’re…” the way he interrupts himself in obvious frustration, brow furrowed and lips thinned, is almost endearing. “You’re important to me, too.”

Tears swell in Jaskier’s eyes, and he tugs at his wrist to free it. Geralt lets him go without resistance.

“Please don’t lie to me, Geralt. I can take the hurt, I can take the rejection. But I won’t take the pity.” He almost spits the last sentence, and a surge of bitter satisfaction warms his painful heart at Geralt’s flinch.

“I’m not, I swear. I… I’ve missed you, Jask, I’ve missed you so much.” His voice is husky, weighed by shame and regret, and Jaskier has no doubt he is saying the truth. Geralt is a lot of things, but a good actor is not one of them. “There hasn’t been a day I haven’t thought about what I said to you after the dragon hunt. None of it was true, I… I was furious, but it wasn’t your fault. I’m so sorry.”

When Jaskier let himself dream of this moment, while walking down of the mountain or in the dark of the cell the Nilfargiaans kept him in, he’d imagined how he’d make Geralt grovel, how he’d tell him about every little thing Jaskier had ever done for him, to make his life easier, to show him how he could find happiness even on the Path.

As it is, Jaskier only stares at Geralt for a few seconds before tugging him into a crushing embrace. “Fuck, I’ve missed you too, you stupid Witcher.”

Geralt makes a wounded noise but lets himself be engulfed in Jaskier’s arms, tucking his nose in the hollow of his throat. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, warm breath humid against the bard’s skin. “I wanted to come looking after you, but I had to make sure Ciri was safe…”

“I am glad you did,” Jaskier says, petting the hair at the nape of Geralt’s neck. “But why didn’t you say anything once Yennefer brought me to you? Geralt, we climbed up those damn mountains together. It’s been two months since we’ve been here. I thought you didn’t… that you didn’t want me here.”

Hands twist in the back of Jaskier’s thick woolen cape. “I didn’t know how to. While we were still on the Path I was worried about Nilfgaard catching up to us, about keeping Ciri and you fed and safe, and I thought this could wait until we were here. But then…” Geralt makes a frustrated noise so familiar it has Jaskier smiling in the crown of his head.

“Words were hard to find?”

He feels more than he sees Geralt’s nod. “And once you and Eskel became… involved, you seemed so much happier. I thought I’d only make things worse, and that you deserved to move on. To… forget about me. But I do want you here, Jaskier. If I had any right to it, I’d want you by my side always.”

A breath catches in Jaskier's throat, and tears prick at the corner of his eyes. Those are words he's dreamt of hearing for so many years, and he's finally hearing them now, in a stable smelling of horseshit and hay. It's so simple, so mundane, and yet he can barely bring himself to believe this is truly happening.

And maybe it's because he is stunned, or maybe because he's done hiding, but suddenly it feels so important that he says the truth.

"Geralt, you… you must know…" he pulls back, putting just enough distance between them that he can see Geralt's suspiciously red-rimmed eyes, that he can see how the Witcher reacts to his words. "I would have followed you anywhere, until my feet could carry me no more. You know that, right? I've never been subtle," he laughs wetly. Geralt is looking increasingly confused, like he has no idea what Jaskier is talking about, and that just doesn't make sense.

Making a frustrated sound, Jaskier twists his hands in the lapels of Geralt's thick winter coat, tugging him forward slowly so the Witcher can stop him if he wants.

But he doesn't, and their lips meet, harshly enough that Jaskier hopes it'll carry his meaning even through Geralt's thick skull.

It must work, because next thing he knows, he is being ravished quite thoroughly by an enthusiastic Witcher, a hand at the back of his head and another at the small of his back, under the hem of his cape. A thumb rubs circles at the base of his spine, and he's slowly melting into a puddle of contentment, his only thought a constant stream of this is happening, oh my fucking gods this is happening.

There's little time for the realization to set in, though, as a draft of cold wind fills the stables, and a soft "oh" pushes Jaskier and Geralt to separate.

Just outside of the circle of light cast by the oil lamp, Eskel stands watching them, eyebrows drawn up in surprise. Jaskier's guts clench in guilt and he steps away from Geralt hurriedly. "Eskel, it's not-" what you think, he doesn't finish, because that is a lie, and Eskel deserves better than lies.

But there's little else Jaskier can say to justify how Eskel just found him, kissing his best friend and former lover passionately in the middle of the night, when he should have been back in their shared bed an hour ago.

He knew he'd fuck up somehow. That's so classic.

The three of them are silent for a heartbeat, the horses shifting in their stalls the only noise in the cramped space, and Jaskier wants to cross the space between Eskel and him so badly, but he knows he doesn't have the right to, and it's killing him.

Just when his agony reaches a peak, Eskel's mouth curls at the corner, softness blooming in his eyes. "I see you've gotten your shit together," he says. " 's about time."

This is so completely out of what Jaskier expected him to say that he doesn’t manage to find a suitable answer. Surprisingly, Geralt is the one to talk next.

“I’m not going to take him from you,” he says cautiously.

“I know,” Eskel grins. “I know that if I asked you you would never even look at him again.”

Jaskier spares a glance for Geralt, and a pit opens in his gut at the acceptance he finds in his eyes.

“But that would make the three of us miserable,” Eskel adds. “And I won’t do that to Jaskier, or to you.”

“Eskel, what are you saying?” If his soft-hearted Witcher is suggesting what Jaskier thinks he is…

“I don’t see why things between us should change, songbird, if you wished to spend some nights in Geralt’s bed. Of course, if you two want to be exclusive to each other,” the first glimmer of doubt insinuates itself in Eskel’s kind voice, but he keeps speaking bravely, “then I will not impose myself.”

“No!” Jaskier says, a little too loud, his hand shooting up to grip at Eskel’s wrist. Roach nickers irritably in her stall at the disturbance.

“I… I mean, if both you and Geralt are amenable, there is space in my bed for the two of you.”

Eskel’s dark eyebrow arches. “Don’t you mean in my bed?”

But his hand closes around Jaskier’s reassuringly, warm and soft as he looks at Geralt. “What do you say, Wolf?”

And Geralt is watching them both with equal part fear and want in his eyes, like his deepest desire is just in reach but he isn’t sure if it’s not going to burn him at the first touch. Jaskier extends his free hand, and he can feel Eskel tensing infinitesimally beside him, careful to keep a relaxed posture, but as worried as Jaskier that their white-haired Witcher is going to bolt out the door to a more familiar loneliness.

Geralt surprises them both by taking Jaskier’s hand with an air of firm resolution, crossing the space between them slowly until he stands close enough to share their warmth. Eskel raises his left hand, cupping Geralt’s jaw with infinite softness. Jaskier can see in his eyes the same pride he is feeling himself, at their white wolf’s bravery.

The air leaves Jaskier’s lungs in a rush when the two men’s lips meet like they weren’t ever meant to part. The contrast of Eskel’s golden skin against Geralt’s milky one is the most beautiful work of art he’s ever been given to see, and the tight heat in his lower belly tells him he wants to see more of it, now.

The two Witchers kiss for a long minute, Jaskier watching them with naked hunger and want, but for once not in a hurry to claim the attention back on himself. He makes an involuntary noise when Eskel nips at Geralt’s lower lip playfully, and two burning golden gazes turn on him. It’s so intense, so heavy, that another breath leaves Jaskier with a wheeze. A grin is spreading on Eskel’s handsome features, and Geralt’s eyes sparkle with interest.

“What do you think, Wolf? Do you think the two of us will be enough to satisfy our little bard?”

And oh, Jaskier does so want them to try.

Jaskier often prides himself loudly and brazenly of his carnal exploits as an Oxenfurt student and travelling bard. He’s had sex with numerous people of all genders and races, sometimes several at the same time, and has been praised for being a generous and enthusiastic lover.

Never has he been so overwhelmed after only a few minutes of foreplay.

There’s a cock down his throat and fingers in his arse and he’s trembling all over. Eskel is soothing him with a palm to his side, murmuring praise as he pushes three thick, oiled fingers to Jaskier’s prostate.

Geralt is brushing a hand down his cheek, feeling his own cock through the stretched skin. Jaskier sucks and licks with single-minded focus, moaning and wiggling when Eskel executes a particularly well-aimed thrust.

“Look at him, asking for more even when he’s stuffed full,” Eskel smugly says to Geralt as he gives a sharp slap to the bard’s arse. Jaskier yelps and jumps forward, Geralt’s cock hitting the back of his throat. He chokes and gags but doesn’t relent, breathing through his nose expertly. Geralt wipes the tears from his cheeks, the tender motion in stark contrast with his curses and animalistic grunts. It’s a contradiction Jaskier is quickly becoming addicted to.

He's so focused on his worship of Geralt's glorious cock he doesn't notice Eskel's fingers slipping out of his hole before they are replaced with the fat head of his prick. He gasps, letting Geralt's hard length slip out of his mouth, resting his temple against his hip as he breathes through the intrusion. He still hasn't gotten used to Eskel's girth, the stretch leaving him drooling and dazed every time.

They're all still as Jaskier accommodates it, testing the sensation with little clenches of his arse that have Eskel grunting and squeezing the plump flesh of his cheeks.

"'m good, you can move," Jaskier mumbles in the dip of Geralt's hip, and Eskel pulls out to execute a few shallow thrusts, getting the both of them used to the new sensations.

When he picks up speed, a hand threads in Jaskier's hair, pulling him to look up and meet a painfully tender gaze. Geralt holds him with one hand, the other grasping his own cock and guiding it back into Jaskier’s begging mouth, smearing a trail of pre-come on his cheek on the way.

It's easy to lose himself into it after that. He is full, warm and content, and he wishes he could stay that way forever, pinned between his two lovers, pleasing them with his wet mouth and his tight arse. Used for their pleasure alone.

He's only human, though, and his stamina can't compare to two Witchers'. He spills almost as soon as Eskel gets a hand on his cock, his wails muffled by Geralt's.

Geralt is caring enough to let Jaskier breathe as he comes down, cradling the bard’s face in his hands, but Eskel doesn't pull out. They've talked about each other's boundaries at length, he knows Jaskier can take more.

He's brushing his thumb where Jaskier and him are connected, hole fluttering with the last spasms of his orgasm. Jaskier whimpers at the sensation.

"Damn, you always get so loose and sloppy when you've come… do you think you could take the two of us like this?"

Jaskier's chest swells with a sob at the thought, arms trembling where they struggle to keep him up. The fingers around his jaw squeeze lightly, demanding his attention, and he meets Geralt's gaze once again.

"Answer to Eskel, pretty lark," Geralt rumbles. "Is it too much? Do you want more?"

"Yes," Jaskier manages to slur. "More, please. I want… I want both of you."

Geralt's pupils expand impossibly larger, and he bends to kiss Jaskier languidly.

He's a very thorough kisser, grunting at the taste of himself on Jaskier's tongue. Tears well up in Jaskier's eyes as emotion seizes his heart. Finally, he thinks, finally, I get to have him.

He shouts in the kiss, breaking their connection, when Eskel's thumb slips along his cock in Jaskier's hole.

The stretch is intense, even with how relaxed Jaskier is from his climax, and his arms give out, his face squashing into the mattress with a moan.

Geralt chuckles above him before gathering the weak bard into his arms, shuffling them so Jaskier is propped against his chest, while Eskel keeps opening him from behind.

It’s too warm there, pinned between his two Witchers, but Jaskier doesn’t have any complaint. Geralt resumes kissing him to distract him from the almost too intense stretch, and it works. When his breath grows too ragged, Geralt frees his lips and lets him rest his head against his shoulder for a second, lungs expanding with deep gulps of breath. Geralt and Eskel talk in hushed voices, but he can’t focus on what they’re saying, his every thought gathering around the point where he is stretched wider than he’s ever been around Eskel’s cock and fingers.

He is manhandled without difficulty, until he is straddling Geralt’s lap, Eskel still buried hilt deep in him, Geralt mouthing at his neck, two pairs of large hands roaming his sides, his back, his stomach.

“You ready, songbird?” Eskel rumbles in his ear, the low timbre of his voice piercing through the thick fog in Jaskier’s fucked out brain.

The bard nods into Geralt’s shoulder, whining pitifully.

“Did you actually manage to fuck words out of him, Eskel?” Geralt says with a hint of humour, squeezing Jaskier against him affectionately. “Might have to give you a medal for that.”

“Hm. What about a kiss?”

Jaskier smiles groggily at the sounds of intense making-out next to his ear, turning his head to admire the view. Geralt and Eskel truly are gorgeous together, skins lit by the candles, sweat beading on their foreheads, a drop rolling down the crease of one of Eskel’s scars to where his lips join Geralt’s. Their kiss is all teeth and tongue, playful and nipping, fighting for a control none of them truly cares about. It’s a sight Jaskier hopes to be graced with every day of his life from now on.

But for now, impatience is making him clench and grind around Eskel, who breaks his and Geralt’s kiss to grunt. “We haven’t forgotten about you, songbird, don’t worry.”

He cups Jaskier’s cheek in his hand to meet his lips, tasting of Geralt and himself.

There’s a new pressure at Jaskier’s entrance and he gasps in Eskel’s mouth when he realizes it’s Geralt’s cock pushing inside him. The three of them moan in unison when it gets past the ring of muscles and slides besides Eskel’s prick. They stay still, panting for a few moments, until Jaskier garbles a “move” and Eskel complies, taking the lead. Geralt, carrying most of Jaskier’s weight, is slower at the beginning, but picks up speed, moving in counterpart to Eskel, never leaving Jaskier empty even for a single second. They hit his prostate with every thrust in, overwhelming him so quickly he’s only a ragdoll between the two of them after only a few minutes of the same treatment.

Eskel and Geralt lavish his throat and shoulders with soft bites and soothing licks, meeting for a kiss over him once or twice.

Jaskier comes quickly, his cock rutting against Geralt’s toned abs, the friction barely enough to have him tip over the edge, coating the rippling muscles in thick white come. Eskel follows him rapidly, his thrusts growing erratic until he spills deep into Jaskier’s ass, whispering his name reverently in the short hair at the nape of his neck. Geralt joins them after a few more thrusts, grunting his release into Jaskier’s collarbone, goosebumps breaking over the skin of his back.

The Witchers’ softening pricks slip out of his ass and Jaskier hisses at the sudden chill of emptiness. A dribble of come drips from his sensitive hole, gaping and fluttering, and Eskel takes a sharp intake of breath at the sight, fingers coming to brush the abused flesh. Jaskier whimpers in protest, too tired to move, and Geralt shushes him with a kiss to the tip of his nose.

They bring him down to the mattress, arranging his limbs comfortably. One of them - Jaskier doesn’t open his eyes to check which - gets up and brings back a rag to clean him up and a waterskin, bullying him to drink even though all he wants is to lie down and sleep.

Finally, they all snuggle up together on the bed that is slightly too small for three grown men, the room stinking of sex.

There will be a lot to talk about, tomorrow when they wake up, but for now Jaskier buries his nose in the crook of Geralt’s neck, Eskel plastered to his back, both their hands meeting on his chest, over his slowly beating heart. Content. Warm. Jaskier drifts off with a smile on his face and a new song in his mind.

#the witcher #jaskier #eskel #geralt #jaskier/eskel/geralt #geraskel #my writing #prompt fill #nsft #greyduckgreygoose

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scapegrace74-blog · 3 years

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Ginger Snap, Chapter 4

A/N Here’s the next chapter installment of Ginger Snap. I now have this story mentally plotted to its conclusion. It will have a total of 6 chapters, with perhaps a wee epilogue. In keeping with the theme, the title of this chapter is “Where There’s Smoke”.

Previous chapters are best enjoyed on my AO3 page, because I have a bad habit of going back and editing them after they’ve been posted.

I glanced around the sitting room, trying to see it through a stranger’s eyes. Well, not a stranger. Through Jamie’s eyes.

We had sold most of our furniture before leaving Boston, not considering it worth the expense of shipping across the Atlantic. Frank hired an interior decorating firm to furnish the third floor Southside flat before we arrived. The overall impression was stylish, if a bit soulless. Having grown up a virtual nomad, there were no mementos or heirlooms to speak for my personal journey. For the first time, I regretted their absence.

The buzzer rang, and I shook away my wistfulness. Jamie’s tousled curls and reckless grin greeted me as I opened the door. Today he wore a fitted navy jumper, faded grey jeans with frays about the ankles and the ubiquitous work boots. A messenger bag was slung across his broad chest.

“I hope I wasn’t supposed to supply the ingredients for today’s lesson, because my cupboards are bare,” I remarked after inviting him in.

“Jus’ as well. I wouldna squander yer food. I have all we need right here.” Reaching into his bag, he removed a clear container filled with chunks of pink meat swimming in a broth of blood. I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

“What sort of dish will I be making with those?”

Those summer eyes shone in merry provocation.

“No’ a dish, Arsonist. An experiment.”

Two saucepans were set on the stove. Jamie had me place a few pieces of meat into the water of one pot before it warmed. To the other I added a pinch of salt and a clove of garlic, but waited until it came to a boil before adding the chicken. After five minutes, I used tongs to move the now-pale flesh to waiting salad plates. Neither looked particularly appetizing, but the first pot yielded a glutinous blob.

“I suppose this is the control group,” I remarked, looking at Jamie where he leaned against my countertop, ankles crossed like a cover model. “I’m already quite familiar with what culinary failure looks like, thank you.”

“No’ failure. Variability,” my teacher argued. “See here? If ye want meat tae dissolve til it doesna hold its texture, low heat is key. An’ if ye want tae infuse it with flavour, always combine heat an’ seasoning at the same time.”

I took a small nibble of chicken from the second pot, and sure enough it tasted mildly of garlic. It was otherwise quite bland, though. When I commented on this, Jamie nodded in excitement.

“Aye, verra good. Nature seeks equilibrium, as ye well know. Sae now ye have poultry tha’ tastes o’ water and water tha’ tastes o’ chicken. If ye were makin’ a stew or chicken stock, t’would be a good thing. Fer anything else, tis shite.”

I laughed, getting into the spirit of his well-executed game.

“Have ye any music?” he asked while we cleared away the results of round one. “I always cook better with a bit o’ background noise.”

There was a high-end stereo system in the living room, but I doubted Jamie would be interested in Frank’s collection of Brahms, Mahler and Celtic harp. Seeing my hesitation, Jamie dug out a portable speaker from his bag.

“Do ye mind?” I shook my head and soon my kitchen hummed with guitar chords and plangent vocals.

The lesson lasted far longer than the scheduled hour. Jamie had me bake, fry, roast and braise different samples, each time explaining why a particular technique might be used and insisting I taste the result. It was so much fun, I shed my habitual reticence while cooking.

“An’ now fer the pièce de résistance,” Jamie announced in dramatic tones. From his seemingly bottomless messenger bag he removed what appeared to be a miniature flame thrower.

“What the fuck is that?” I asked, forgetting myself.

“I wanted ye tae ken there’s a place fer fire in the kitchen, Arsonist. Tis only a question of picking yer moment.”

With a flick of his lighter, he set the butane alight and handed me the small kitchen torch. Using extreme caution, I seared the outside of the two remaining morsels until they were a rich caramel colour. Jamie then wrapped them in foil, placing them in the oven to finish cooking. When they were cool enough to sample, the outside was pleasingly crunchy and sweet, while the inside swam in moist chicken-y flavour. We both declared them the winner.

“Tis a funny thing about fire,” Jamie remarked as he packed up his bag to leave by the more conventional front door route. “It can remain hidden beneath the surface, burying its secrets deep inside. Doesna mean it doesn’t burn, though.”

I thought about what he’d said long after he was gone, leaving me alone with his signature scent of rising bread and salt air.

That weekend, I blamed the poor weather when I declined Frank’s offer to shop for an engagement ring.

***

The next week, instead of asking to be buzzed inside, Jamie requested that I join him downstairs.

Grabbing a Mackintosh, my purse and slipping into comfortable walking shoes, I joined Jamie outside my door. He was particularly animated, despite the foul weather.

“We should ha’ started wi’ this lesson, but t’wasn’t the right day fer it,” he explained as we walked towards the farmers’ market that took place twice a week in the shadow of Castle Hill.

I considered protesting that I already knew how to shop for food, but Jamie’s enthusiasm was contagious.

We stopped at every stall, sampling the foodstuff on display, which was surprisingly varied despite it being November. Jamie knew most of the merchants by name and our progress was regularly halted by conversations on topics as varied as his family’s health, the latest rugby results and Scottish politics. I envied his wide circle of acquaintance and apparent ease interacting with them. There was no pretense, no stiffness, just a man who inhabited every square centimetre of his life to the fullest.

Jamie insisted that I taste various produce before adding it to the cloth bag he’d provided. Honey-crisp apples. Peppery radishes. Herb-infused venison sausage.

“Close yer eyes,” he instructed when I was practically dizzy with all the flavours. Still, I complied immediately. A rubbery moisture tickled my lips. “Open,” he said simply. I opened. “Tell me what ye taste, Arsonist.”

I chewed the morsel of cheese thoughtfully, letting the taste and texture coat my mouth before finally swallowing.

“Creamy. Thick. Salty. Sorrel.”

I opened my eyes only to fall into the inky vortex of Jamie’s pupils, which had expanded to almost eclipse his irises. His hand still hovered near my mouth, muscles frozen in abstraction. The cheesemonger let out an awkward little cough. Jamie blinked, and the moment vanished.

“Sorrel?” he asked a bit gruffly.

“Yer lass has a fine palate, Fraser. My sheep graze in fields full o’ it.”

I allowed myself a smug little smile. Neither of us corrected the merchant’s presumptive pronoun.

Later that evening, I sat cross-legged before the fire with a picnic for one. Frank had called from his office earlier to say he was working on notes for an upcoming symposium. Before me lay the results of the afternoon’s market adventure. Closing my eyes as I ate, every mouthful set my senses ablaze.

We never found time to visit the jeweler that weekend either.

***

The next week, I fell ill with a miserable head cold. Frank was in Oxford for his symposium, so I called Ginger Snap myself and explained to Jenny in a hoarse voice that Jamie should avoid coming to my flat at all costs.

I was curled up in a mentholated daze when there was a series of knocks. It took several minutes to free myself from my blanket cocoon and shuffle to the front door. Glancing in the entryway mirror, my hair called to mind an electrified poodle and my nose was twelve shades of raw, but I opened the door anyway. No-one was there. Leaning out to peer down the hallway, I practically tripped over a brown paper bag resting at my feet.

Inside was a metal thermos, still quite warm to the touch. As I unscrewed the cap, my stuffed nose was assailed by fragrant steam. Homemade cock-a-leekie soup. I felt a glow fill my chest that had nothing to do with my fever. Pouring a helping into a mug, I shuffled back to my couch-nest. I felt better already.

***

The following week, Jamie was distracted. I’d thanked him profusely for the soup, and asked if he could show me how to make it for myself. As the chicken thighs and stock began to warm, however, I caught him glancing regularly at his phone, fingers drumming against his thigh.

“Are you expecting an important text?” I finally asked.

“Hmm? Och, Arsonist, I’m verra sorry. Tis only that we got a last-minute request tae cater a big corporate Christmas party, an’ Jenny is beside herself wi’ worrying.” He tucked him phone into the pocket of his cargo pants.

“When’s the party?”

“T’morrow,” he confessed.

“What! Jamie, what are you doing here? You should have called me to reschedule.”

“T’wouldna be fair, what wi’ us missing last week on account of yer sniffles. An’ wi’ Christmas ‘round the corner, I didna ken when I’d... er, when we’d have time for another lesson.”

I turned off the burner with a decisive twist. Jamie opened his mouth to lodge a protest, but I beat him to the punch.

“Jamie, the soup will keep. Growing your business is more important. I wish there was something more I could do to help, but under the circumstances...”

“Come wi’ me?” he blurted out.

I was nodding before the words finished leaving his mouth. Notwithstanding the fact that he had just literally been teaching me how to boil water, I didn’t want to lose his company so soon. We likely wouldn’t see one another again until after the New Year.

It was a thirty minute walk to Leith. Jamie could probably have covered the distance in half that with his long strides, were it not for me trotting along beside him. We stopped at several shops along the way to pick up provisions, arriving at Ginger Snap with our arms laden with the freshest food Edinburgh had to offer.

I had expected Jenny and Jamie to be working alone, but the fire station was abuzz with activity. I was hastily introduced to Angus, a distant Fraser cousin; Mary, a childhood friend of Jenny’s; and Murtagh, Jamie and Jenny’s godfather. They worked together like a well-oiled machine, and I stood awkwardly to one side, wondering what the hell I was doing there. I was preparing to make my excuses when Jamie called me over to a spare station. He gestured to the commercial-sized sink, which was full of vegetables of every dimension and colour.

“Claire, I need ye tae rinse and then cut these inta nice even pieces. Can ye do tha’ fer me?”

"Consider it done, chef,” I said with a jaunty salute.

There was a feeling of camaraderie as we each went about our assigned tasks. I chopped. Mary baked. Angus filleted. Jamie cooked, and Jenny plated the various canapés, salads and sauces and stored them in the enormous refrigerators that lined the back wall. Murtagh’s role seemed mostly to keep the troops in line with an assortment of verbal barbs.

Music played in the background. Volleys of witty banter flowed between us, but never at the expense of the work or anyone’s feelings. Angus nicked himself with his filleting knife, and Jenny sent him to my station for treatment, saying I was the team’s resident doctor. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so at home.

Time passed quickly and before I knew it, it was dark outside. The bulk of the work was done and the pace slackened, the pressure of the looming deadline relieved. One by one we cleared our stations, meeting at the small seating area to share a well-earned drink.

Jenny sunk into the couch beside me and let out a loud sigh.

“Ouf, I canna believe we got it all done. Claire, ye were a godsend. Normally I do most o’ the prep work, but it leaves me no time tae arrange the dishes.”

I demurred, uncomfortable with the praise.

“Nay, Arsonist, ye were amazing,” Jamie began to object, but he was interrupted by my phone buzzing. Glancing down, I felt my face fall. I’d completely forgotten about Frank. Now he was texting, asking me where I was. I quickly fired off a reply, then stuffed the phone into my pocket.

“Everything alright?” Jenny asked.

“Oh, yes. It’s only my fiancé, asking when I might be home,” I answered, still distracted by my uncharacteristic lapse. As I glanced up, I ran straight into Jamie’s iceberg gaze.

“I didna realize ye were engaged,” he looked pointedly at my bare ring finger. “Congratulations.”

He said the word as though every syllable pained him. I quelled the urge to explain, to say it wasn’t a real engagement because I’d never agreed, that I’d only been looking for a sense of security, but somehow found myself in a cage.

Instead I hastily finished my drink, called myself an Uber and quietly wished everyone a good night, all while avoiding the many questions written across Jamie’s expressive face.

#my writing #outlander #ginger snap

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bookstantrash · 3 years

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A/N: Sorry for disappearing, I promise I have not given up on this fic. Life is kinda of a mess right now. The College Entrance Exams Season has just begun, and I’ve been studying nonstop, which leaves me with little time to write and a brain overheated due to excessive studying.

Good news tho! So far, I have been accepted in the two colleges I’ve already applied for, which leaves me with just The Big Scary Exam in January which also has a second phase that is FIVE DAYS AFTER ACOSF IS RELEASED. And which is pretty much my dream college

But let’s talk about happy things. Get comfortable and enjoy the long overdue Part Four!

In which she makes a friend, Part Four

Cassian woke up in the late afternoon. After a silently breakfast with Nesta, he went to report to Devlon and go over the papers he had left piling up in his absence. Nesta had gone to her room — probably to take a bath and change out of the leathers — and he had not seen her since. He had promptly fallen asleep as soon as his head had hit the pillow, his aching muscles and wings screaming for some well deserved rest.

Cassian debated whether to knock on Nesta’s door or not as he splashed some cold water on his face. He had decided he was going to help her, he just didn’t know how to do that without seeming as if he was just following orders from Feyre. Nesta was not a burden. Would never be. At least not for him. He was going to do this right and make up for the two months he was away.

Gathering his courage, he softly knocked on her door, straining his ears to listen to something that would indicate that she was in her bedroom. When he heard nothing, not even her breathing, he remembered the stone bench. The weather was sunny — with “sunny” in Illyria meaning that the grey sky was more or less free of clouds and the cold not as unforgiving as usual. However, when he opened the front door and stepped outside, he did not see Nesta but the young Illyrian he had seen earlier, Kaelin.

Cassian stayed quiet, taking the opportunity to inspect the kid, which was so busy writing something down in a piece of paper — Cassian could see him biting his lip in concentration and pushing back a stray curl that kept falling on his eyes — that didn’t take notice of his arrival. Kaelin was a question mark that had suddenly appeared in his life. Cassian didn’t know who the Illyrian was, but if Nesta had chosen to trust him — to take him under her care when she could not deign to care for herself — then he was going to trust her decision. And he would ask Kaelin to work with him to help Nesta heal.

“You know, if you’re thinking of growing your hair maybe you should have something to tie it back” Cassian said, clearing his throat to warn Kaelin of his presence.

Kaelin almost fell from the bench in surprise, quickly raising to greet him.

“Please, there’s no need for that” Cassian pleaded, interrupting Kaelin before he did the formal salute “You are living here now, you may address me informally”.

“Yes, sir” he hesitantly answered, as if unsure if he should be treating his superior like that.

The younglings usually liked Cassian. He did teach a lot of them to fly and played with them whenever he had the chance. But Kaelin was in the phase where training got harder, tougher. When the Camp Lords started to separate those who had potential and those who would only be another number in the army.

“Isn’t it better to write inside? The bench looks uncomfortable” Cassian tried, hoping to gain the kid’s trust.

“Nesta said...she said it’s good to read out loud while you write” the tip of Kaelin’s ears turned soft pink “I didn’t want to disturb you, sir”

Nesta was teaching Kaelin how to read.

Cassian didn’t know what to do with this new information. He had really missed a lot on two months.

“I wouldn’t be woken by your voice. I usually sleep like the dead”.

“When I can actually sleep” Cassian thought. His dreams usually turned into nightmares, and he only slept well when he was near the point of passing out from fatigue. Like today.

“Oh, I see. Nesta gave me one of the military books in your living room to practice, I hope that’s fine” the young Illyrian knotted his eyebrows in confusion “She said she didn’t have any books I could read”.

“No, I don’t think she has” Cassian allowed himself a small smile, thinking about the dirty romance novels he knew Nesta liked. He didn’t think they’d have been proper for Kaelin “Feel free to take any books you like. I’ll see if I can get hold of less boring ones for you”.

“I don’t want to burden you!!” he quickly said “Really, they’re not boring. A bit hard to understand, but I usually write down the words I don’t know and Nesta helps me later”.

“It’s not a bother. I was planning to get some books for Nesta. She reads a lot and I think she may have run out of books now”.

Cassian tried to calm Kaelin, making sure it was nothing out of his way. He knew how it felt when you had nothing and people offered you things. The first time he had received a present, a solstice gift from Rhysand’s mother, he had been afraid to accept and had cried afterwards, once he was alone. He could only imagine how it was for the Kaelin. An orphan who once had some and suddenly was stripped of even the little things he had to call his own.

“You and Nesta... you seem close” he tried to appear nonchalant, laying the ground for his intention of gathering Kaelin’s aid.

“She’s nice” he answered, pushing the stray curl away again.

“How has she been? Has she been going out a lot?” Cassian cringed internally at how desperate he sounded, but he could not deny how worried he was that Nesta was not back when it was beginning to darken.

“I’ve know Nesta for two, three months at most”.

“And?” Cassian inquired.

“She does not eat much. Started going out recently” Kaelin eyed him in suspicion “I don’t know if I should be talking with you, sir, about her. I know that I wouldn’t like to have someone talking about me behind my back. Specially with someone who had left me alone for months”.

Cassian realised that, in this conversation, he was the enemy. Kaelin knew Nesta, but had no reason whatsoever to trust Cassian, ranks in the army be damned.

“I was busy. Commander stuff” he didn’t want to talk about how a civil war was most likely to happen.

Kaelin’s only answer was to raise an eyebrow in question, an act that reminded Cassian so much of Nesta that he was momentarily thrown back. Was his idea about to go down the drain before he had even tried it out?

“I wouldn’t have left if wasn’t really necessary”.

“I didn’t doubt you” Kaelin said, the corners of his mouth raising slightly.

Cauldron, he couldn’t believe how he was being played by a teenage boy.

“And I guess I know what you’re trying to do” Kaelin commented, gathering the book, tucking the piece of paper inside it and pocketing the pencil.

“If you know it, then are you willing to be my helping hand?” Cassian remembered why he usually stuck with training the younglings. They didn’t have smart comebacks.

“I cannot possibly train Nesta. I only know the basics I’ve learnt as a kid. But you sir, are a legend” Kaelin’s eyes sparked in admiration.

Mikael had told Kaelin stories about the Commander of the Illyrian armies. Of how an orphan who was supposed to be a foot soldier had the biggest killing power in Illyria’s history.

“I’m willing to do anything to make Nesta happy” Kaelin’s expression saddened “She is not doing well. And I own her my life. It’s the minimum I can do”.

“Thank you. I think she’d listen more to you than me” Cassian stretched his wings “First things first then kiddo. Could you tell me where she is? It’s getting late and she should have someone accompany her back”.

Kaelin gave him a wide smile, and before Cassian could do anything, got airborne.

“Don’t worry about it!! I always walk Nesta back!!”

And with a last goodbye shout, Kaelin flew away to meet Nesta at Cauldron knows where, leaving Cassian no option but to enter the house and get dinner ready.

~•~

To say dinner had been awkward was an understatement.

Cassian didn’t remember ever being so tongue tied before. Nesta had also kept quiet for most of the meal. Kaelin, however, did enough talking for both of them.

The kid had completely lost all shyness regarding Cassian, although he still added ‘sir’ sometimes when it seemed he was going overboard. Keeping his word to help Cassian with Nesta, Kaelin had talked nonstop about the things that had happened in those two months. Cassian learned that Nesta cooked quite well — “Illyrian culinary is different from high Fae but she learned so fast! It didn’t even feel like the food had been kept in the ice box for so long!” — and that she also knew how to sew — “She fixed all my clothes! They fit perfectly now! It feels as if they’re brand new!”.

Cassian would be pleased to just sit there and listen to Kaelin praise Nesta and tell all her hidden abilities, but he saw the way her pointed ears were getting pink and how she stuffed food in her mouth to avoid getting asked more questions. So he changed topics to Kaelin’s training, and he swore he saw Nesta silently thank him by the way her grey blue eyes softened.

The rest of the dinner run smoothly. He was also relived to see Nesta getting a second helping of food. Cassian could bet that she had not had lunch and, as a result, was starving.

He had made rice with cooked vegetables, along with fish seasoned with baniwa, a pepper based sauce. He had also left some fish without baniwa, not knowing whether Nesta liked her food spicy or not. He was happy to see that she choose the fish with the sauce and decided to stick with solid food, not taking any of the Imu Yanisa Kiyauriri he had offered, in case her stomach was not well.

After quietly washing the dishes while Nesta dried them — she had just gotten up and grabbed the kitchen rag, not sparing him a glance as she took the clean plate from his hand — Cassian locked himself in his room, hoping to get a good night’s sleep.

However, lucky was not on his side. He tossed and turned on his bed for hours, until finally giving up sleep and moving to his desk to go over the training schedule and other minor documents. Maybe work would tire him out enough to get maybe three or four hours of sleep.

Cassian was in the middle of a report regarding the preparations for the Blood Rite when he felt a shiver running down his spine. A faint sensation of panic came forth, and he was momentarily thrown back. Shrugging it off as fatigue, he turned back to the paper. But the sensation did not disappear. Had someone gotten over the wards somehow?

“Oh, screw this” he cursed, raising from his chair and opening his bedroom door.

Looking in the living room’s direction, he saw Kaelin completely passed out in the couch, sleeping on his stomach, his wings twitching in his sleep and drooling. The kitchen was clear as well, the same with the outdoor patio and the bathroom. The sensation got fainter, and he almost gave up when he walked by Nesta’s bedroom.

Cassian felt that panic rise within him once again. Felt that sensation of dread and helplessness knock him with full force. Without thinking, he opened her door, all reason flying out of his head to knock or call her from outside. Once inside, the first thing he notice was how cold the room was. She had not lit the fireplace, but it for sure was not due to lack of firewood. Why had she chosen to bury herself under multiple fur blankets then?

Second thing he took notice of was that said blankets had been thrown to the floor. And that Nesta was painting, fists tightly closed beside her body.

“Nesta...” Cassian breathed, slowly approaching the bed. He could see her eyes moving frantically under eyelids. The sensation was stronger now, threatening to consume him. He could not imagine how Nesta felt. Tried not to think why he also felt it.

“No...get away...” she murmured feverishly in her sleep “Take me. Take me instead”

Cassian smelled smoke, and he realised that Nesta’s fists were burning the sheets were they touched, her skin damp with sweat.

“Ness....” Cassian knew that you should not wake up someone when they were having a nightmare, not when they were letting their power lose. That indicated that the person had lost all sensation of reality and imagination, and could hurt whoever approached them. But Cassian could not see her suffering and just do nothing.

Gently, he kneeled beside her bed, and tentatively run his thumb across her forehead.

“You’re safe Nesta. Breath.” he murmured, bringing his other hand to her clenched fists, squeezing in reassurance, the fire around them not hurting him.

“It’s my fault...my fault” she whimpered, and sorrow and guilty hit Cassian just like earlier.

“Shhh.... Nobody can harm you” his thumb kept caressing her, trying to transmit comfort through his touch.

“I’m sorry...” she took a sharp breath, and Cassian could feel she tremble slightly.

“Nesta. Nesta.” he willed her hand to open, clutching it on his “Hush now xe r-endy, I’m here. Îebyr pe ixê.”

He kept talking in Illyrian, and she started to calm down, her breath coming in regularly and some tension leaving her body.

“That’s it sweetheart. You’re safe” Cassian tucked the blankets over Nesta, getting her comfortable.

“Cassian...stay” she grabbed his hand, eyes half open and laced with sleep, her strange and mysterious power faintly shinning on them.

“I will stay until you fall asleep” he replied.

And Cassian spent the rest of the night and early morning sitting on her bedroom floor. Holding her hand. And when the first of rays of sunlight appeared, he let go of her hand.

And he left Nesta’s room.

•

Tags: @sayosdreams @thewayshedreamed @sjm-things @perseusannabeth @arin1030-blog @caotica-e-quieta @vidalinav @swankii-art-teacher @ireallyshouldsleeprn @duskandstarlight @greerlunna @thegoddessaltenia @dayanna-hatter @verypaleninja @awesomelena555 @courtofjurdan @allilal

{Please let me know if you’d like to be added to my tag list.}

#sarah j maas #sjmaas #sjm fanfic #sjm fandom #nesta archeron #cassian #nessian #cassian x nesta

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aggresivelyfriendly · 3 years

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-Tis the Damn Season- Year Three

Jingle Bell Rock Me

Hi anybody reading! She’s a tiny bit short, but so am I, and I think that’s cute! Lol! Thanks to @dirtystyles for the beta!

"Excuse me, Emma." His voice, the one that's been echoing in the hollows of her body for a year and that she hasn't heard except for on the occasional call in the same amount of time, nearly buckles her knees. It steals her breath and speeds her heart. She imagines her cheeks and chest have gone that red color.

It's not the same over the phone.

Emma thought she had prepared herself, at least a little. No amount of busyness could make her forget that she was going to see him. Emma had done her best to distract herself with trips to the market for her mum and to the pub to see anyone in town. She knew seeing him in those places was less likely. She really wanted to see him, to look at him full on, but Gemma was already looking at her a little funny, with her fluttering lashes and subtle panting. She hopes it's subtle. She's just about to get a hold of herself, she is sure of it, when his fingers brush over the keyhole in the back of her sweater. She'd worn it for this very purpose. Hoping they'd find themselves in the vicinity of the mistletoe or alone in the kitchen, or her bent over a chair in the snowy garden, wherever, and he could get his hands on her a little, despite the chill of the December weather.

It was everything she had hoped for, but that he went for it so immediately, another victory, is what makes her sure she's miscalculated her strategy. His opening volley has her ready to fall down dumbly and suck him off, and she hasn't even looked at him.

Emma can feel the goosebumps pop up and she hears his suppressed chuckle at her excitement at his presence, his touch. And that does it. If she was looking at him, could look at him, she would be rolling her eyes, maybe giving him a two finger salute. She suppresses the eye roll. Luckily, Gemma is doing it for her.

"Harry, are you just going to be a pest all evening? Surely some friend you still trust is here, don't lurk when I've found one of mine." Gemma put her arm around Emma's shoulder and turned her. It's lucky, because now they both can look at him, and Emma can do so unobserved. Gem is still talking to him in her dressing down tone, she'd loved to use that one on an assortment of dickheads in sixth form, and Emma almost laughs realizing where she perfected it. On Harry, who is looking at his sister with amusement, her barbed tongue having no impact on him. His backbone is stiffer than Emma's, though other body parts have more in common. His eyes are as wandering as hers. He slid his gaze to her, he stays near the acceptable places, though her lips tingled when he stared at those momentarily. When his gaze dropped lower, she could tell where it was roving though he feinted and parried so fast Gemma may very well not notice.

Emma is not so disciplined, and her gape is not the dance of a fencer, but is the blunt of a broadsword. He looks better than last year, she thinks. He's thicker, she can already feel his wider presence between her thighs. His hair must be longer, but he's got it wrapped up and she can't wait to pull it free and clutch at it later.

She's only seen him twice, in a year. Seen him through a call on her tiny iPhone screen.

The first had been early, just after she got back to Amsterdam and he texted to get her address. Later that day, when the giant bouquet of flowers arrived she had to call him.

"Do you send all the girls you fuck enough flowers to give their roommates sneezing fits?" She'd immediately taken the piss. Defensewas the best offense.

"Only the ones I'm hoping to fuck again." He'd been quick to respond and she was glad she hadn't yet answered the FaceTime call he must have immediately initiated. Emma got her blush under control, maybe just enough color in her cheeks to make the video call slightly more flattering, though the white and yellow blooms gave her a good backdrop to work with.

"Well aren't you a charmer!"

"Right out of your knickers!" He flashed his eyebrows and she realized he appeared to be in a hotel room in his boxers. Oh, OH, that's why he's flirting so hard.

Does she wanna do this, on their first phone call, have video chat sex? Is that a thing? He's laying back on the bed and she's about to throw her penny and pound into the ring when she hears Lula come into the entryway. "Behave! My roommate just got home!"

"Oh, should I say hello?" He asks and his hand slides to his stomach, right over the butterfly tattoo she had kissed until it fluttered a week before.

"No, I don't want to hear the screams!" Emma stage whispered.

"Oh, she's a fan?" He asked like only one answer was possible.

"Yea, of me. And she's been trying to get me laid for months." Emma giggled. "She says I study too much, I object, she doesn't study enough."

"Well, we took care of that." He made a curious face then. "You're not gonna tell her?"

Did he expect her to blab to anybody that would listen that she'd banged a pop star? Maybe phone a tabloid? "No, I don't think I'll tell anyone. I like the idea of you as my secret."

"Our little secret!" His dimpled smirk really did her in.

"Our dirty little secret." She filled in the missing word, it fit snugly in his growing dimples. The possibilities too. She'd hugged her flat mate and excised herself to make good on the promise the phrase made.

And then they didn't do more than text for ages, he was on some massive tour and the time zones had her not seeing his texts for hours because they needed to sleep and she needed to lock herself in libraries and labs. The second time they spoke he'd been on a break, in California, and he'd called to see if she could fly out. She was at the airport, oddly, but she was going to Reykiyavik, not Riverside.

She'd told herself the whole flight that it was silly to feel sad. They knew with their schedules that seeing each other might only happen over the holidays. It was such a given they hadn't even discussed it.

So, as much as she wanted to, and was overwhelmed that he'd even thought to ask her, she'd just told him, "H, I can't. I'm on my way to my summer studies."

And he'd just said, "Ah well, I'll just have to keep dreaming about seeing you then." Those words had colored her night visions for months.

He'd also left her a detailed message about what he wanted for Christmas three weeks ago.

His morning voice on her phone for three delicious, descriptive minutes was the closest she'd gotten to what he sounded like in person.

Her dreams were really bright then, almost technicolor, better than reality. At least reality with someone who wasn't Harry, as she found out in October.

It still hit differently, his voice, in this moment because she could see what he looked like too. In his jazzy button up and tight jeans. The guy she'd dated for a bit, Marko, had reminded her a little of Harry. But looking at the real thing now, in the flesh, not painted on hues, but living and breathing, she couldn't quite recall why.

Maybe just the hair. Though, Harry's was longer now, curlier, wilder.

It made her wild. When they made eye contact, she felt it in her toes. There was a pause in conversation, everyone waiting, Gemma waiting, for them to greet each other. Emma knew she should say hello, but she was busy trying to regulate her breathing. Panting wouldn't do, but that's what the collision of her daydreams and her wet dreams was inspiring.

Harry saved her, of course. "Hey Emma! It's so good to see you." The way he said good, the tone was almost like when he'd called her a "good girl" when she woken him up with a blow job last year. . Or, she thought it sounded like that.

God, what was he doing to her. She was nodding.

"It's really lovely to see you too, Styles, you've had a big year!" She'd started paying attention, when she had the time.

He blushed. Oh god!

"God, don't get him started, his head will only get bigger!" Gemma said affectionately, jostling Harry a little. "And you," she'd pointed at Emma then, "don't forget that time we had to help him hide coming home off his tits and he pissed himself. He's still my idiot little brother! No matter how famous!"

Or handsome, was Emma's addendum. She said it in her head. But they were all laughing and Gemma had given him more reasons for the attractive flush on his cheeks and deep press of his chagrined dimple. "We wouldn't want him to get a big head!" Emma giggled.

"I'm big enough everywhere else!" Harry tried to boast before Gemma started a story about how they'd had to special order a hat once, because of his massive cranium, and Emma could only sneak glances until he decided to loudly leave.

"I don't have to take this abuse!" He narrowed his green eyes at his sister. "Emma, if you want to have a conversation where my sister doesn't make it her job to insult me, I'll be in the kitchen." Near the mistletoe her mind added.

"She'll pass, I'm sure!" Gemma laughed.

Emma just smiled, as placidly as her galloping heart allowed. "I'm sure I'll need a refill at some point. Maybe then!" Her eyes promised she'd find him.

Which was how she'd wound up on the countertop of the back bathroomn with her palm between her teeth, her tights around her ankles and Harry's head between her thighs.

"Shh, shh!" He laughed up at her and god, he looked so in his element on his knees during his mother's party with a naughty glint in his eyes. Emma wrapped her hand around his chin and pulled him up to her.

"Come here!" She breathed against his mouth. The kiss tasted of her and who knew how much she liked that? Harry apparently, based on the knowing look he gave her when he pulled back to get his dick out of his tight jeans. "Convenient skirt this!"

"Inconvenient jeans those are. Are they some form of birth control?"

"Huh?" That stopped him as he was rolling the condom onto himself.

"There's evidence that wearing things too tight on your bollocks might reduce sperm count. That an extra measure to stop groupie babies?" She shouldn't ask about or imply she didn't want him sleeping with anyone else. They only saw each other once a year. She pretended even to herself that she didn't care who he slept with the rest of the year. If she wanted to know, she supposed she could ask, but she didn't. She also pretended not to compare her other rare dates to him.

There is no comparison.

"I'm gonna have to buy a whole new wardrobe!" He laid his nose against her collarbone and she pressed hers into his hair. She'd pulled off the head scarf as soon as they'd gotten into the bathroom and she was taking full advantage of the access. He was right, it was a little awkward, but Emma could see the potential and it was perfect for pulling.

He was perfect.

Her eyes had closed and she needed to get him back into gear, she should know better than to question a man's manhood when she was trying to use it. "Do you think you could afford it?" Her sarcasm was evident. She got her hand around the funny texture of his skinned cock. "Seems to be working just fine, still, and with possible positive side effects. Should we test it out?"

He lifted his head and his heavy breaths and blown out pupils suggested her stroke had brought him back to their present activity. He caught her mouth and her hips and brought her to the edge of the sill before sinking into her. He'd done his job well, the resistance was minimal and exactly what she remembered. He stopped for just a moment and she wondered if he enjoyed the fullness as much as she did. They exhaled together, made eye contact.

"I've dreamed about this for a year!" He started to move and stole the breath she would have said 'me too' with.

She knew she was making too much noise, she had every time she was with him. He was shushing her again and grinning proudly. "You have to be quiet." He laughed against her mouth.

"Make me?" Was what she said.

"Well, that would involve stopping, and I've no intention of that." So instead he caught her face and licked into her mouth while redoubling his stroke. He covered her mouth with his palm a moment later when her neck went soft and her head hit the mirror.

It was coming, the wave she'd been searching for that had receded too quickly when she'd insisted he kiss her after getting off moments ago. She bit down on his hand to muffle the groan growing in her lower belly.

"Ow!" He looked up from where he was jawing the tits he'd popped out of her bra. Emma squeezed down on him, hard, Iiterally. "Fuck!" He kept eye contact and sped up his thrusts, hitting up just as he had been when she bit him. Her eyes closed as she started to crest, popping open again when the door rattled.

Harry thought quickly and put his hip against it. His strong hold on her doubly useful. They both looked to the lock.

"You nearly done?" An unremarkable voice called.

Harry smirked at her. Covered her mouth and yelled through the door, "Yes, nearly!"

Emma didn't think she could come like that, but she was wrong. Her orgasm was all the stronger for the palm secured over her mouth and the person through the door who might hear. And for Harry's cocky cheek while he pushed into her, until his face dissolved and he groaned. She should have put her hand over his mouth.

Instead her fingers went there and he sucked dutifully.

That set her mind running. Should she ask about meeting later? Tonight, or their traditional, she hoped, Boar's Headon Boxing Day get-together?

They'd already gotten into each other; last year they'd wound up together any free moment, but she didn't want to presume. A week full of stolen moments, some texts messages, a couple phone calls, and a back bathroom fuck did not entitle her to anything.

This wasn't enough for her, but she was too afraid to ask for more. Even what she'd had last time.

"God!" He breathed as he pulled himself free and her off the sink, fixing her skirt before washing his hands and dick, not in that order, in the basin, "How am I gonna wait until tomorrow night?" He turned a drowsy sated smile on her. "What time can you get away to the Boar's Head?"

"You still want to meet up?" She hoped she didn't sound as astounded to his ears as her own told her she did.

He's folding his beautiful dick into his jeans and he's about to do the little jump he does to position it when he just stops. He looks at her quizzically. "Why wouldn't I want to see you?"

She needs to pee and use the sink for the inelegant water in hand wash out, but she'd rather do that in front of him than reveal her insecurity. "It's just...we just..." She pointed between the two of them.

"Yeah, and we can do more," He motioned between them. Then his face lost the cheek and was replaced by a look of focused earnestness that made her heart beat harder than seeing him in person an hour ago. "And if I only get to see you once a year, because you're terribly ambitious and I'm terribly busy—"

"Yeah, you're just busy, not ambitious." She'd try to diffuse the intensity of whatever she's hoping he's about to say.

"So busy, I only get to see my dear Emma once a year, I want to sleep with you."

"You just did!" She reminds him.

"No, really sleep with you, not just sex." He pulls her in. Inside the hug, he kisses her. "Plus, we need time to talk. I want to hear all about this year's research and whatever power plant you geeked out over all summer."

"Yeah?" She's starry eyed and weak kneed, again, still.

"Yes, you muppet. I don't miss you all year just because you taste so good." He kissed her then. "Though you do taste better than anyone else."

She takes the compliment, and only thinks about it on a loop all of Christmas Day, and night. She completely forgets about it after she and Harry have tasted each other by noon on Boxing Day. Then he reveals their real first kiss, and Emma is too busy feeling their current kisses and trying to recall details of that Christmas delight while they sneak around and carouse anywhere they can.

He had to leave earlier than last year. And it's not until he's pulled off, from their private goodbye, before his pub send off where they flirt just enough to annoy Gemma, that she thinks about it.

She's not innocent, she saw other people 11 months out of the year, well three, but she couldn't help but wonder, who else was he tasting?

He implied that he had something to compare her to. Even if it was favorable, she found it bothered her. A lot.

She could ask him; instead she decides to just remember his taste and his interest, it'll have to carry her through until next yule.

It's not her business, it's too far down a road not taken anyway.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #tis the damn season #chapter three #jingle bell rock me

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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years

Text

Yamata-No-Orochi: (Part 4) Erii

ITT: The Mic Drop Heard Round the World.

The sun woke you. Bright light shone through the windows, forming a halo around the curtains and projecting the shape of raindrops from the window onto the carpet. Mingfei had left shortly before you fell asleep of exhaustion and grief.

You’d fought hard and rebelled against the world, but this last rebellion had taken you too far. Z raised, saved, and safeguarded you. But you refused to play his love game, and that was all it took to discard you. Caesar had been at your side, encouraging you to live all this time. But now that the clouds had gathered, and the darkness of the world surrounded you, he realized that, like Chance, life was not in the cards for you. And Chu Zihang? Well, he always was a sword at your throat.

Once again the world was laughing, mocking you with its silent game of keep away. Love? Syke! Happiness? Syke! Companionship? Syke!

You hated this world. Mingfei went to Erii’s room with the Desert Eagle. What was stopping you from planting your mind in the ground and tilting Tokyo into a rift in the Earth, like it was the undersea Takamagahara? To watch its towers topple, and its buildings burn would be a fitting end to a Godzilla movie.

The hotel phone rang, insanely loud. You reached over and picked it up. “Pizza Hut,” you mumble.

Lu Mingfei stammered for a moment. Then he laughed. “Hey. You, me, Erii road trip. Right now. I left some clothes for you.”

His voice over the phone, it sounded like Z’s. You are silent, mind completely inert, spirit aching. “Sure whatever.” You hang up.

You shower and pull a comb through your hair three times, leaving it to fall over your shoulders. You don't bother with jewelry or make up. He left you a pair of skin tight jeans and a shirt that said Wild Thing across the front. White ankle socks and blue low rise canvas sneakers go over your feet.

The phone rings again. Mingfei sounded breathless. “Come now! We have to go!”

You hang up the phone and dash outside. Mingfei is waiting for you in a cherry red porsche. Erii waves with bright enthusiasm from the passenger side as he gets out and folds the seat down so you can get in the back. “Erii this is my friend, MC, She’s sick like you.”

You startle. Mingfei just went out and said it. You hold out your hand and she takes it, examining your fingers with her dark red eyes. You were lighter skinned, but this girl was near transparent. She scribbled on a notepad. “Nice to meet you. You are very pretty.”

“Guys buckle up!”

Your seatbelt had just clicked when Mingfei down shifted and floored it. The engine let out a mighty growl and the car took off like a rocket down the street. But Mingfei was relaxed, with an impish, ‘catch me if you can’ sort of look. Something in your chest stirred awake.

Erii held up her notebook. “Sakura is the best, right?”

Her smile was so sly, not something you expected to see. “Oh yeah, he's awesome!”

Her nod was sassy, like, Damn Straight.

You look at him again. He was smiling like he was angry. He was acting recklessly. The buildings were a blur outside the windows. The car rumbled like a beast underneath you as the accelerator didn't let up. You weave through traffic like lightning and soon the police are tailing you with flashing lights.

If you thought you were going fast before you were mistaken. The car dug deeper, and it felt like you floated over the road. The police car faded into the distance, unable to keep up.

He pulls into a service station and pays the attendant way too much cash. “Where are we going?” You ask.

“It's a surprise!”

“Does MC like gum?” Erii held out a piece and you helped yourself.

You lean forward. Erii was covered head to toe in clothing, despite the good weather.

“MC said that Erii is not stupid, that Erii is smart. MC was right, you knew a lot about yourself. But MC was sad so I wanted to take her too.” Lu Mingfei was saying. “Because she cares for Erii and understands her.”

Erii looks at you for a moment. Then she wrote in her notepad, “Cheer up. Sakura is very lucky. Thank you for caring about me.”

Her expression was so earnest and happy. Did she really understand herself? You hold out your hands for the notebook and pen. You write, “I'm too sick so my friends are scared of me.”

She takes one look at the notepad and her eyes widen. She snatches it back and writes, “Erii is not scared, Erii will be your friend.”

“Please be my friend.” You say softly.

Erii reaches out and seizes your arm. Her face is serious and she nods. When you stop at the supermarket, she drags you along, purchasing snacks and a gigantic stuffed teddy bear. Erii was not interested in herself. She wanted to cheer you up! She understood beyond words the lifelong loneliness, the constant rejection, and growing up in a world that feared you. She forcefully shoves the teddy bear into your hands. And pulls you along. It's so big you can't see around it.

Her image blurs with that of Renata. If Renata had a chance to grow up, she would be this bold.

The bear is so tall it folds against the low ceiling of the porsche. You squeeze in next to it.

“MC is from Siberia. Where she is from, the sun doesn't set in Summer. And in Winter, it doesn't rise and lights dance in the sky.” Mingfei says as you take off again.

Erii swivels in a full body, “What?!” expression and you laugh. “It is true. It's exactly like that.”

“That is AWESOME!” She turns the notepad to you and then writes, “I want to visit your home!”

You recall your promise to Caesar to go dog sledding and feel a pang of regret. But your mind has already replaced Caesar on the dogsled and put Erii there. “Let’s go dogsledding!”

She looks confused.

“Here give me your notebook.” You draw a sketch of a dog sled pulled by a team of panting dogs.

If Erii’s eyes got any bigger they would fill her face. She wrote, “IS THERE SANTA IS HE THERE”

“I… no Santas not there, but we can pretend to be Santa.”

“MC is awesome!”

Before dusk, Lu Mingfei and you two ladies arrived in the town at the southwest end of Shikoku, which is more than four hundred kilometers from Tokyo. The Porsche sports car ran for a full four hours. The whole time Erii peppered you with questions about life in Siberia while Mingfei drove. She had the impression of a magical frostland full of sky and sea. Her sparkling impression was free of brutal reality. For four hours you spoke only of the beauty and wonder of the north. Erii’s notebook is filled with sketches of white quail, snow geese, cute arctic foxes, bears, seals, and whales.

The open-air parking lot was empty. Lu Mingfei found a parking space to park the car, and opened the door to hear the tide. You could not see the sea. A large hill stood between you and the ocean. The waves sounded like reverberating between the sky and the earth.

"The sea?" Erii wrote to Lu Mingfei, with excitement in her eyes.

Lu Mingfei nodded his head as an answer.

Ah the ocean… maybe four hours ago you might have been upset to meet up with the water. Now you just laugh.

Erii looks at you curiously.

“Did you know I got to ride dolphins?”

Erii practically staggers.

“If you're lost in the ocean, sometimes dolphins will rescue you.” You hook her arm in yours. “They're big and strong and won't let you drown.”

“MC knows so much.”

“Erii knows a lot about Erii’s world. I know a lot about mine.”

Erii nods and smiles.

Lu Mingfei pulled out the compass, opened the long-prepared map, and took you to the town not far away. The sign in front of the town reads Umezuji-cho. At this time of the year, the streets of Tokyo must be bustling with people, but in this small seaside town, there are no people on the streets, only a group of elementary school students in school uniforms passing by.

Mingfei seemed to be in a rush, but Erii dallied with you, asking questions and marveling at the tofu shop, or the batik store. More than once, Mingfei had to come back and usher you forward. He clearly had some sort of plan in mind.

You find out that he hurried was so you could catch the last mountain tram, which was built next to the town's shrine and had a 45-degree angle track that made a staccato sound as you climbed.

On both sides of the track there are dense trees. These trees cover the track like thick clouds, and it is as if you are walking through a tunnel of ever-changing colors, a tunnel made purely of foliage and flowers.

Both you and Erii are stunned with wonder. You did not have such dense forests like this growing up. The air is full of birdsong and frogs and early season cicadas. You feel someone take your hand. Erii points to your face. A bright tear shone there like a pearl. You didn't know you had shed it.

"Sakura is not Japanese, right? How do you know such a beautiful place?" Erii wrote in her little notebook.

"I saw a drama made in Japan. This is a very famous scene from that drama. I saw that drama a long time ago."

"What was the name of that TV series?"

"Tokyo Love Story." Lu Mingfei wrote one stroke at a time.

"I liked that Japanese drama so much that I searched the Internet for all kinds of information about Ehime Prefecture, and finally learned that the ending scene was filmed in Umezuji Town, and that the school and the separate stations in the drama were real. I had always dreamed of traveling to Umetsuji-cho and had done a lot of homework.”

You and Mingfei did not really know each other. You did not think he was this level of a romantic so you didn’t understand why Caesar would want to pair you two. Now it made a lot more sense.

Lu Mingfei took out a handkerchief and blindfolded Erii: "You will see a beautiful view when you untie the handkerchief later."

When he handed one to you, your jaw drops. “I can’t believe you.”

He doesn’t say anything, just ties your eyes. You feel his hand close around yours. You can’t see Erii’s expression. “Erii, I’m so excited. This is fantastic!”

You’re smiling, you can’t stop. The memories of the events of the days before roared like angry hordes of monsters in your mind, but Mingfei and Erii have shut the gates on them. His warm hand in yours, the rhythm of the sun's rays between the trees, the crunch of your footfalls on the trail, the constant sound of birds. It was all so soothing.

You walk the decades old mountain mining path, a road with uneven stone patchwork. At the end of the road is a long closed mine. In order to commemorate the mine that raised the town, the residents of Umezuji Town donated money to build a wooden temple-style building over the entrance and exit of the mine. Each rafter is hung with carp flags for prayers, and various porcelain dolls are placed under the eaves. This is a local custom. If the town's family gave birth to a boy, they would come here to hang a carp flag, and if it is a girl will put a porcelain doll.

“It's exactly the same as the Internet says." Lu Mingfei said.

The tracks of the mine car had long been rusted, and weeds grew among the sleepers. You followed the track to the edge of the cliff, and Lu Mingfei helped you to climb a rock that protruded from the cliff.

He pressed his hands on you and Erii’s shoulders and said, "Now you can take off the blindfold."

You untied your handkerchief.

The sunset blooms full in your vision. The huge sun disc had touched the sea. Ten of millions of tons of seawater slowly swirled beneath your feet. The tide broke into white splashes under the black cliffs. The wind blew endless hectares of forest. The evening woods also look like the sea from a distance, a pale red sea, with thousands of treetops swaying with the wind, forming cascading waves.

Small towns are distributed along the winding coastline, Lu Mingfei names of them one by one -- below the cliff is the town of Umezuji, a little farther away is the town of Yamamae, Tsukishita Castle Town and Matsuron Town, and further is beyond his knowledge.

The town's small school was already empty, and the silent playground was empty.

The Ferris wheel spins slowly but does not carry passengers. The Ferris wheel in Umezuji Town is only a miniature version, but it is magnified in the sunset, its huge shadow cast on the undulating sea of trees.

On the track facing the sea, the yellow slow train rumbled through the small unoccupied station, which was enclosed by white railings with the signs "Umetsuji X" and "Tokyo X”. You wonder how long it had to wait for a nostalgic and romantic fan like Lu Mingfei. Music starts playing and you can't help but laugh in disbelief.

Lu Mingfei had pressed play on the theme song of Tokyo Love Story. His phone was the latest and the speaker was good. You couldn't believe it. This nerdy little parrot boy and scared raccoon had somehow managed to comfort you completely. Outside the shadows of Caesar and Chu Zihang, he shined bright. Maybe being on a boat with him would be fun.

Erii held up her notebook. “The world is gentle.”

You look at her, expressionless. She was right. The world in its natural state was quiet and peaceful. You’d fallen asleep in violence and awakened in violence and pain. You didn't get to experience the romantic world like this very much. In your mind, you imagine Renata in her patchwork coat, sitting next to you. In your ears, she whispers.

You open your mouth, “Make a wish!”

Mingfei turns to you in surprise but Erii follows along, pressing her palms together. You pray.

Renata. I am coming soon. Sorry it took so long.

You sat under the roof of the mine. Erii kept writing questions. Lu Mingfei answered one by one. This girl seems to have saved up a belly of questions, and now they all came out. Mostly they referenced Anime and Manga you have never heard of. That was Erii’s world, a world of cartoon fantasy. He confirmed or denied that reality, shaping and creating the world anew as you watched her listen intently. Lu Mingfei had taken to heart your words and was upfront and simple, not lying or trying to say things she wanted to hear. You nod in approval, your eyes serious.

The sun gradually sank below the surface of the sea, the last afterglow scattered on the water. Half of the sun and its reflection form a complete circle.

"So this is what the outside world looks like." Erii wrote to Lu Mingfei to see.

"Yeah, that's what it's like, no Britannia Kingdom and no Celestial Organization… disappointed?" Lu Mingfei asked.

"No, not disappointed, like this kind of world, this kind of world is very gentle." Erii used the word gentle once again. You repeated the word in your mind. Gentle. It echoes there. As if without the constant threat of death and adrenaline, there was just empty space.

"I really like this world." As the sun is about to disappear, Erii wrote to Lu Mingfei. "But the world doesn't like me." Erii went on to write.

You stand up and move to the other side of her. You scoot as close as you can and rest your head on her shoulder. She hugged the huge bear and lowered her eyes like a cat that had done something wrong.

"I'll be a problem for everyone and I've been a problem for Sakura." Erii wrote again.

"I was too willful. So I ran away from home."

"I should have gone back a long time ago but it's still a pleasure."

"It's beautiful here, I should have known I should have come here on the first day. Thank you Sakura, MC, thank you.”

You lower your hand over hers as she’s writing.

"No."

Erii froze for a moment.

"No." Lu Mingfei repeated.

Lu Mingfei cocked his head to look at her with a rare serious look: "Don't think you can know what the world is like by coming out to see it. I'm still confused after living in this world for more than twenty years. You've only run out for a few days and you think you understand?"

His eyes look at you too and you’re just as shaken as Erii. But he is right! You never set foot outside the Port of Black Swan and that was 20 years ago. You saw the whole world through that tiny lens and haughtily walked around like you owned the place. You judged others through that same view as well.

"How big the world is depends on how many people you know, and for every person you know, the world gets a little bigger for you. There are many cities in this world. There are Tokyo, Paris, Cairo, London, Istanbul... but many of them are just names to you, you haven't been there and there are no people there you want to visit, so they don't really belong to your world. There are many, many more people in this world, but you don't know them, and they don't belong in your world. There are also lots of good food and fun and nice things in this world, but the world that really belongs to you is actually very small, just the places you've been and eaten and seen the sunset and the friends who will care if you live or die."

"Whether the world likes you or not only depends on whether your friends like you or not. Everyone has a few really good friends. They like you, therefore, the world likes you."

The world… was not Tokyo, or Cassell or Hydra… The world was Renata, Caesar, Chu Zihang, Lu Mingfei, and now Erii. You turn your head back to Tokyo, unseen in the distance. How could you leave…?

“What is a good friend?" Erii wrote in her little notebook.

"It's the kind of friend that's so crazy about that he'll believe in you no matter what, and he'll be with you no matter what.” Lu Mingfei growled low. "If the world really doesn't like you, then the world is my enemy."

The moment these cold and arrogant words came out of his mouth, you seemed to hear a familiar cold laugh coming from behind you. The demon of the sad world sneering with all its mockery.

Together, you and Mingfei both jerked back, but behind you were only cherry blossoms mixed with fallen leaves swirling in a breeze, and there was no sign of Z. Lu Mingfei stared at you with wide eyes and you stared right back. His mouth opened. “MC. You… heard…?”

"Wanted: a good friend."

He turned back to Erii waiting for him with a small book up.

"I am your good friend, and you will have more good friends in the future." You say.

"But as long as we are your good friends, how can we not like you?" He said softly.

She slowly crawled towards Lu Mingfei like a kitten, vigilantly figuring out his look. Lu Mingfei looks petrified and you cover your mouth with one hand while silently cheering, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

What did he expect? Even your heart was moving and you don’t even like him! Lu Mingfei is sitting here putting Kazama level moves on this girl and now that her arms are around him and her head is on his chest, he looks two seconds away from shitting himself. You ball your fist against your lips and swallow your laughter.

Clouds gathered in the distance and the sun had set, It was time to go. You would have to get up bright and early tomorrow to get on the boat to China. Your heart was relaxed again about Caesar’s decision. After all, he was just doing his best. If you died, you would go to rest. Caesar would be tormented for the rest of his days. He wasn't sending you on the boat to die. He wanted you to live. You still believed the omniscient Z. Leaving Tokyo was a death sentence. But you also believed Caesar had his own parallel script.

It was raining by the time the train came. You stand shoulder to shoulder on the platform. “Call me to wake me up tomorrow.” You say.

Mingfei lowers his head and laughs.

“Oh you’re planning to oversleep? Once again I have to be the mature one.” You roll your eyes.

The train splashes up to the platform and you make sure Erii has her ticket. She sits next to the window and stares outside. Much to your surprise, Mingfei sits you next to her. He gives you a fond smile and passes you a note.

"Dear passengers, this train terminates in Matsuyama City. We are now about to leave Umezuji-cho station. The train is about to close......" A sweet female voice echoed in the carriage.

The doors of the train close.

You open the note in your hand. The words make you squint.

You have to live.

You and Erii gasp at the same time. Mingfei is not on the train. The doors have closed. And he is not on the train!

You leap from your seat and pound on the glass door in front of the smiling Mingfei. “Where am I supposed to go?” You will miss the boat. You won’t go to China.

Your hands slowly slide from the glass. Erii is pressing her notebook urgently against it.

Lu Mingfei tapped on the window, "Someone will pick Erii up when you get to Matsuyama City. MC, find Ruri Kazama.”

"Won't Sakura take me back to Tokyo?" Eriki took the small book and showed it to Lu Mingfei.

"Your family won't like me." Lu Mingfei said.

Erii hugged the furry teddy bear and lowered her head, her long hair like a colored cloak that enveloped both her and the bear.

"Sayonara" said Lu Mingfei.

Erii nodded, finally realizing that this was their parting. The train ride to Tokyo will take several hours, but Lu Mingfei will not accompany her.

Lu Mingfei's face was stern and he didn't say anything more. There was nothing more to say. This was the parting, his carefully designed parting. He NEVER agreed to the boat. He NEVER agreed to kill you. He had carefully pulled the wool over Caesar’s eyes and convinced you that he was going to dump you on the boat. You grinned and shook your head. But the train began to move before you could even think of a comeback.

#Dragon Raja

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redheid · 3 years

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S supposed to be the most dismal fucking place you can imagine spending the holidays: cooped up in a dingey little flat wi a band of fellow smackheads who had all, completely unplanned but completely expectedly, upped and left their own different little homes aftir conveniently wanting tae go oan a Christmas eve walk tae breathe in the crisp air in an act of good health at the same time, not tae come back till the middle of the night tae whoever they’d lied to in the first place tae get oot. Tryna pass off whitever smack induced quiver they’ve taken thit’s letting them knock everything down in their war path in a nefarious attempt to act as the notorious bearded fucker thit should be climbing in through the chimney later thit night. (God forbid the ones thit go home tae a place wi kids in the house actually staying up tae try n catch a glimpse of the guy in red only tae find their brother or uncle or cousin tae be sneaking in through the backdoor in a total fuckin daze n no even noticing them and their bright peeking kiddy eyes peering oot through their bedroom doors before the fail to be santa collapses as close tae the door as they can, once they’ve made sure they’ve absolutely made it through the threshold of the house.)

The dismal place they’ve come from is dreamy tae me, probably tae the smackheads alike. The aftermath is the grim boxing day of the visit.

Swanney’s place’s got smoke stains seeped so far intae the walls you can hardly tell the colour they were painted in the first place. The respect tae the physicalities of the place went swiftly down from there, once people realised a kick in the wall by an angry punter or whoever had come storming the place was either never noticed or never bothered tae get fixed, totally left fir the dust tae gather; the place became an incoherent art installation fast.

For instance, right now ah lay sprawled oot against a wall, right in the corner, the crevice of the flat where the spiders typically gather and ah squash when ah sit oan them, where if you look up tae the other wall holding you up, just tae the side, and if you squint hard enough, you can just aboot make oot a tree oan it formed from some cunt’s handprints. If you squint harder, muck a few artificial additives intae yir system thit lets you see the wonder in the simplest things, like in a grotty little flat thit stinks of piss and farts and burning, you can pretend the weary stains oan the painted greenery are colourful little specks purposely put there as decoration. They nearly look like ornaments and you can nearly act like Swanney’s taken note of a calendar or the weather outside and dressed the place up for the festivities.

Obviously some artsy fucker came in one time thinking high enough oaf themsels tae start the handy masterpiece but no enough to finish it, it was no work of our Mother Superior, but it’s a tantalising thought tae imagine him wi a bowl of paint and a green hand. The furthest his goodwill extends for the holiday season is not booting you oot immediately once you’ve got your stuff (dependent on how many freaks and geeks had made their way to his place to score likes), not until he runs ootay walls fir the lot tae fall down on does he point tae the door and tell us tae get tae fuck.

Ah was one of the first few tae arrive, see, and ah had the cognisant joy of watching the rest trickle intae the place through a very slow set of blinking eyelids while I masel was in and oot oaf a daze. Ah was well fuckin intae ma experience n well oan ma way down when ah saw Swanney pointing at the door and talking aboot wanting the place clear.

— Ah’m no having any sleepers, Swanney sais. The only reason ah hear thit one, come to consciousness enough tae even register it as a sound directed anywhere in the vicinity oaf me, was through Sick Boy’s stinging voice next tae us near enough fucking pleading tae the fucker.

— Where’s the spirit, Swanney?

— Santy can come kicking down the chimney if he likes, Simon, but he’s no invited either,

Unfortunately, ah’m in no state tae argue, though ah had planned accordingly: tae be a sleeper during the day. Naw a dozer, actually. There was no sleeping, but the dozing state was paramount tae ma festive experience. Ma Rudolph riding time in the sky.

Ah was there at the perfect time tae ride is oot and still have a happy aftermath tae deal wi when ah was tae head back home under suspicion not at all tae be compared tae the likes of those stumbling in ruining the night when they pulled the Christmas tree and bunting, should the household be so inclined tae put it up, down wi them when they came back home and made their bed on the floor. Under no fucking circumstances would Mark Renton be found drooling intae the carpet oan Christmas morning.

Ah stand up without fuss. Simon is still rattling tae the side of me and ah nearly crumble intae the wall which is not at all of my own accord (it is in my best interest tae stay as firmly upright as ah can). Ah nod a see ya tae Swanney n mibbe mumble a happy holidays.

…

– Disnae seem fair is awl ah’m saying, Rents.

Ah nod a simple nod ah’m not at all mentally tied intae.

– Not thit ah care anyways, the cunt.

Ah nod again.

– Ah’ve got a lovely supper awaiting me.

Another fucking nod.

– Baccalà.

Again, ah nod nod nod.

– Cod. A lovely, salted cod. Not thit you’d know anything about thit wi your plea for animal rights.

– Ah’m vegetarian, Si.

– Vege-fucking-whitever, it’s no good fir yir health. Examplo numero uno, he points a cuntish finger tae hissel. Ah don’t know how he has the energy. The strained finger runs from his face and over tae me. – And you.

– Ah just dinnae like the taste.

– S no very à la Christmas is awl ah’m saying. It’s the time tae feast, abbondanza, Rents. Whit, you forcing your poor madre tae cook you thit tofu shite?

Ah don’t know how he has the appetite. Physically for the feast he’s claiming or mentally for the bothering he’s doing tae me. Ah shudder. It’s fucking freezing.

– Ah just eat around the turkey. Potatoes and carrots.

He tsks all better than. – Potatoes and carrots, fucking waste.

He continues but ah keep my arms tucked nicely around ma shaking body as we get tae the bottom of the road and ease the sound of his voice ootay ma heid.

Ah look over ma shoulder and catch a few more people heading outay Swanney’s, ah bet they’re no looking tae dae half as much talking as my solid companion, but I also suspect they’re not exactly people ah’m looking for company from, thit even if they did want tae talk as much as Sick Boy they winnae have half as much tae say. Who the fuck does?

Ah watch as the cold hits them and their arms shoot up too to cocoon themselves in a solitary embrace. Fair few have jackets oan them, thick enough ones are few and far between. Ah have oan ma bomber jacket, far too short and far too fucking thin tae do any good but make it look like ah’ve been existing from my hand-me-downs aged ten. Not so much fabric thit it would make a difference if I had ten of them oan.

The buzzing breaking through the cold turns intae a sharp prod in my arm. Ah look away from Swanney’s wi a scowl back at Si, the proprietor of said prod. – Whit? ah snap belligerently.

– Knew you were no fucking listening, fucking waster.

– Fucking cunt, ah mutter.

It disnae persuade him tae stop, disnae deter the fucker at awl. Ah let him go oan and oan till we make it tae our ain separate crossroads and head our ain separate ways. Wave a merry Christmas and he says something about the meat feast thit is Christmas day, whit his sister’s are cooking, and ah listen politely fir the fact ah cannae be bothered tae tell him how much ah could no care less until he finished up and ah stumble back to Fort Renton.

…

Aftir we got the flat off the housing department oan behalf of our Wee Davie’s various fucking various illnesses, the weeks approaching the end of December were awl aboot making solid attempts tae make it look homely, tae really work wi the tree we’ve had since Billy was born n give Cathy Renton something to focus oan other than when we were getting Davie home and if his bed was ready fir him and who was going to spoon feed him whitever they were planning tae. It was aboot showing how much the place was cared for as if people were watching (which, actually, ah suppose a good few were – the Curran’s a few doors down were hawkeyed and insisting we only kept Wee Davie in our care, living wi us like, until we got the new place tae live free of charge and shipped him oot the second we got the keys as if we’d pawn him off like thit).

This is the first Christmas there’s no really any of thit, even if ah see Mr Curran’s radge fucking face peeping ootay his blinds at us.

The measly tree dinnae go up until the 21st despite attempts from ma faither tae encourage Ma intae it n even when it did go up, she dinnae even really care thit the tinsel was looking the scraggiest it ever had. No thought tae go and get replacements.

Ma faither took the ‘good’ side of the tree n put it facing the front windae, as if people like the Curran’s were actually coming up tae ours and press their faces up on the glass tae see how we were treating the place aftir Davie’s death. Whether we were packing up tae give it up fir someone else who needs it.

Well fuck thit. Finders keepers losers fucking weepers. Ma faither’s intense need tae show the outside world our supposed love and respect fir the holidays, however, left the sight for sore eyes side of the tree fir us tae look at in the living room. He’s been squinting past the plasticy brambles and the shedding metallic tinsel thit’s covering the floor so he can watch the telly in peace fir the past two days and pretending it disnae bother him thit he has tae do it.

The good old Cathy Renton has been sitting desolate as can be oan the settee oan the other side of the room, pretending tae watch the telly and not at awl pretending tae care aboot the tree and lack of quality decor.

S fucking depressing if you ask me. Ah immediately miss Swanney’s when ah step through the door.

– Where’ve you been? Fucking Billy, doss cunt, waiting fir me tae get back. He looks like he’s been sitting in thit chair at the dining table since the moment ah left waiting for a festive confrontation.

– Last minute shopping wus it, son? Ma mother sais from the settee. Ah didn’t see her when ah came in but now thit a look at her ah see the blinking colourful lights off the tree bouncing off her wrinkled face.

Ah weakly present a facsimile of a laugh n a smile. – Something like it, yeah.

– Where’s yir shoppin then? Billy snidely remarks. This gets ma mother’s attention and ah see her brows take tae work and fold inwards at the hapless confusion.

Ah dinnae have the brain power fir this.

– Leave it, ma faither sais contritely from his chair and squints further past the tree. He also looks like he’s been firmly planted there since ah left however many hours ago ah did, glued tae the telly like he has been fir days, avoiding the sincere lack of coughing and the sound of ma mother slapping wee Davie’s back in the next room this year. Doof doof doof doof nae more.

It’s Billy’s bedroom now. The worst noise we’ll get from thit room has already been heard when Sharon, his new burd, comes over.

Fuck if ah’d ever bring a burd round tae muh ma’s house. I eye the fucker, repulsive.

– What? he says, as if he’d been up in ma brain wi ma thinking, as if he had free scope over thit domain. Ah sneer back but pretend it’s a smile because ah know ma’s still watching us outay the corner of her eye. She’s especially sentimental this year. Her two boys, her two wee yins. We’ve been partly trying tae get oan fir the sake of her this year. Course the picky fucker waits till crimbo eve till his resentment towards me rears its ugly head aftir awl the arguments we’ve ignored wi our ma in the room the past few weeks. It’s been bubbling up inside of him just like it has me and ah know he’s looking for the free second tae set up his sniper oan ma forehead.

– Boys, ma faither speaks. Ah look ovir and see he dinnae even do us the grace of looking from the tv. Ah look back at Billy who’s rolling his eyes at us, ah ball up a fist and pretend it’s just me tightening ma grip oan the shopping back ah did no at awl come back wi.

– 10am, ma da sais, – sharp. Mass, back here, dinner oan n eaten then sat back down here round the tv for 3pm.

– Aye, Billy says. The fucking suck up. Wouldnae miss the queen’s talk and a seat right next tae ma faither nodding the fuck along taw whitever the old trout has tae say fir the world. Highlight of their fucking year those ten minutes of insincere spiel wi cases and cases of gold surrounding her are. – Cannae wait.

– Aye, ah say, – riveting stuff. Ah’m always hold ma breath when she pauses fir too long case she keels ovir once n for awl. Christmas day, like, drama of it.

– S pre-recorded, ye dippit. Billy scowls at me. Ah cheer masel on in ma heid. Point Mark Renton.

– Ah know, but…

– Why yis sayin it then?

Ah scowl back. Never fucking mind.

– Please, Ma sais. She’s settled intae the flow of keeping her eyes directly on the glowing screen. Ah cannae quite bring myself tae lean intae thit, Christmas eve wi the family or no.

Ah nod an awright. Billy gets his eyes off me but not at awl before giving me the condescending nod of the century. Ah smile back thit same sneering smile from before and say – Ah’ll be going tae ma room then.

Billy tsks before anyone else gets a word in, ah glower at the side of his head but realise both of the parental figures have decided tae take the goodbye in visually and are looking right at me.

– Bed so soon? ma Da sais. – You’ve just got back.

– Excited for santy, Ma says in faux delight. There’s a dead enjoyment tae her voice thit’s got me thinking she’s been stuck on the lack of a doof doof doof doof in the next room too. Ah go along wi it fir the sake of fragility of any sense of okayness in this household.

– Aye, wanna be up early. Try and catch the man in red in the act.

This seems to appease them, Ma and Da at least. She gives a half-hearted smile and ma faither gives no outward reaction which seems tae be the best case. Billy the fucking bully looks at me fir another second like he knows where the fuck ah’ve been and ah’m sure enough he does, but he lets it settle too so ah sulk off tae the privacy of a closed door.

The locks are long gone but as long as ah act the way ah’m supposed tae when ah’m oan the other side of it, the shorter the times the door gets busted down by Billy or ma faither or wi a tentative knock from muh Ma.

Ah collapse like a lump oan the bed. Thump fucking thump, ah land. Ah close ma eyes and melt intae the fucker.

It’s no long till ah hear the tv switch off. Not too much longer till ah hear Billy slam his new bedroom door shut. Believe me, ah’m glad tae have a box tae masel now, a singular bedroom, not have to listen to the snoring fucker fart himself awake every other night, but ah despise the speed in which he claimed Davie’s room. The soil was fresh on his grave and the air in the coffin was yet to turn stale before he’d started hanging up his clothes in the wardrobe.

Doof doof doof doof doof. Thit was the sound ah used tae drift off to, Davie’s chest being knocked aboot and cleared so he could make it tae the next day. Ah was always surprised he could take such a beating. He always looked so fragile.

Naw, fuck this. Ah’m sooner gonna hear the footsteps of the immortal creep from the north pole tiptoeing across the roof delivering good and peace tae the Renton’s than the doof doof doof again. Ah shut ma eyes tighter, consider moving fir a few minutes tae organise masel enough tae put oan a record, but ah unfortunately spent all ma energy oan behaving as acceptably as possible when ah had entered the home. The rest of it had been spent making a dig at the queen tae piss off Billy in his suck up time wi our Da, who the fuck’s acting like the queen’s speech is the best part of a Christmas day anyways? Fucking idiot.

Ah ball ma hands up and shove them intae ma sockets till ah see stars. Ah have a headache coming oan. Ah let the balled fists fall down ontae the duvet either side of me (thump thump) and ah squint at the far end of ma room and ma green tinny locker turned closet. Ah reckon if ah asked Billy nice enough and gave him the lock fir it, he’d wait fir me to climb in and lock me in there till the 24th turned to the 25th to the 26th. If he were feeling especially nice he’d let me stay in there till the new year passed and he’d simply slide me the odd plate of dinner tae sustain me; let me wither away, but give just enough tinned whatever tae stay alive till ah had some kind of clarity and stopped hearing the doof doof fucking doof reverberating through my skull thit’s no fucking there.

Dear the red man thit would be climbing through our chimney if we had one, may you bring me somewhere cosier and more isolated fir the holiday season. Mibbe tae an undiscovered island, nothing too fancy: a few rocks, a couple palm trees and a coconut fir me tae drink outay. This year may you give me a bit of peace and fucking quiet. Leave me a note tae say yir coming and ah’ll slip outay ma room and leave the windae open a crack fir you tae sneak in through. Kind regards, Mark Renton.

#tbt #this was fun and it ends abruptly ish but it was still fun so idc:)#its like 3300 ish words ?#good job ive decided to write the next instalment in the trainspotting series ur welcome irvine welsh

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gay-doodlebug-with-adhd916 · 2 years

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October 30, 2021 - good

We have opened up our windows and so our house smells like fall and the remnants of sweet and almost smoky smell that arrives simply from the weather turning- we've reached the point of crisp weather where the wasps have died and no longer invade our house or interrupt our dinners. Halloween is tomorrow and I hear people in a dazed and confused way, as if waking up from a nap in the middle of the day, talk about how they can't believe it's Halloween so soon and they better go ahead and try and buy some candy, put some decorations up. I keep forgetting it's about to be Halloween, personally. I know that children are excited about Halloween, some children who haven't remembered a Halloween before, and I know that I have grown out of that group by now, but that's okay. The frenzy of it all is confusing, but good. We all try to relearn how to interact with each other and sometimes it's awkward, but we're all trying. A girl who I five or six years ago would've categorized as a "popular girl" and avoided, came up to me and complimented me on my green purse. I smiled at her and thanked her, told her to have a great day. We are all souls that present in our own unique ways and there's beauty in that. I keep discovering the joy of kindness shared with those who I share little to no similarities with, day after day after day. I get my senior pictures taken today, by my father. I had other senior pictures taken before, required by my public school, that my family chose not to pay for - partially because they were so pricey, but mainly because they made me stand there and put my hand on my hip and act in a way that they considered "sassy" and that's just not me at all. I love sassy people, but I am not a sassy person. And that's okay! So I got informed by my father today that he's going to try and take his own senior pictures of me today. I've spent so long working through things that happened in the past between him and I, nothing particularly cut and dry where he was in the wrong and I was in the right or vise versa, but rather a lot of complexity that spun my brain around like knucklebones, where I kept trying to decide if I was supposed to hate my father or myself because of the way circumstance played out. Just yesterday while I sat with a friend and a complete stranger who seemed kind, to watch my dad preach on stage about how we're all sinful and if we're self righteous maybe we need to remind ourselves of exactly how lost we'd be without Jesus, I realized that I felt no animosity or resent against him, feelings I had been spending so long trying in vain to get rid of, which must have melted away on their own while I was preoccupied by something else. I realized that now, as an adult who still has the rest of her high school senior year to finish, I no longer resent or fear the house I live in. I grieve the happenings of the past but I no longer allow it to taint my future or force me to see my present in a blue-gray lens of apathy or apprehension. I realized that I no longer hang out with the rest of my family searching for something to give me a reason to stay away. And I know that that has ties to not just my own growth, but theirs as well. I am reminded that growth and healing is sometimes more of a joint effort than I expect, at least for me. I finally tell my mom about my ex girlfriend who I dated for a year and a half and while I expected my mother to react with anger, she reacted better than I expected. There were still bumps in the road, but she knows about this entire season of my life now, and she still loves me anyway. My father tells me he wants to do more than one photoshoot for my senior photos so he can make sure he does it all just right, so my senior photos can be perfect. I remember how my two sisters got their senior photos taken by professional photographers, who my parents paid to take photos of them for graduation parties or memories or anything else, but neither of my sisters got to have more than one photoshoot. I tell my father that I would rather have photos taken of me doing things instead of me

sitting or standing and smiling, and he says he thinks that is an excellent idea. I drink hazelnut coffee from a fox mug that I got on my thirteenth birthday, and I hold a soft, warm blanket around me in my bedroom while I hear the fall wind blowing outside my house and in through my open window. Let it be known that good exists here.

#saturday thoughts #fall aesthetic #fall 2021 #fall thoughts #october 30 #happy #good #I want to write poetry

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bandsanitizer · 3 years

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hi alison!!! this idea is so so cute, music is such a love language of mine. i would love love a standard playlist based on luke, and kind of the transition between winter to spring!! sorry if that doesn't make sense haha what i mean basically is kinda like feeling warmth come after a cold situation and finding comfort in that !! some artists that i think would match are paper kites and maybe phoebe bridgers, i'm listening to a lot of taylor swift stuff now too !!! recently i've been so in love with the seasons even though the place where i live barely shows it through weather haha i like to fantasize 🥰 anyway i'm so sorry this is very long but i appreciate u very much xoxo i hope you have an amazing day.

hello there!!!! ahhhh I appreciate you too 💖 and no worries!!! the more information the better! I sincerely hope you enjoy the playlist!!! thank you so much for sending in a request and thank you for introducing me to phoebe bridgers (who I have just learned is not the same person as phoebe waller-bridge???) and the paper kites!!! here is some background on the song choices! have an amazing day!!!!

okay, before I get into the individual songs, the halfway point is meant to serve as a distinct break between winter and spring. seasons don’t automatically switch, so consider it as a bit of a gradient. essentially, the first 5 tracks are songs that feel cold to me (no I can’t really explain that), and the last five are songs that are warmer (again can’t verbalize it). this comes from your prompt for a winter to spring sort of vibe! also i can’t explain how luke fits into this as anything more than CALM era luke has been acoustic! acoustic! acoustic! so just a lot of songs on here I wouldn’t mind him covering 👀

are you okay? - winter makes me think of staying in. more phone calls and distance as everyone is home for the holidays, busy with family, etc etc. this song sounds like a call and this repetition of “are you okay?” I think sets up for how the playlist progresses. with there being this sense of passed time

bandaids - keshi!!! I was introduced to this artist by another 5sos blog and you!!! listen!!! to!!! keshi!!! too!!! so I felt it fit. it is lyrically a pair with are you okay? with there being this ask for the person the song is about to inform the speaker what’s going on. thus it’s on the playlist for similar reasons as the prior song + it sounds nice.

I Will Follow You Into The Dark - ok so originally heard this as a halsey x yungblud cover and i’m upset i couldn’t add that but this one is also very good! where the other songs are asking something of the subject of the song, this song offers something in exchange. it’s a bit of a response to the “how are you?” in the sense of being willing to carry whatever they say is going on. winter vibes because it’s a bit sad and winter sometimes is sad—if considered in a more cold, grey sort of sense.

Hunger - UPBEAT!!!! EXCITEMENT!!! this is a hint of the spring that is coming!!! it’s this acknowledgement of this drive! this spark! it’s not very cold, a bit warm really, and just meant to add a bit of brightness to the winter half of this! this one is one of the least fitting I think sonically, so a little nervous.

If We Make It Through December - phoebe bridgers at your suggestion and a fitting title as the playlist transitions!!! kind of meant to capture what you asked in the prompt as well as provide hope and sparks in a way that’s softer than Hunger. a return to the earlier playlist sound.

Human - this song is the equivalent of leaching body heat from someone else like cuddling and shoving your cold toes under their leg or a hug from behind because IT’S COLD!!!! anyways—this is human connection at its finest and a warm/cold sort of song about asking to share something with someone. fitting for spring as a time of beginnings and stuff!

Nights Like These - also a bit of a sonic outlier, I’m not entirely sure how to explain this. it’s this sense of those people who you can spend so long away from and come back to and it just *snaps* falls back into place. like nothing changed. i think that’s an important and special connection to have that also fits with spring. where the early songs of the playlist ask how the person is, this asks about what they’ve done and searches for the good, the light.

Forever & Always - a love song about passing time and people that change but stay together! very spring as it follows coming out of winter and being different but also being forever!! also it just sounds??? soft??? nice???!

Invisible String - taylor swift as you mentioned!! invisible string is MAJOR spring vibes (okay maybe autumn too but SPRING cos all the colors mentioned in the song) also where the playlist title comes from!!! it summarizes the playlist in having gone through so much to arrive to now and notice the moments that set you on the way.

Bloom - the paper kites also from you! obvious spring ties with the title! also lyrically contrasts the distance that I feel like the earlier songs on the playlist allude to. also the guitar just feels so warm on this track!!! the vocals too!!! a very dawn/sunrise-esque type of song. and it kind of feels like an extension of invisible string!

#hope you enjoy the playlist and this enhances your playlist experience!!!#i truly enjoyed making this one! edit included!!!!#loverspace #bandsanitizer 4k celebration #i dont have a tag for asks so i guess i’ll make it this

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haloud · 4 years

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many times, many ways

a malex christmas gift for christi @michaels-blackhat, who inspired me into holiday fluff and who spent this month writing wonderful gifts--I hope you enjoy this one in return! Happy holidays, everyone!

-- ao3 --

An unmarked package. An envelope, more accurately, hand-folded out of plain brown paper and left right in front of Alex’s front door. Buffy is sniffing at it before Alex can stop her; he snags her by the collar, heart in his throat, but she’s close enough to nudge it with her nose. Alex holds his breath, but she just lets out a soft boof, then loses interest and heads back inside. Alex, however, can’t be quite so cavalier. It may not have exploded when Buffy moved it, but there are ways other than explosives that a strange package can fuck you up. He fetches a pair of gloves and a particle mask before he even touches it. A small gesture toward security, maybe, but it makes him feel safe enough to work a pocketknife under the tape and slowly pull the paper apart.

Alex blinks twice at what’s inside. Pulls his mask off so it falls around his neck and blinks again. Reaches out to touch it.

It’s…a Christmas ornament. But not any, it’s—it’s light in his palm, a tiny thing, a miniature of a poster he had as a kid, the one Maria smuggled into his car after school and he hung up in the toolshed where no one would see it. Alex holds it up. Dangling from a scrap of black ribbon, the little orange rectangle catches the light, gleaming off the black enamel picking out the singer’s little face and the Danger! At the Picture Show lettering. It’s cold when he clenches it in his fist, heart pumping a hundred miles an hour.

For a second, he’s seventeen again, and he has to laugh at the memory of that kid he used to be, earbuds stuffed in his ears, knees jammed up against the desk waiting for the first period bell to ring. He grins despite himself, turning over the paper again, searching for any kind of note or indication who it’s from. Rosa, maybe? Secret presents are definitely her thing, and she was the one who gave him his first DatPS CD when he was fourteen. Maria is the other person who comes to mind, but Alex hopes she would just give it to him in person—he doesn’t like to think of her being too anxious to give him something like this face to face, what with all the mending fences going on.

He smooths his thumb over the ornament’s glossy surface one more time, then puts it on a shelf for safekeeping for lack of anywhere more festive to put it. He doesn’t really decorate for Christmas; the holidays were only ever more of the same when he was a kid, with a thin, grotesque veneer of family over the top of it.

Things get even more festive the next day, though, when he gets home from work and finds another package, in the same brown paper, sitting on the porch steps. It’s bigger this time, three dimensional, and after a moment of deliberation, Alex picks up the phone. Guerin might laugh at him, but that’s a price he has to be willing to pay.

He doesn’t laugh, though. He rolls up in his truck, that, despite the circumstances and the vaguely tipsy feeling of fear lurking in his blood, Alex has to laugh at—there’s a sprig of mistletoe wrapped in bright red ribbon hanging from the rearview mirror.

Michael bounds over to him and says, slightly breathless, “What did you need me to check out?”

Alex waves his hand in the direction of the stairs. “It’s probably nothing. I got something similar yesterday, and it was fine, I just—”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, I get it. Here, let me.” Michael squeezes Alex’s shoulder, a quick, warm, reassuring touch, then takes a step back. Focusing, he narrows his eyes at the little package, then wings it in an arc off into the empty desert.

A second passes. Nothing blows up. Michael pulls the package back in.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he says, “Sorry if whatever’s in there broke. But whoever sent it to you should have known better. Fucking idiot.”

Alex lets out a long breath, forcing his shoulders to drop and his brow to smooth. “No, it’s okay. ‘Tis the season, right? It could be from anyone.”

“Still.” Michael’s mouth curls downward, like he tastes something foul, like he tends to look whenever he tries to make nice with Kyle. It’s exasperating. It’s also a little sweet, in a twisted way.

The box has the same wrapping, same tape job as yesterday’s envelope. It comes apart easily, and inside is—Alex pulls it out, holds it up.

It’s. It’s an alien, full-on little green man alien, holding up its noodly little hands in two peace signs. Wearing a Santa hat. Covered in gaudy glitter. And still intact—only one piece has snapped off, a little piece of red molding clay that someone clearly fashioned so an ornament hook could go through it.

After a shocked second, Alex lets out a very uncharacteristic giggle; then, face burning, he drops the little alien back into the box and glances up at Michael, who’s watching him with his head tilted and a shy smile of his own on his pink mouth.

Their eyes meet for a long, breath-catching moment, a spark jumping through the cold, dry air from one body to the next. Then they both look away, clearing throats, shoving hands in pockets, and looking up at the sky instead of back at each other, each of them so large in the other’s sight to block out the sun.

“Secret Santa?” Michael says, voice cheerfully flippant. He’s still grinning somehow. Alex wants to wipe that look off his face. With his own face.

“Something like that.”

“Next time try to get someone who knows you better than to get that touristy shit.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Michael leaves after that, making it both easier and harder to breathe. Touristy shit aside, Alex puts the Santa alien on the shelf beside the first ornament, and later that night, after tossing and turning for a little while, he grabs his crutches, goes to the shelf, gropes in Jim’s old toolbox for a tube of superglue, and hunches over the coffee table to fix the clay part, making it an ornament once again.

One is an event. Two is a coincidence. Three ornaments in three days, and it’s a pattern.

No brown paper package shows up the third day; rather, he finds the ornament when he checks his mailbox in town. It’s a little laptop this time, nothing special, but it still brings a smile to his face when he holds it in his palm.

Who could the mystery sender be? It turns into something of an obsession over the next few days, which see him receiving a log cabin, a beagle, and a beautiful handmade silver and turquoise songbird. It’s clearly someone who knows him now, and someone who knows him well enough to know his home, his pet, what he does for a living…it’s a narrow field, to be sure—basically just Maria, Liz, Kyle, or Rosa. He rubs his thumb over the beagle’s little painted nose while Buffy shoots it a suspicious look from the couch as he considers his options.

Whoever it is, Guerin must know, because since the second day, the ornaments have arrived in his mailbox or on his porch unwrapped or in clear plastic wrap if it’s raining out.

Of course, all the evidence could point toward it being Guerin himself. But…somehow, Alex can’t bring himself to believe it, if only because the thought of Michael thinking of him like this, over time, with dedication, makes Alex’s chest ache with longing to see him, to hear him, to feel him. Better it be some scheme of Rosa’s. It’s just…better that way.

The gifts keep coming. Day seven, it’s the Air Force crest; on the eighth and ninth days, he finds a sunbathing alien and a bowl of ramen on his front step. They both go on the increasingly-crowded shelf, though he shoots the ramen a nasty look when he puts it in place. Another point in the Maria column, considering last time he went to one of her movie nights, he was asked to put pizza rolls in the oven and managed to burn them despite absolutely following the instructions on the package.

The tenth day’s ornament arrives in a blue Tupperware container, just translucent enough to see the ornament inside, but not so much he can tell what it is.

He opens it and finds a ball ornament wrapped in strips of paper cut from dictionaries in ten languages he can identify, including all six he speaks. It’s sturdy papier-mâché, but Alex still holds it like it might shatter if he breathes on it too hard. Every line defines things like family, like love, like forever. He returns it to its box and puts it on the shelf with the others, but his fingers linger over the lid, because there are lines he hasn’t traced with his fingertips yet, and he can hardly tear himself away.

He goes into town later that day on a grocery run with words still swimming in his mind and his mouth fixed shut because he’s not sure what might come out. But no level of distraction or concentration could keep him from being blindsided when he runs into Guerin outside the Crashdown, their bodies catching shoulder to shoulder, Guerin’s hand on his arm to steady him—their collision almost knocked a big box out of Guerin’s hands, but he steadies it with a little help from his powers until Alex has his balance back and he can take it in both hands again.

“Alex,” he breathes, then clears his throat. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I could say the same to you,” Alex manages.

Guerin shakes the box lightly. “Liz wants to surprise Arturo with the decorations this year, so I figured I’d offer my services. I’m the only one who can get tinsel into all the hard-to-reach places, after all.”

“Oh, that’s—that’s really nice.”

“Nah, I’m getting paid. Mostly in milkshakes and fries, but who’s complaining?”

They stare across the box. It’s been like this, lately, a small talk stiffness to their interactions, and Alex doesn’t know how to make it stop. But at the same time, he isn’t sure he wants to. It’s almost…nice. A couple weeks ago Alex drove by the junkyard just because he could, and Michael smelled like snow and pine and commented on the weather, and that brief exchange left the both of them grinning like idiots by the time Alex drove away. They aren’t lovers again, not yet. But they’re something. They’re getting there.

“Want some help? I’m free tonight,” Alex says, and Michael smiles at him, and that’s that. Alex comes back late, once the Crashdown is closed and Arturo is in bed. Liz and Rosa come downstairs to work on the decorations too, and more hands makes for light work, though Michael does most of the work without using his hands at all. They’re finished in no time. Alex plugs the lights in, flips the switch, and Rosa laughs, real and unrestrained and tugging Liz into the middle of the floor, dotted with multicolored puddles of light, twirling her in a circle. Sometime during the decorating, Rosa managed to stick Michael with a present ribbon, and it bobbles on top of his curls as he slinks over to Michael’s side to knock their shoulders together. Alex lets him, in the spirit of the season, and because every time Michael touches him his body goes weightless.

Now is as good a time to ask as any.

“So, Guerin,” he says, “I’m still getting ornaments every day. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that you haven’t told me, would you?”

Michael shrugs and grins that cowboy grin. “Looks to me like you’ve got yourself a secret admirer.”

“Secret, huh?”

“Looks that way.”

And before Alex can say another word, Michael is walking away to join Liz and Rosa dancing, whistling Let It Snow. He gets away from Alex that time, but before their little impromptu party is over, Alex manages to steal the bow from his hair, just glancing his fingers off those curls, so lightly Guerin doesn’t even seem to notice.

Whether he’s the ornament giver or not, Alex puts the bow on the shelf with the others. Just in case.

The next day, there’s no ornament when he leaves in the morning, and nothing in his mailbox when he checks it that evening, either. He’s—frustrated, okay, rather than sad, because what was the point? Stopping ten days in, what was even the point? It leaves him feeling untethered, without that tiny little thing to look forward to each and every day. Somehow, without even really noticing, he’d kind of gotten into the Christmas spirit. He even, feeling ridiculous the entire time, went to the pet store and bought a couple gifts for his dog, because he’s in a gift-giving mood even if he’s not sure he’s exchanging gifts with anyone else this year.

He shoulders his way out of the office, avoiding eye contact with the clerk, who’s surely noticed him coming in every single day, when he used to only check his mail once a week at best. Whatever. Now he has no reason to come back so often, and they’ve got plenty of time to forget him, like the way things should be.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he almost smacks Maria right in the face with the door as he leaves. She yelps, and he catches it at just the last second, tripping over apologies while she flaps her hand at him dismissively.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, Alex, really,” she laughs. Alex steadies her with his hands on her shoulders, and she tugs him to the side, out of the way of the sidewalk traffic. “I was hoping to run into you anyway. I have something for you.”

Oh shit. Anxiety spikes, and Alex blabbers, “Oh, shit, Maria, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know we were doing gifts this year—”

Great. Their friendship is finally finding even footing again, and Alex immediately puts himself in the red again by hitting her with a door and tells her straight up that he didn’t get her anything for Christmas. Batting a fuckin’ thousand, isn’t he. No wonder his secret admirer or whatever got bored of him.

“Alex, seriously, chill.” She tweaks his chin. “No presents is one hundred percent fine. You think I’m all about worshipping at the capitalist altar that is Christmas? Hell no. Buuut someone asked me for a favor, and it just so happened that I had something for you anyway, so here you go.”

She grabs his hand and presses into it a beautifully beaded eight-pointed star, red and white and gold. Alex gasps, and says, “This is—”

“One of Mom’s, yeah.” That wry, sad smile Maria gets when she talks about her mother curls up on her face. “She makes a lot of them on her good days, and her nurse says it’s good that she’s working with her hands. And Mom specifically said this one was for you.”

“God.” Alex swallows and grips the star as tightly as he can without crushing it. “Let me know next time you’re going to visit her, okay? So I can thank her in person?”

“Sure thing.”

Maria blinks rapidly for a moment, and Alex, understanding, doesn’t mention it. She composes herself quickly, and then Alex just has to ask:

“So it hasn’t been you the whole time, has it?”

“What, leaving you the ornaments? I am not that sappy.”

“Come on, there’s nothing wrong with being a little sentimental,” he teases.

“Uh huh. Sure. I forgot I was talking to the master of fuzzy feelings himself.”

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

Maria laughs at that and, hooking her arm through his, starts off down the street. “Now, we may not be exchanging presents this year, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make you help me with the rest of my shopping.”

The next day’s ornament is a classic Han Solo one, and if Alex lets out an undignified gasp when he sees it, Buffy is the only creature around to witness it. If he spends the rest of the day finding and watching the Star Wars Christmas Special, well, the same goes for that too, and his dignity is firmly intact.

The day after that, Liz texts him to come to the Crashdown, and since it’s a weekend he makes it there to meet her on her lunch break. The decorations look just as good in the daylight, if an inch or two less magical, and Alex has to duck his head to hide his grin when he remembers Michael very seriously placing a Santa hat on each individual alien in the place.

Liz beckons him over to a booth, two shakes and a plate of fries already in front of her. “Figured since I called you out, I could at least treat you,” she says. “On top of what I called you here for, which is….” She does a little drumroll on the table, then plonks an ornament box down on the table.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Alex bursts out.

“I know, right? I couldn’t believe it when I found it.”

Laughing and shaking his head, Alex picks it up. It’s a cat wearing an antenna headband so, so similar to the one perched on Liz’s head—the wrong shade of green, but still.

“I don’t suppose this is your way of telling me you’ve been leaving me ornaments all month, is it.”

“Pfft, no way.” Liz steals a fry from his tray and crunches it smugly. “Secret admirer, Manes. It’s supposed to be secret.”

Day fourteen is something delicate, so much so he’s a little scared to touch it. It’s thin glass, deep blue, and when it catches a light source it sends shimmering blue all around the room. It’s the day Alex stops trying to guess who his mystery gift-giver is, because now he’s been given light to hold in his hands, and it makes him feel—makes him—

Someone thought he was worthy of this. Someone wanted him to have it. Whether or not they ever tell him who they are, that means something.

His fifteenth ornament is the third one to come wrapped in a package, but this time it’s in an actual USPS shipping box, and it comes with a letter inside, in handwriting he recognizes.

Captain, it says, we got pressed into service again, and I was the unlucky bastard who drew the short straw, so I’m sending this to you, along with a warning that you fucking owe me…

The ornament is basic, a decently pretty white and silver snowflake. He puts the letter on the shelf with it. If the season is forcing everyone else into a sentimental mood, he might as well succumb to it too.

He wakes up on the sixteenth day with a bit of a sentiment hangover and lets himself lie in bed for a little while longer than usual, fondling Buffy’s soft ears and cradling this lovely, bittersweet feeling inside himself. If Christmas is the deadline for this whole ornament thing, he’s over halfway to the end. He takes the morning slowly, lingering over his coffee and over the view of the desert through his kitchen window, the high def white-gray limning of the world you get with a serious cold.

That day’s ornament doesn’t match Alex’s mood at all, but he still chuckles and shakes his head when he sees it. It’s another patch job like the Santa alien, but this time some sort of Valentines leftover—a traditional Roswell Gray holding a big red heart that says you’re out of this world!, with a handmade place for ornament hooks to go. It looks absurdly out of place next to everything else he’s accumulated, but he gives it its place of honor anyway.

He doesn’t expect his seventeenth ornament to arrive on the doorstep or in the mail, and sure enough, the pattern holds and it’s hand delivered at like ten o’clock that night. He almost doesn’t answer the door, but to be honest he’d left his leg on after work expecting just this.

“Ho ho ho,” an exhausted-looking Kyle says, shoving a box into Alex’s hands.

“Dude, did you drive all the way out here after your shift? It could have waited.”

“Nah, this is my one good deed for the year.”

“You’re literally a surgeon. Your job is good deeds.”

“Fine—my one act of charity.”

Alex bristles at that. “I don’t need—”

“Not for you.” Kyle punches him lightly on the shoulder.

Cryptic bastard.

“Go ahead and open it,” Kyle says, “My blood is eighty percent coffee right now, and I want to get home before I crash”

“You know you can stay if you need to.”

“Yeah, yeah. Open it.”

Alex’s eyebrows go straight up when he does and pulls out a shimmery white ball with the Buffy the Vampire Slayer logo on it. “You didn’t pick this out yourself. You asked me why I gave my dog a porn name the first time you met her.”

“Hey! I listened when you explained—” When Alex fixes him with a glare, Kyle gives in with a laugh. “Okay, okay, Rosa helped. Oh ye of little faith.”

Kyle leaves after that, with a quick hug and a Merry Christmas, and Alex goes to his shelf to put the ornament away. He hasn’t been keeping them in chronological order, more a sort of a…thematic grouping. The Buffy ball goes with Maria’s star, Liz’s alien cat, and the snowflake from his unit.

He looks up and turns away, casting his eyes all around the room to hide from no one the fact that he’s getting a little bit choked up.

Maybe he’ll buy some lights tomorrow. Or tinsel or something. No reason he can’t go in on the decorating, right? Why is he still holding himself back?

He doesn’t make it to the store the next day, or the two after that, three days that see him receiving a coffee mug, a UFO that’s supposed to light up when it’s plugged in, and a little truck hauling a Christmas tree.

He wonders if maybe that last one is a promise.

The pattern of hand deliveries every other day has been broken. But, in the spirit of the season—Alex doesn’t dwell on the fact that he never got one hand-delivered by Michael and instead chooses to think about the other thing that could mean.

On day twenty-one, he gets a glass teardrop that shimmers purple and golden, and on day twenty-two he gets a golden disc engraved with a tiny, perfect star chart.

The day before Christmas Eve, he opens the door to find an acoustic guitar.

As if he didn’t already know.

Christmas Eve dawns gray and dismal with the smell of snow in the air. Buffy trots around the yard in circles, lifting her nose every couple minutes to sniff the cold, and Alex cradles his coffee in both hands to keep them warm while he watches her, content. Part of him regrets that he never went and got more decorations, but it’s okay. This whole month—it’s been such an unexpected thing to be able to accept a simple joy into his life, to let himself expect a little, uncalled-for gift every day, that all he can feel at this point is just…peace. He couldn’t have asked for anything else. He didn’t.

Buffy barks, and Alex looks up just in time to see a familiar truck coming down the road, the bed covered with a tarp. Alex puts his mug down on the railing and regrets it instantly for want of something to do with his hands as Michael parks, opens the door, and jumps out of the car.

“Hey,” Alex says.

“Hey. Merry Christmas,” Michael says in return.

They just stare at each other for a moment, something that happens a lot when it’s just the two of them. Like they have to steel themselves to speak. Like they have to make sure that no, it’s not, it’s not the time to take that step forward and drown themselves in each other. It’s okay, yeah, it’s okay to just be here. Like this.

“Want some help with that?” Alex tilts his chin in the direction of the tarp.

“Y-yeah. Sure.” He stumbles over the word and ducks his head, rounding the truck to reveal what’s underneath.

It’s exactly what Alex expected, and everything he never did. His heart in his throat, he touches one of the branches on the tree, needles pricking his skin, sap sticky on his fingertips when he pulls them away.

“You get the other end,” Michael says, and they carry it inside together, a crate full of other decorations floating along behind them, Buffy pulling up the rear, eyeing it suspiciously. She settles in the corner to watch as Michael sets the tree up, hammers it into the stand, and positions it in the corner where it’ll be out of Alex’s way.

Alex hovers in the kitchen, making them both more coffee, hands shaking a little bit on the grounds, on the filter, on the carafe. The tree still takes up too much room. Michael takes up too much room. He always has. In this tiny house. In Alex’s heart and in his head and between his ribs. Michael pulls things out of the crate one by one and hangs them in the air around himself—bundles of lights, a skirt for the tree, multicolored balls and delicate paper snowflakes to fill all the spots left between the ornaments in Alex’s new collection.

Their fingers brush when Alex hands him a mug, and Alex lets the moment hang there. Skin on skin in the most casual, innocent way, but with Michael’s golden eyes so close it still manages to heat his blood, dry his mouth, cover him in yearning.

“Thanks,” Michael says hoarsely. He drags his index finger along Alex’s as he pulls his hand away, sending a shiver through the both of them.

Decorating for Christmas shouldn’t feel forbidden, but it does. It does, as they circle around each other, spiraling lights around the tree, eyes catching on every pass, Alex’s face so warm every time he sees Michael’s answering blush, on his cheeks, on his lips. Once the lights are on, they start in on the ornaments. Alex picks them off the shelf in chronological order, passing half of them to Michael, keeping half of them—like Mimi’s star, Han Solo, and the guitar—for himself.

“How did you manage it?” He asks eventually, fixing the teardrop to a high branch so Buffy doesn’t get any ideas.

“A friend who knows how to navigate Etsy, a sister with Amazon Prime, and a little bit of old-fashioned gumption.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Sure am.” Michael grins with satisfaction at the Valentines alien. Then he sobers a bit and says, “Hey, look, I’m sorry about the packaging the first couple days. I wanted to surprise you—I wasn’t thinking, and I should have.”

“It’s okay. You changed it up, and…yeah. It’s fine.”

“Thanks.”

A couple minutes pass in silence as Alex searches for what else to say. To ask. Why did he do it? When did he get the idea?

He asks, “What about the others? The ones you had Maria, Liz, Kyle, and the guys pick out? Red herrings, or did you just run out of ideas?”

“Oh, I had lots of ideas.” Michael presses his shoulder to Alex’s, coming in close to hang the star chart right beside the silver bird. Nudging him shyly, Michael says, “But my favorite one was the one where you got reminded how many people care about you.”

Alex almost drops the UFO at that, at Michael’s absurd honesty. He has nothing else to say, and they finish decorating the tree in peaceful silence. When they finish, Alex turns the lights off, and Michael plugs the tree in, and the gray day is dark enough that everything lights up bright like it would in the evening, all the colors of the rainbow.

“Fuck,” Alex breathes. It’s like a punch to the gut, happiness and disbelief and the unavoidable need to hoard this feeling, this moment, that comes on the heels of those feelings.

“So you like it?”

“Fuck,” Alex repeats, “Michael. I love it. It’s…I just…”

“Good.”

Michael, hesitating all the way, reaches out and takes Alex’s hand, sliding their fingers home together.

“I have one more ornament for you.” And he reaches into his pocket.

Alex makes a strangled noise when he sees it. Instinct tells him to rip his hand out of Michael’s and flee to the other side of the room to regroup, but he stays rooted in place, struggling, grasping for anything to say.

The console shard—because that’s what it has to be, just with gauzy ribbon looped and knotted carefully around one end so it dangles neatly from Michael’s fingers—shimmers in the soft rainbow light. Michael’s eyes shimmer along with it, equally as alien.

“I can’t,” Alex blurts. “I can’t take it. Michael. No. It’s—”

“No, no, listen, please.” Michael tugs on his hand like he wants to pull him closer, but Alex can’t—he just can’t—

He can’t be what ties Michael to Earth. He can’t be the sole tether that keeps him here, to the world that hurt him again and again, even if it’s the thing he wants most in the world, to protect, to hoard him like he hoards every sliver of a happy memory, where no one can take it away from him. That’s why he—months ago, when he most thought Michael was slipping through his hands, he gave him the console piece he found so he could go if he needed to. And now Michael tries to hand another piece back to him again?

“I can’t,” Alex says again, stuck on repeat.

“Hey, hey,” Michael fumbles for Alex’s other hand, and Alex lets him catch it, because with Michael holding him in place he doesn’t feel as cold. “It’s not what you think. I’m not asking you to keep me here, or anywhere, just.”

He swallows. He’s beautiful, in this light most of all. The most beautiful thing Alex has ever seen. Shining in every way, from the golden brushstrokes of his hair to the heart of him, who knew that Alex must never have had much of a holiday and decided to give him one.

Alex wants to kiss him. Wants to swallow whatever words Michael is going to say next and end the conversation there.

“Look.” Michael squeezes his hands. “When my mom—when she died. And after. Everything I worked for, everything I built the console for and devoted my life to, I thought it was over. Useless. But…you told me you were my family. And I know it took me too long to believe it, but I do now.

“I built the console because I was searching for my family. And now that it’s right in front of me, I want you to have a piece of it. Want us to have a piece of it.”

Alex searches Michael’s face, every earnest, open inch, until he can’t stand it anymore, until he drops Michael’s hands in favor of cradling his face, pulling him in, and taking his mouth in a slow, deep, careful kiss, tasting coffee on his tongue, drowning in the coming home of him, of his mouth on Alex’s, the rightness of having him in his arms. Michael responds with enthusiasm, stroking his back with his broad hands, making eager little noises into the kiss, going along with it until Alex pulls away to look at him again.

“You’re unbelievable,” Alex breathes.

“Thought it was the season for believing,” Michael replies, a little smile returning to his face.

“That’s what they tell me,” Alex says, and kisses him again.

Michael stays the night, wrapped up in Alex’s blankets, wrapped up in every inch of space Alex has ever thought was empty or cold. He doesn’t even need to set the heater that night, kept plenty warm by Michael’s body all along his back, holding him so close.

They wake up slow in the morning, but Alex earliest, because…

Well, even after everything Michael has done this month and everything he said the previous day, Alex is nervous about Michael’s Christmas present. He needs those extra minutes, watching him sleep peacefully, to steel himself.

But when he watches Michael wake up, sees how the first thing he does is look for Alex so he can smile at him, he isn’t so worried anymore.

They bring the blankets out into the sitting room, bundling up under the tree. Buffy leaves her bed to lie beside them instead, on top of the blankets, effectively pinning them in place, so Michael has to use his powers to get the wood and kindling set and strike a match and get a fire going in the fireplace.

The light flickers like something living off the console shard hanging from one of the uppermost branches. Heart in his throat, Alex pulls the envelope—the same one that held the ornament he got on December 1st—out of his pocket.

“I have something for you, too.”

Michael takes the envelope, eyes locked on Alex’s like he’s waiting for permission to open it. When Alex nods, he slips the tape open carefully, almost reverently. Like Alex, he’s never really gotten a gift before. Not one he thought meant anything. Not one he thought could stay.

He shakes the envelope, and a key falls into his hand.

“It’s to the front door,” Alex says to fill the silence.

Michael’s fist clamps around it with a familiar desperation, like someone might come out of nowhere to snatch it away. He blinks glossy eyes, wet lashes up at Alex, his mouth open, closed, throat bobbing as he swallows. Alex reaches out to stroke his closed fist.

“You’re my family. You’re my home. I don’t ever want to shut you out; I want you to be here. With me. Together. And I think you want that too.”

“Alex,” Michael chokes, and then he’s in Alex’s arms, wrapped around him in a hug.

He stays like that for most of the day, handsy and gentle, reaching out to touch him whenever they’re separated even for a moment. The next day passes much the same—then the next they both have to go back to work, live lives outside of their little holiday bubble.

Alex gets home first. He takes the dog out, gets dinner out of the freezer. Then about an hour later, he hears a car outside, footsteps on the stairs, then, after a minute’s pause, a key slots into the lock.

And Alex knows.

#malex #my fic #roswell new mexico #christmas fic #michael guerin #alex manes

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mirohed · 5 years

Text

park seonghwa | the trouble with twenty

pairing: park seonghwa + fem!reader (theres ONE mention of the reader being female im kinda mad i thought this was gender neutral the whole time)

wc: 3.0k

genre: fluff and angst (but the fluff wins)

warning: mentions of death

concept: when you fall in love with someone that isn’t your soulmate, you give a piece of your soul to them; failure to find your soulmate before running out of soul to give results in one’s death + you stop physically aging when you hit the age of twenty.

a/n: ok holy shit i ,, never finish my wips 99% of the time so im glad this could b the 1% !! s/o to @akokj @cheelix @lvryeol @trulyjaehyuk & finally a big big thank you to one of my irls who’s been w it since its beginnings in early january SDHJS

The universe, you find, seems to work in mysterious ways; you meet your first boyfriend in high school. The both of you are wide-eyed teenagers with no sense of how love works, but it's fine as long as you're together. It's Jongho that sits across from you at the diner and sips from your shared milkshake. It's Jongho that takes you to drive-in theaters and plants a nervous kiss to your lips on the ride home.

It's a sweet love that blooms in the summer, a whirlwind sweeping you higher and higher, and you relish the view. Being with him comes with this sweet, bubbling feeling ("Like soda?" he had joked one afternoon) that begins in the pit of your stomach, spreading outward until you sport matching carefree grins and aching cheeks.

The year is 1939, and you're on the cusp of your nineteenth birthday when all that has gone up begins to come crashing down.

You're about to fall asleep one night when you sit up, a sharp pain shooting through your whole body. You know what this feeling is; you've had to help Jongho through it when he went through the same thing.

Everyone says losing a part of one's soul is both a tragedy and an expected outcome. You've always maintained the opinion that the universe enacts its own cruel, unusual punishment on those who love anyone besides their fated partner. Those you love more than life itself are the ones who end up killing you.

Loving Jongho burns. It sears your whole body with an inhuman heat, and your mouth opens in a silent, pained scream.

And just as quickly as it had come, the pain vanishes, leaving a faint heat under your skin.

You turn nineteen. You still live in the same town you were born in. You reexamine your life.

Growing old isn't for you; too much to do, too much to see. You're meant for things greater than wasting away as his housewife and nursing his children.

A few nights later, you disappear with nothing but a few bags, whatever fuel remains in your car, and the road ahead to keep you company.

You wish you could say you lose track of time from there, but you don't. Time passes, and the world patches itself from years of war and anger. You return to what could be considered the new normal a little hardened from harrowing times, but otherwise no worse for wear.

You spend time with others — enough to break a few hearts. The feeling of new life, pieces of other people’s souls, being breathed into skin that grows older is a high unlike any other. You push down any thoughts of love, running from town to town the second things feel too real for you. Your body stops aging, and it’s a little jarring at first, but you grow used to seeing a twenty-year-old you in the mirror, even as you age far past it.

Your friends and family are still alive and well. You write to them sometimes, letters with no return address. You know your family wants you back, wants you to find the one your soul aches for, wants you tied down. You tried to understand it, you really did, but all it got you were sympathetic looks and a divide that wedges itself deeper and deeper and deeper.

At some point you realize that the letters you wrote, once full of emotion, have become monotonous, mere updates with no real commentary. You stop writing them.

The transition from summer's vivid green to autumn's dusty orange marks your arrival in a new town. You're idly swirling a drink in your hands when you lock eyes with a leather-clad young man from across the bar.

It's 1953 when you meet Mingi. He's exhilaration, speeding down empty land on a motorcycle he keeps pristine. He's everything your parents might have frowned at, bruised and bloody knuckles that have seen one too many bar fights. You come to find that he keeps a surprisingly soft heart locked behind it, one that opens easily to you.

The two of you are on a road trip when you feel that familiar rush, and you help him pull over. He grips your hands, bites into the blanket in the backseat, until it's over. He lets you take the wheel until you reach a rest stop.

You remember the night you gave the second piece of your soul away. It's a chilly autumn night — your anniversary. You hadn't listened to him when he had told you to dress for cold weather, and you were paying the price. Shivering, you run your hands up and down your arms in an attempt to warm up as you get off his motorcycle. It doesn't work, and Mingi notices, doing his best to hide a grin.

"What did I tell you?" he teases. You're about to open your mouth for a retort when he shrugs his jacket off (that same worn leather piece you saw a year ago) and helps you fit your arms in the sleeves. It's an action he's used to, but there's something about the atmosphere tonight that makes your breath hitch. You look up at him, and he grins before leaning in.

The kiss is slow, his mouth moving languidly against yours as the city sleeps below. He pulls away first, biting back a chuckle when your lips try to follow. “I love you,” he whispers as he pulls you into his embrace.

And again, the pain that makes your blood boil. Somewhere in the haze of pain, between bunching your hands in his shirt and loud curses into the night, you tell yourself this is the last time you give your soul to another.

You feel a subtle pain in your chest as you head to the next town, leaving Mingi and the memories in the rearview mirror.

Time passes, and you see enough winters to make you sick of snow. You become the longest-lived person in known history, and it makes you famous.

You're contacted to speak about your accounts from major historical events (none of which are particularly useful), and find yourself in movies and documentaries, on talk shows, and more than once as a speaker for a new museum. There was a point where you could turn a corner and someone would recognize you as the only living "immortal."

It's one of those corners turned, on one of those countless winters, that you run into a young man. You don’t miss the way he swallows lightly before clearing his throat to apologize.

You've long since lost track of time when you meet Hongjoong. (But if you had to give an estimate, you'd put it around the 21st century.) You don't think it matters when he takes you for coffee, pulling you into a cozy corner cafe. He draws you in, little by little, and you pretend to not notice.

Where he is open, you are closed — on your fifth date, he tells you that he doesn't think he'll find his soulmate anytime soon.

("The world is too big," he says, bumping shoulders as you walk side by side. "I'm too old to keep going."

"How old?" you ask. He hums, takes a preparatory sip from his drink.

"Almost forty by now, I think."

You wonder if he's forgotten that you must be more than twice his age. Instead you say, "Really? You don't look a day over twenty." He grins at that, a beautiful thing that leads to a laugh you could never tire of hearing.)

You stay with him for much longer than you need to, long after he's given one of the last pieces of his soul to you. You wait for the "right time" to leave, but the right time never comes. Time passes. Seasons change. The two of you stay together for many winters before you finally come to your senses.

It happens one morning when you wake up shivering because he's hogged the blanket (again). As you try to reclaim it, you feel the familiar heat threaten to boil over.

You barely manage to get to the bathroom before the pain begins to crash over you in full force. After it's over, you remove your hand from your mouth, refusing to look at the tooth marks left behind.

There’s no more waiting for the right time, you think over the klaxon that blares in your head. It’s here and now.

Leaving Hongjoong is a terrifying thought, and somehow even harder to follow through with. His love isn't like Jongho's, sweet and awkward; it isn't like Mingi's, a fast-paced adrenaline rush; it's different. Softer. He reminds you of home — or at least, as home as a person can get for someone like you.

And unlike with Jongho and Mingi, the thought of staying with Hongjoong is very realistic. You've caught yourself picturing it more than once, and had to chastise yourself each time.

You pack your things for the millionth time, but as you glance back at your soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, you realize you can't just leave him without an explanation. The years you’ve spent together mean more to you than that.

Hongjoong wakes up hours later to a tear-stained letter. (By the time he finishes it, the ink is smudged and barely legible. His tears have mixed with yours in a sort of last kiss between them, and the thought causes him to sob once more.)

Joong,

If you’re reading this, I guess I must have already left. I wish things could be different I know you, and I already know that you’re gonna take this personally and blame yourself for not being enough. You are enough. You’re more than enough. I think I’m just selfish

Anyway I just want to thank you for...everything. The past few years have been better than I can express, and I think that’s what scares me. You’re the You’ll find your soulmate soon, whether they’re your meant to be or not. I’m sorry it couldn’t be me.

I love you.

Goodbye.

You definitely keep your guard up after that. Through every date you go on and every significant other you burn through, your walls stay up.

You've grown nostalgic over the past decade. Using the wildly advanced technology of who-knows-when, you track down a list of death sites.

You visit your family first. Your heart breaks a bit seeing the empty space in the shared family headstone. This was where you were supposed to be laid to rest. You turn away from the dilapidated cemetery, pulling up the coordinates to your next destination.

You find yourself staring at the fountain in the middle of a shopping mall. According to your holotech, this is where Jongho is buried. Your lips form a disapproving line as you close your eyes and try not to think about how he would have loved this place. You try not to think about him taking you here and nudging you in the direction of the arcade or food court as you rush out the doors.

They've gone and built a neighborhood over the cemetery where you would have found Mingi. From the looks of it, it looks like its residents are particularly affluent, and you can hear him snort in your ear. Even after years apart, you swear you can still smell the strong scent of cigarettes that followed him like a lost puppy. He would have hated his fate, and you offer a morbid chuckle in his memory.

You're crouched beside Hongjoong's tombstone, running a thumb over the warm stone. The birds chirp amongst themselves in a nearby tree, and you're thankful for the distraction. He wasn't buried with another person; you hope he managed to find someone regardless. You read the inscription — To you, forever and always — and swallow the lump of guilt that’s lodged itself in your throat.

It's on a calm spring morning that your holo rings. The centennial edition of a documentary you were in is currently being filmed, and the staff is requesting you interview with them again. You were going to accept anyway, but the producer piques your interest when she mentions another similarly...long-lived person. The trepidation in her voice is obvious, but you ignore it. Instead, you ask for the name of this immortal and to be interviewed with them. ("I thought I was the only one around," you had laughed into the phone. "It'd be good to make a new friend." The producer gave a pitying hum before agreeing.)

You try to search for any evidence of this new immortal, but come up with virtually nothing. You're more than a little disappointed that this person isn't milking their age for all it's worth, but you suppose they’re just more private than you are; after all, their existence is a relatively recent discovery.

When you first meet Seonghwa, you find it difficult to breathe. He's handsome, with a tall frame and a cute smile that would have caught your eye regardless.

Seeing him also hits you with a feeling you've dreaded for hundreds of years that makes your chest tighten. (In hindsight, you should have known exactly who he had to be, considering his similarly long life.) When you make eye contact, you can tell he feels the same immediate attraction. He has the audacity to smile.

"Finally," he murmurs. It's reverent, as if he's finally fulfilled his life's purpose. Your clench your jaw, ball your hands into fists so tight your knuckles go white, and narrow your eyes. Your heart's going a mile a minute, and you're choosing to interpret it as anger.

You've spent centuries building your fame on a foundation of nothing but broken hearts and your own ambition, and for what?

You're not sure how old you are when you find yourself on the downswing. You know that your body will start to physically age, and in about sixty years, you will have met the same fate as everyone you've left behind. The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, but you swallow it, at least for the time being.

The interview goes off without a hitch, and you make to leave after thanking the staff when —

"Wait!" Biting back a curse, you continue moving (and make an effort to go faster). Unfortunately, Seonghwa's more than capable of keeping up with you.

"Look," he begins, running a hand through his hair, "I don't claim to know your relationship situation, but I'd at least like it if we were friends." He focuses on the polished toe of his shoe and gives an anxious chuckle that seems to be more for himself than you. "After all, we're soulmates. You might not believe in them, but I've imagined what it would be like to finally meet my soulmate since I was young."

You don't know how (you blame the universe), but you go out for lunch with him after that. Much of the meal is spent in silence (although you've got to take the blame for this one), and it's not until you're almost done that he strikes up a conversation.

"Were you hiding?" He twists the straw of his drink between two fingers before making eye contact.

"I don't hide. You've probably seen me around in some ad or another on the holo. Maybe even before that, when people still used computers and printed newspapers." He narrows his eyes a bit, trying to remember, but comes up with nothing. "I always thought it was you that hid. I've been all over the world, but this was the first time I've ever heard news of another immortal."

"I believe in fate. I've taken things as they came because I knew that in the end, it would be you and me. Turns out I was right."

You don't know how (you're still blaming the universe), but you exchange contact information. You go on more...friendly excursions with Seonghwa.

("Why not cut out the middleman and call them dates?" he asks, settling down on the couch next to you.

"They're not dates. We're not together, are we?" You turn the movie on, marking the end of the conversation.

When you fall asleep latched onto his arm, your head on his shoulder, he plants a soft kiss on your forehead. You wake up that morning wrapped in a blanket that wasn't there last night.)

You don't know how (actually, you do), but "friendly excursions" eventually turn into dates.

(The two of you sit at a park bench, listening to rustling leaves and the distant noise of cars passing.

"Is this a date?" you ask, taking a spoonful of his ice cream, your own sitting empty on your lap.

"They're not dates," Seonghwa parrots. "We're not together, are we?"

"Let's change that. Date me?"

"I thought you'd never ask.")

Dating Seonghwa is much like being wrapped in a warm blanket. He's caring and sweet and so thoughtful that it makes your head spin. You realize that somewhere along the way, you had lost the joy and wonder that came with life. Luckily for you, each date (whether it's a shared pizza in his apartment or a hike somewhere new) restores an optimism that you didn’t know you missed.

Decades pass, and the two of you are on your daily walk. Your bodies start to show their age, but when you look in the mirror, you still see youth alight in your eyes.

("When we first met, I thought that it was all downhill from there, but I was proven wrong."

"It's been a long time since I've heard you say you were wrong."

"And each time, I tell you to not get used to it.")

When the life slips away from you both, you promise to meet each other in the next life and every one that follows.

The universe, as mysteriously as it may work, hears this request and tucks it away, ready to see it through.

#ateez scenario #ateez imagine #ateez fluff #ateez angst #seonghwa scenario #seonghwa imagine #seonghwa fluff #seonghwa angst #park seonghwa #choi jongho #song mingi #kim hongjoong #seonghwa #jongho #mingi #hongjoong #let this show up in the tags #ari.doc

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luckyspike · 5 years

Text

Adventures in America, Ch. 9 - Jackson County, Missouri

In which we learn about Rachael and Noel

Adam and Lucky bond over mutual interests that aren’t weather

And Aziraphale and Crowley share a soft moment at the edge of a corn field

Read the previous chapters here (not on AO3 yet!): ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4 | ch 5 | ch 6 | ch 7 | ch 8

or just check out my fanfiction tag

The next day brought a trip to the great state of Missouri, and more tornadoes. Bigger, this time, longer-lived. Adam and Lucky watched with great enthusiasm as the powerlines flashed when the tornado tore through them, and then with dread as they watched the biggest tornado of the day lift a barn entirely up off the ground and hurl it, in pieces, hundreds of yards to either side. When the danger had passed, Rachael drove the truck toward the property, the students taking in the destruction as they drove past the bits of barn on the way up the farm road. Noel and Rachael led the way to the farmhouse, where they knocked on the door and checked on the homeowner and were assured that it was just hay in the barn, thanks for checking but we’re fine, appreciate the stop.

“It should be a compulsory part of storm chasing,” Noel told the boys solemnly as they piled back into the truck. “Lots of chasers do it, and that’s great, but I’ve seen vans and trucks blow past a trashed building just to keep following the storm.” He shook his head. “No excuse for that, not really.”

There wasn’t as much lightning with that system, so Rachael didn’t bother throwing the probes out. After they checked on the farm house, they drove after the storm for a little while longer, but it fell apart near the capitol, and they called it a night. Noel was driving by then, and when the group decided a diner sounded just perfect for a quick bite before bed, he somehow managed to navigate to a greasy spoon on the side of the road that promised some of the best burgers in the midwest. Adam wasn’t typically a fan of burgers, but when faced with a claim like that, he felt it was fairly mandatory to at least give them a try.

They chatted idly about the storms of the day while the waited, Adam nursing a Pepsi and Lucky working on a black-and-white milkshake. “So what are we thinking about tomorrow?” Noel asked, over the rim of his coffee cup.

Rachael had the laptop out, and she didn’t look particularly happy. “Not … not looking good. Not for the next few days, as much as I can estimate.” She sighed. “I can look again in the morning, for sure, but if there’s anything, it’s going to be little, and it’ll be all the way up in South Dakota, probably.”

Noel winced. “Worth the drive?”

“Well … I mean, I’ll check tomorrow, but if you want my money on it … no. Sorry. There’s a few little system set-ups in the works, but nothing I can forsee producing anything worthwhile. Probably a bust day.”

Lucky and Adam exchanged a look. “So what do we do on bust days?” Adam asked, over the slurping of the milkshake. Although this was supposed to be an educational trip, he was sort of desperately hoping the answer wasn’t going to be studying. Certainly, if he was in America, there would be something to do besides sit around and study.

“Well, Noel has some textbooks in the truck that you two can share, and -” Rachael caught their expressions and stopped to laugh. “Nah, just kidding. I mean, you can if you want to, but doesn’t sound very fun, does it?” They shook their heads slowly. “Noel and I have a lot of photos and video to edit, so we’re gonna be pretty tied up with that most of the day, but since we won’t be traveling anywhere, might make sense for us to head back to Kansas City tonight and stay there, and you guys can explore around tomorrow if you want. There’s museums and stuff there, and it’s not even a two-hour drive, so not too bad to head to tonight.”

Lucky nodded. “Kansas City’s good with me. I’ve never been there.”

“I have once,” Adam said, as the waitress set his food down in front of him. Regardless of the quality of the burger, it was certainly one of the biggest burgers he’d ever seen. Next to him, Lucky made a confused noise that reminded him, a little, of Crowley, and made something that felt a little like homesickness twist in his gut, although that might have just been hunger at the sight of the burger and fries. “Nah, just kidding.” He picked up a fry and smirked at the other boy. “I’m game though.”

“I was so confused for a minute.” The waitress set down Lucky’s meal: an enormous plate of fried chicken. “Oh man, oh yes.”

“You really gonna eat all that?”

“Or die trying.”

Noel sighed wistfully. “I wish I could still eat like that without needing a handful of antacids afterwards.” He’d ordered a BLT for himself, and Rachael had chosen a tuna melt.

“You can have a piece if you want?” Lucky pushed the drumstick close to Noel, who shook his head. “Sure?”

“Enjoy it for me. Much as I’d like it, I’d prefer to sleep tonight.”

They ate in silence for a while. Adam considered his burger. It was certainly good, but was it one of the best? He chewed each bite thoughtfully, and tried to balance the juiciness of the meat with the sharpness of the cheese and the varied tastes - sweet, acid, umami - of the condiments. About a quarter of the way through, he settled on the conclusion that it maybe wasn’t the best he’d ever had, but it certainly was in the top five. He set it down to take a photo of it for the group, which he would include with the tornado pictures when he sent them later.

“You guys still have to show me your pictures,” Rachael said, the sight of Adam’s phone jogging her memory. “Lucky, you took a million yesterday and today - I heard your camera. Any favorites?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed his mouthful of chicken. “I’ll show you when I’m not greasy.”

“Deal.” She cocked her head, a loose lock of dark hair falling across her nose. She blew it out of the way. “How about you, Adam?”

He thought about all the photos and videos he’d taken, and considered. “I think some are pretty good,” he concluded. “My friends back home loved some of the ones from yesterday, but I think that was more because of the tornado and not as much the quality of the photography. I’ll show you when I’m done.”

“That’s fair.” She nudged Noel. “I know you have some great pictures, I heard your camera going off all day like it was going out of style.”

Noel replied, and Adam ate quietly as they bantered back and forth. He grinned a little too, around bites of burger, because for two research partners, Noel and Rachael were really very funny together. He wondered if they were more than research partners, but neither had ever said, and while he wouldn’t have thought twice about asking when he was eleven, at eighteen he liked to think he had picked up enough social graces through the years to know better than to come out with a question like that*. Besides, neither wore a ring, and neither had made any kind of overt romantic gesture toward the other, which led Adam to believe that if they were more than research partners, they probably didn’t like to discuss it with customers.

[*And if anything, Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship had taught him that an obvious friendship and incredible chemistry didn’t always infer a relationship that any involved parties would be willing to talk about for any length of time without blushing, or turning into a gigantic serpent and escaping through a window. Although Adam also knew the latter was significantly less likely within the general population.]

“So where are you guys from?” Lucky asked, and Adam startled out of his reverie. “I mean, I read your bios online, but like - Noel, you’re from around this part of the country, aren’t you?”

“Not quite - I’m from Montana.” Noel’s expression changed when he mentioned that state, settled into something calm and peaceful. “Big Sky country. Not too many tornadoes up that way, though, but the winter storms can be something up in the mountains. That’s home base for me, when it’s not chasing season.”

“So you like snow and stuff?”

“Oh, yeah! Cross-country skiing, trapping, fishing.” He laughed. “Growing up out there, just me and my mom, it was a little wild. She’s kind of a frontier-woman type, so we grew or hunted a lot of our own food.” He shrugged. “Not that I don’t love it, obviously, nothing better than being out in nature if you ask me, but I do like being able to run to the store when I’m out of peanut butter. College domesticated me, I guess.”

“Education’ll do that,” Rachael agreed, laughing. “One minute you’re Grizzly Adams, the next you’re eating Top Ramen and yelling at the weather channel in an air-conditioned dorm because it’s kind of hot outside.”

Noel acted affronted at that. “My dorm didn’t have air conditioning, excuse you.”

“Oh, so sorry, my mistake.” Lucky and Adam were laughing, which Adam rather suspected was the intended outcome of the little show the two scientists were putting on. “Was it actually a constructed building or did you fashion your own dorm out of hewn logs?”

Noel shook his head. “They wouldn’t let me build a log cabin on campus, can you believe?” He nodded her way. “Anyway, that’s me, what about you? Where you from? The public wants to know.”

“Florida.” Rachael sighed. “Sorry to say, I am Florida Woman.” Lucky and Adam laughed again. “Fighting alligators, selling fake Superbowl tickets, finding manatees in the swimming pool … Yes, all my doing.”

Lucky looked somewhat worried, and Adam paused. “Wait, really?”

“No.” She scoffed. “Well, okay, one time a manatee did get into our pool, but that was one time. During a hurricane.” She waved a hand. “Storm surge, you know how it is. Anyway, I did not grow up on the wild plains of America - I grew up like a normal American kid in a kind-of-nice trailer park on the Gulf coast, and was already completely civilized by the time I arrived at college.”

Adam nodded. “Did you guys meet in college, or … ?” he trailed off, letting the question hang. Rachael’s mouth dropped open.

“Adam, how old do you think I am?”

Adam winced. “Sorry, I just -” but she was laughing anyway, and he relaxed and broke into a grin. “Sorry.”

“Kidding, kidding. No, we didn’t meet in college. Well,” she amended, “I was in college. He was working for OSU at the time, I think?” Noel nodded in confirmation. “Anyway, I was working with OSU’s lightning research team and he was helping with the mesonet, so that’s where we met. Then a few years later, when I was looking to do more lightning research for my PhD, he had started storm chasing, and he actually hired me on.” She shrugged. “Free research opportunities for me, and another driver for him.”

“Plus I can pay her in Dunkin coffee, which is a lot less than what the other candidates I interviewed wanted,” he joked. She made a face at him. “Alright, and money, yes. Even benefits, eventually.”

Rachael pushed her plate away, the tuna melt long gone and the fries all but eaten. She rested her face in her hands. “Yeah, that was a bigger adventure than storm chasing was that year, I think. God, getting him to do literally any amount of official paperwork is actually painful.”

“Which is why I gave her a raise and expanded her duties to include the business operations.” He snorted. “Worked out great for me - I just keep the truck and the equipment running, and don’t get us killed, she finds the storms and does taxes.”

Lucky frowned then, and Adam could almost hear what the other boy was thinking. He watched Lucky chew a french fry thoughtfully, swallow, and then open his mouth. Rachael, grinning like a shark, headed him off before he could get a word out. “If you’re about to ask if we are anything more than business partners, the answer is no. Everyone thinks so, though.” She sighed. “Alas, I’m married to a lovely woman who holds down the fort in Florida, and Noel here is married to Montana, I think.”

“Yeah, okay.” He shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“And you both just really like weather?” Adam asked, also choosing to push his plate away, although the handful of fries left were practically calling to him. “S’how you got into storm chasing?”

“I mean, I grew up in lightning country, so I guess it just carried on from there. I always liked it, wanted to know how it worked.” Rachael shrugged. “You?”

“I like road trips and tornadoes,” Noel answered, simply. “I went to college with a plan to get a business degree or something, but I actually went chasing for the first time after my freshman year, kind of fell into it, and switched my major to geology after that.”

Adam sat back. “Wicked.”

The waitress came back with the bill, and they all threw down a little cash, before wandering back out to the truck. Behind the storm, the sky was clear and dark, a few stars winking over the light pollution. Noel looked up as they crossed the parking lot and sighed. “You know that’s the thing about Montana. It really does have a sky you don’t get anywhere else. Figuratively speaking.”

“My Dad took me out to Colorado once,” Lucky said, conversationally. “We were out at some base in the middle of nowhere. The stars were insane - you could see the milky way and everything. Back home, there’s so much light pollution you’re lucky if you see enough stars to count on two hands.” He sighed, wistful. “Sometimes I think I might move out this way after school. I’m sick of DC, anyway.”

“Can’t imagine it’s a quiet place to live,” Rachael said sympathetically. “And if you’re looking to study meteorology it’s nice to have it closer to your backyard, so to speak. ‘Course, if you stay in Washington, maybe you could lobby against climate change.” Lucky made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, and stuck out his tongue. “Or not. Just a thought.”

“No way. I’m over it. The whole DC rat-race.” He waved his arms, and then hauled the door to the back seat of the truck open. “Forget it.” Once in the truck, he looked across the back seat to Adam, who was fiddling with his seatbelt in the dark. “What about you, Adam? You think you wanna stay in England?”

“Oh, yeah,” Adam replied, without ever even having to think about it. He had, after all, made up his mind about that ages ago. “I like to travel and everything, though, so it’d be cool to find some job where you get to travel a bit. But yeah, Tadfield’ll always be home for sure.”

“That’s cool.” He rubbed his hands on his thighs, wiping the last remnants of chicken grease off on his shorts. “Is it a big place?”

Adam shook his head. “Oh, no. Few hundred people at the outside. But it’s close to Oxford, and not all that far from London, so it’s kind of the best of both worlds, I guess.” He looked out of the window, and tried to ignore the feeling of homesickness then - definitely not hunger anymore, no way it could be after that burger.

There was quiet for a minute, and then, gently, Rachael said, “Have you ever been away from home this long before?”

“No,” he answered, automatically, and then he flinched, glad for the darkness and the fact that his face was turned away from Lucky. He wasn’t ashamed that he hadn’t traveled for six weeks before, not at all, but he didn’t want the other guy to think he was some homesick little kid. “No,” he decided, going on as if he was bored with the subject, “but I’ve gone away for a couple weeks before, on holiday.”

“Six weeks is a long time,” Rachael answered, tone neutral. “I guess if we’re not going to be chasing tomorrow you’ll have time to call England at a reasonable hour, though, so there’s something, right?” She cracked the laptop open and smiled in the soft glow of the screen. “Silver lining in every cloud, right?”

“You see clouds?” Lucky leaned around the seat a little to get a better look.

“Not a one.”

When they arrived in Kansas City, the sun had long-since set, and the lights of the city illuminated the sky with a soft glow. They found a hotel on the outskirts of the city, cheap and clean, and parted ways to crash for the evening. Adam was looking forward to a quick shower and the soft embrace of a hotel mattress, but as he started to unpack for the night it appeared Lucky had other plans.

“So what do you think we should do tomorrow?”

“Huh? Oh. I dunno. What do you want to do?”

Lucky thought it over. “Dunno. We could just wander around the city, I guess. Oh, there’s an amusement park. You like rollercoasters?”

“They’re cool.” Adam shrugged. “Any museums or anything? Or like, barbecue?”

“Oh, a barbecue tour. Might be cool.” He tapped at his phone for a while, and scratched his beard thoughtfully. “What about this haunted building walking tour?”

“Oh yeah? Sounds awesome, actually. I’d be up for it.”

Lucky put his head to the side. “Yeah, I guess the Mormons were big around here for awhile? Oh, man, if we had a car we could take a day trip to the Garden of Eden, apparently.”

That drew a laugh out of Adam. “The Garden of Eden?” he asked, incredulous. “In driving distance? What is it, like a religious amusement park or something?”

“No, no, some people believe that the Garden of Eden was here in Missouri.” He giggled. “I always heard Eden was in the middle east or whatever. Like Mesopotamia area. Guess it could have been in Missouri though. Why not? No one really knows.”

Adam laughed. “I dunno, maybe someone does.”

“What, you know some immortals?” Lucky grinned. “Or what, wizards? Is Hogwarts real? I mean, I did move away when I was eleven, I could have missed my Hogwarts letter.”

“Never been to Hogwarts, nah. But you never know.” He shrugged. “All kinds of scholars figure it’s in the middle east. Maybe one of ‘em has an inside line, you know?”

“To who? God?”

Adam smirked. “You never know. Anyway, I’m gonna grab a shower. I’m in for the ghost tour thing tomorrow, though - sounds awesome.”

“You think they’re real?” The question stopped Adam halfway to the bathroom. “Ghosts, that is.”

Adam considered it. He could be honest**, of course, but then would Lucky think he was weird? But then the other boy had been the one to bring up the ghosts up in the first place. He chewed it over for a second, and then shrugged again. “Yeah.”

[** Not completely honest. There were things that he would always leave out. Being the actual Antichrist, for one.]

“Same.” He frowned. “I mean, I’ve never seen one, but there’s so many people that believe they exist, and that they’ve seen them, there has to be something to it, right?”

“Well …” Adam chewed his lip, and then, after a second, smiled. “Alright, maybe, yeah, but to play devil’s advocate for a minute, what if it’s not ghosts at all, but a totally natural phenomenon? Infrasound, or something?”

Lucky cocked his head. “Huh? What’s that?”

Adam looked to the shower, and then tossed his pajamas into the bathroom, haphazard on the tile floor, before he turned back around and headed to sit on his bed, legs crossed and leaned back, across from Lucky. He raised an eyebrow. “Infrasound. Supposedly can make people see and hear and thing all kinds of stuff. Hallucinations and everything.”

“I’ve never heard of it.” Lucky tossed his phone aside and fixed Adam with his full attention. “It can make people see ghosts?”

Adam grinned, wide and wicked. “You ever heard of the incident at Dyatlov Pass?”

“No. Is it weird?” Adam nodded. “Cool?” Another nod. “Mysterious?” A very affirmative nod. “Dude, tell me everything.”

Adam did. The pajamas sat, forgotten, on the bathroom floor, until the early hours of the morning, while the boys chattered on.

“Independence, Missouri.” The 4-Runner’s brakes didn’t dare squeak as it pulled to a stop. The engine hushed and shut off, and Crowley and Aziraphale sat for a long minute, staring out of the dark windshield to a field lit only by the car’s headlights. They didn’t need them, so Crowley shut them off too. “City of Zion,” Aziraphale observed, dryly. “Site of the Garden of Eden, they say.”

“I don’t remember all the corn,” Crowley said. Aziraphale didn’t respond, instead opening his door and stepping out of the car, into the humid night air. Above, the stars that managed to shine in spite of the light pollution glimmered weakly through the gaps in the clouds.

Aziraphale surveyed the field below them, and when he spoke again, it was in a language so long-dead that Crowley had to scramble to figure out what he was saying, at first. But it surprised him, eventually, how easily it came back, how it rolled off his tongue when he replied, like it had never died, never been shattered to the four corners when the Tower fell.

“It’s funny, how they think, don’t you think?” The angel chuckled a little. “Wonder what our lives would have been like if it had really been here, don’t you?”

Crowley was silent for a second, and then Aziraphale looked over, surprised, as a skinny elbow dug into his ribs. “Maybe I’d have been a corn snake.”

“Crowley,” he admonished, while the demon burst out into laughter. “You’re speaking a dead language that’s not been heard in thousands of years, and you make a pun? Have some respect.”

“I never will.” He ran his hands through his hair, still snickering. “If the Garden was actually in Missouri …” He sighed. “Well, for one, we’d have different accents.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” He left the demon to his own devices for a minute, giggling and making terrible puns in a tongue long-forgotten, and instead looked over the cornfield, flat and stretched out across the plains. On the other side, he could just hear the sound of running water.

“Oy, angel.” Startled, Azirpahale looked to Crowley, wide-eyed. The other was watching him, and because his sunglasses were perched on his head, sending Crowley’s mess of red hair in all sorts of directions, Aziraphale could see his eyes properly. He looked amused, most of all, but somewhere in there he was watching Aziraphale carefully. Thoughtful. “What’re you thinking about?”

“The Garden. The real Garden.” He looked around, the creatures of the night crying and squeaking and chirping all around. “Do you think, Crowley, that if it had been here - really, in real life - things would have gone the same?”

Crowley puffed out a breath, thoughtful. “Deep, angel. S’a big question. You’re giving everything a whole new beginning, for a start. It’s all so big, an’ ineffable, hard to know, isn’t it?”

“The ineffable plan might have stayed the same.”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably. “It … would be different though, wouldn’t it? It’d have to be. The Garden is in a whole different place.”

“Not necessarily. What happened in the Garden probably didn’t happen just because the Garden was where it was. It happened because of the plan -”

“Oh, sod the plan,” Crowley said with a disgusted noise. “It happened because Eve wanted to know what else was out there, and Adam agreed with her. And She made it easy for them to find out, in a way.” He pointed upwards, to where the moon was trying to peek through the wispy layer of clouds left behind from the day’s storms. “Could have always put it up there.” He snorted. “She never had a plan, she just set the pieces out and let them fall where they did.”

Aziraphale scowled in the way he always did when his disagreed, and disapproved, but he didn’t say anything about it. It was an argument they had had time and time again - Aziraphale arguing that the plan is ineffable and therefore extant but not anything either he or Crowley would ever be able to understand, and Crowley arguing that there was no plan to begin with, and She was ad-libbing and rolling with the hits as they came - and he didn’t feel like having it tonight. Instead, he re-set his expression to a more neutral, thoughtful one, and slid his hand into Crowley’s. The demon, wordlessly, squeezed it. “What about us?”

Crowley looked surprised. “What about us?” He shifted nervously onto his heels, and then laced his fingers through Aziraphale’s, the better to keep his balance.

“Would we have turned out the same, do you think?”

“I …” Crowley trailed off. He thought. Aziraphale let him, and stood beside him in companionable silence, trying to corral his own ideas about that question into something he might be able to elucidate. “Depends,” Crowley decided, eventually. “I’d have still done the bit at the start of it all, but after that …” He fixed Azirpahale with a curious expression. “Would you have still given away your sword?”

It was a question Aziraphale hadn’t expected, only because the answer to it was so obvious. He blinked. “Of course.”

The demon nodded, satisfied. “Then angel, I would have followed you to the ends of the Earth to find out what you were going to do next, no matter where we started.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “So we’d probably have ended up just the same.”

The thought of it made the angel smile, and he stepped closer to Crowley, standing close enough that their shoulders bumped and settled together, close and familiar and soft in spite of Crowley’s bony joints. “With different accents.”

“Well, yeah. With different accents. Naturally.”

Now with Chapter 10!

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #adam young #warlock dowling #crowley #aziraphale #i wish i didn't enjoy fanfiction so much #the one where they go to america

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vampwrrrmistresslist · 5 years

Text

Riding the Red 1

The vast, dark room housed two men. It was an old fashioned library, with an old fashioned fireplace, in an old-fashioned house. Everything in the room, from the leather-bound first editions, to the thick velvet draperies, to the huge cherry wood desk, spoke of old money, tradition, and rules of cold iron. The elder of the men, silver-haired, broad and imposing, stood in front of the fireplace, staring stone-faced into the flames. The younger stood behind him, towering over his elder, though he didn’t have nearly as much muscle. He moved, standing beside the older gentleman, to contemplate the flames.

“Anything it takes?” he queried.

“Anything it takes.”

***

You ran for the ringing phone. Breathless. “‘Allo?”

“Well, hello!” laughed your mother. “I thought that you would never pick up the phone!”

You slipped into the comfortable Franglish that your family had spoken since your childhood. “Desole Maman, but I just came back from class. Midterms are fast approaching and I’ve been living at the library for the past few days.”

“C'est bien, Princesse. I knew that they were coming. As a matter of fact, you should have received a package from us.”

Giggling, “Oui! It came in the mail today and I was waiting until I got back home to open it.“

“No time like the present,” your mom said.

“Un moment,” You grabbed your keys, slitting the tape on the box. Gasping, you looked happily at the treasures inside. “Maman!”

“I know, I know. I hope that you like it.”

“Oh, Maman!” Your eyes roved over all of your best loved treats. Nutella, raspberry Pims, almond butter, Hob Nobs, Mint Milanos, cashew butter, and your mother’s cinnamon hot-chocolate mix, oatmeal-black walnut-currant biscuits, and homemade granola. Confusion crossed your face, as you dug further into the box. Under the first layer of delightful comestibles was a second layer of shortbread biscuits, tins of chamomile, earl grey, and peppermint tea, water crackers, and homemade cream scones. “Umm…”

“Ah, I see that you’ve reached the second layer. Isn’t that a lot of food for une petit etudiante?”

Suspicious. "Ouais… You know that I’ve never cared for anything in the second layer…“

"Curieuse. Do you know anyone who might enjoy them?”

“The only person that likes all these things is—Mom!”

“Quoi?” your mother innocently asked.

“Grandmaman.”

“What about her?”

“You want me to deliver these things to Grandmaman.”

“Alors,” your mother said, comfortably, “Don’t you love your grandmere?”

“You know that I do! It’s just that midterms are just around the corner and I have no extra time, and—”

“Elle est malade, bebe.”

“Oh. Is she—”

“She’ll be fine. It was pneumonia, but they caught it in time and you know that your Grandmaman is a tough old salt. She’s back at home, resting, but she’s still feeling under the weather. She would really enjoy a visit from her favourite grandchild.”

“I’m her only grandchild.”

“Thus making you all the more unique.”

“All right, all right! "Hyperbolic flattery will get you everywhere. I was going to go to the movies with friends this evening, but I can drop by her house, instead.”

“Tu es une bonne fille.”

“That’s why you love me.”

“Mmm.” Your mother chuckled. "Quelle heure est-il, la?”

You attended L'Universite d'Orleans, where you double-majored in ancient language and ancient civilizations. As the daughter of a French diplomat and an American international lawyer, you were extremely poised, and had decided early in life that you wanted to study in your father’s patrie. Your parents, on the other hand, were currently living in Seattle. “Five o'clock.”

“Well, then be quick about it. It’s probably getting dark, isn’t it?”

Elliptically, “It’s not too bad.”

“You know that I don’t like you alone in the woods after dark.” Your grandmere lived within walking distance of the school, but there was a wooded area that you had to cut through to arrive without taking a ridiculous amount of time.

“Maman, I’ll be fine,” you gently chided.

Your mother sighed. “It’s October. C'est frais, la. Wear that red cape that she gave you. That will cheer her.”

“I will,” you promised.

“Princesse—,” your mother started.

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Just…” A deep sigh.

“Qu'est ce que c'est? Quelle est la probleme?”

A short silence followed. Finally, your mother spoke. “You haven’t heard anything from your grandfather, have you?”

“No, ma'am. I haven’t seen him in years. Why do you ask? Has he called you?”

“Non, non. Pas de raison, Pretty. I haven’t heard from Father since the last time that you saw him. Just remember not to talk to any etrangers, d'accord?”

“Mom, I’m 21. You’ve been telling me that since I was 6. When will you think that it has finally stuck?”

“Je ne sais pas, Princesse,” your mother said, sadly. “Well, on with you. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Je t'aime, Maman.”“I love you more, mon bebe.”

***

Standing within the shadows of a grove, a tall, rangy man boldly watched a particular open window with predatory concentration. He was dressed well, in a tailored grey wool three-piece suit, charcoal shirt, and silver silk tie. A thick tumble of shining black curls flopped charmingly and rather boyishly just above his chocolate eyes. His jaw was firm and there was a taut muscle ticking in his lean cheek. Suddenly he lifted his face in the air, closed his eyes, and leisurely sniffed. With a very slow, very white grin, he sauntered away from the dorms and melted into the shadows of the woods.

***

After a quick shower, you donned a full black lambs-wool skirt that went down to your ankles, white stockings, and your black, patent leather T-strap Mary Janes. A billowy, long-sleeved white shirt with a drawstring neck and tight cuffs, and black wool vest finished the ensemble. Your mother was right. The weather was chilling, especially at night, and besides, Grandmaman would be pleased to see you in the clothes that she had made and bought for your last birthday, although perhaps she might be slightly scandalized to know that you were wearing stockings instead of sensible sweater tights. You liked your stockings and garters, though. You found old-fashioned undergarments charming and you enjoyed wearing them far more than modern under things. On second thought, Grandmaman would probably approve. She was an artistic, feisty woman, with blackberry eyes and a quick, red smile. There were rumours that her family tree held the “Romani stain” and, given your Grandmaman’s clever wit, unsettling insight, and penchant for colourful baubles and rich fabrics, you could believe it.

You had put up your hair, so that it wouldn’t become wet in the shower, but now unpinned it, letting the curly, shining, coffee mass fall down your back, to your waist. Your silver eyes roved over your dresser until you located your red velvet ribbon, which you tied around your head, Alice-style, to hold back your thick curls. You put the treats for your grandmother in your wicker basket, and closed the lid. Donning the crimson velvet cape made for you on your 16th birthday by your doting grandmother, you picked up the basket, and swept out of the room.

***

You had been walking through the woods for a while, when the gloaming descended. Late-season fireflies floated around your head, and the changing leaves, along with a soft mist that was rising from the ground, made it seem as if you were walking into Fairyland. Looking behind, you saw the last brilliant rays of the sun, illuminating the nacreous clouds with deeply saturated shades of gold, pink, and carmine. Ahead was a full moon on the rise, sitting in a purplish-blue evening sky. You paused to enjoy a moment of solitude, contemplating the beauty of nature.

In the silence, you heard a twig snap. Stilling, you strained all your senses to ascertain just what was in the dark. Hearing nothing you began, once again, to walk, only to hear a rustle to your right. Your eyes swept the surrounding woods, but saw nothing. Peering into the deepening twilight, you listened once more, but the whisper of the wind blowing in the leaves was all that you heard. Just as you were about to continue on your way, you heard another rustle, and spun to see what was there. Nothing. Lifting your face, you scented the breeze. A spicy scent drifted teasingly past your nose, and then faded. Setting your jaw, you shook your head, thinking that it was probably a deer, or small mammal. It was just like you to let your imagination get the best of you. You had walked these woods countless times, and had been completely safe.

Suddenly, a wolf howl in the distance. You looked disbelievingly toward the sound. Another howl rent the night air, this one slightly closer. Putting down your head, you began to briskly trot along the path. In the distance, you could hear the sounds of leaves crunching underfoot as something came closer. You bit your lip and turned your head. In the darkness, you could see grey shapes far behind you, melting from shadow to shadow, and gaining. With a gasp, you began to jog. The sounds of pursuit suddenly crashed into your ears, as you hitched up your skirts and ran. How many were there? You had counted at least three, but there could be more. As you ran, you clutched the basket to your chest, as if the love that your mother had put into it could keep you safe. Soon, you began to develop a stitch. You were still a good mile away from Grandmaman’s house and tiring fast. Sparing a glance behind, you found three large wolves loping silently behind you on the path. You couldn’t help it; you screamed. Turning your head, you saw a huge wolf leap in front of you. Reflexively, you swung the basket and slapped the wolf across the face so hard that it fell sideways, blocking the path.

You ran off the path, leaping over fallen trees and jumping small streams. You could hear the wolves gaining, and you heard the snap of teeth as one of them grabbed for the hem of your cape. Looking back to see if they had caught up to her, you ran into a wall. Terrified, you spun around only to discover that the wall was, in fact, a very tall man, looking down at you with amusement in his eyes. “Help me!” you cried, “Wolves!”

“Wolves?” he queried softly.

“Yes!” you sobbed, trying to pull him and run.

“Where are these wolves?” He gently asked.

“We have to run! They’re right behind me!”

“There’s nothing behind you, child.”

You spun only to discover that he was right. The wolves that had been pursuing you had vanished as mysteriously as they had appeared. “But, there were wolves,” you said, incredulously. “Three of them. I don’t understand.”

“Shhh. It’s dark. It’s cold and you were alone in the woods. That’s enough to frighten anyone into thinking that they see something menacing.”

“I wasn’t hallucinating!” you exclaimed, insulted. “I know what I saw! I’m not child; I’m not telling some fairy tale!”

“Alright,” he said, pacifyingly. “In any case, they’re gone for the moment. Which leads me to the question…what’s a little girl like you doing in a wild wood like this?”

You blinked slowly up at him, realizing that you were still clutching yourself to his body. He had his arms around her waist and she could feel the tensile strength running through them and, considering the fact that you were pressed so closely to it, through the rest of his sinewy body under his perfectly tailored grey suit. You let go of him, and he immediately dropped his arms while you backed up to a comfortable distance. “I’m not a little girl,” you challenged.

“Mmm, no, I guess you aren’t,” he said, his eyes raking in your appearance from head to foot. He grinned. “You’re obviously a very big girl.”

“I’m not a girl at all—I’m 21 years old.”

A light seemed to shine from the depths of his brown eyes. “Ah, 21? Not a child, then, but a woman grown.” He leaned casually against the trunk of a tree and put his hands in his pockets.

You narrowed your eyes and raked them over him as thoroughly as he had you. He was tall, about 6'1”, and though his clothes were elegant and finely made, his hair looked as if it needed a good combing and haircut. His thick, straight, dark brows perched above large, fine dark chocolate eyes, the shade of hot cocoa in the winter, and framed by thick, almost feminine, coffee-coloured lashes. A wide, mobile mouth contrasted sharply with the arrogant cant of his head. You found his face a disturbing study in contrasts, the gentle coral mouth and warm eyes surrounded by hard, masculine planes, and topped with almost impertinent floppy waves. His body, on the other hand, was nothing but male. Not only was he tall, but the suit did little to hide a sleekly muscled frame. Wide shoulders, flat chest and stomach, narrow hips and long, long legs led you to believe that, despite the fineness of his suit, this man was no stranger to physicality. His lazy stance against the tree was belied by an underlying hum of muscles prepared for anything, like a wolf crouched for a leap.

“Enjoying the view, Lady?” he caressingly asked.

Blushing, you straightened and speared him with a haughty look. He continued to smile insouciantly, then straightening, he stalked over. Your first instinct was to retreat, but you stiffened your spine, and holding your ground.

Smiling, he said, “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you let me walk you to your destination? It has been a while since I had the opportunity to escort a pretty young lady anywhere, and you would do me an honour to agree.”

Tilting your head, you looked up at him suspiciously. Though it would be a good idea to have him walk with you to your grandmother’s house, there was something about him that you found unsettling. He leaned over you, resting an arm on a branch above your head. Your nostrils flared as you caught that same spicy scent that you had smelled before the wolves. Primly, “No. Thank you. I don’t have much farther to go; I’m sure that I’ll be fine.

“Oh? What about the wolves?”

“You were probably right. It was just my overactive imagination playing tricks on me.”

He grinned. His teeth were very white in the darkness. Very white, very large, and very sharp. You felt your heart rate accelerate. You flushed hotly and saw his pupils dilate. Licking his lips, he said, “Still, there may be others out to catch a pretty young thing in the woods. ”

You watched his nostrils flare slightly as he leaned toward you, and you were embarrassed to feel your nipples stiffening against the fabric of your shirt. “I…um, I…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t even…” casting wildly for an excuse, “I don’t even know your name, sir.”

Straightening, he tilted his head and fixed you with a wry smile. Holding out his hand, he waited until you had placed yours in his much larger one. “Park Chanyeol.” He took your hand and, instead of shaking it, bowed and brought it to his lips, placing a soft kiss on the inside of your wrist. You felt a sharp jolt in your belly, and an insistent heat beginning to glow in places further south. Looking up, he softly queried, “What’s yours?”

You gave it breathlessly.

He reached out and toyed with one of your curls. “Dark one,” he said, quietly.

“Strong tree,” she countered.

His eyebrows snapped upward in surprise, before he masked it with a polite expression. "Well,“ he said, "now that we know one another’s names, we are no longer strangers, and you will let me accompany you.”

You usually had a quick tongue, but around this arrogant, distracting man, you found yourself as tongue tied as the school girl you proclaimed not to be. Still, despite his good looks, everything in you was screaming that he was the devil in a Sunday suit. You shook your head. “No. It’s not that far. I can make it alone.” He frowned at you, then straightened and elegantly shrugged.

“It is your decision.” Smiling charmingly, he added, “If you need me, just…scream my name.”

You backed away, your eyes holding his. Holding your hand to your chest, she put one foot behind the other, and his smiled widened. Suddenly, your foot caught in a small depression in the ground. You threw out your arms to catch yourself, but struck your head against one of the fallen trees. The last thing that you saw was Lucas striding toward you, and picking you up as if you weighed nothing. Then, the world went fluttery and finally, dark.

A/N: This is the first chapter of an ongoing series, the links for which can be found on my mistresslist. If you want to follow me, then please do so at my main blog @vampwrrr, as I always update there, first.

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