#And then Dexter showed up!! I was so unprepared for that!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yuurei20 · 1 year

Text

Twisted Wonderland: the Novel. Ace and Deuce.

Lunchtime at his second day at school is shaping up to be just as terrible as the first, when Deuce had to step in to keep Yuuya from breaking down entirely under the whispers and stares of the other Night Raven College students.

Now it is his second day of school and it is happening again, but worse. Cue, Ace.

"Right now, the lunch period right in front of him is a far more serious problem than the future.

It brings to mind yesterday: how uncomfortable it had been to be surrounded and stared at. The sensation of so many eyes upon him had been almost physically painful. And the blatant whispering. If Deuce had not joined him, he would have inevitably run out of the cafeteria to escape it.

Is he going to have to go through that same terrible discomfort again, today? He is staring at mouth-watering sautéed chicken, but the ache in his stomach is not from hunger.

‘Everythin’ looks delicious again, today, too!’

Grim has plopped himself down in a seat at the very center of a large table and shows no sign of concern, whatsoever, for his surroundings.

‘It’s great how you don’t worry at all about anything going on around you, Grim.’

‘Around me?’

Grim dexterously clamps a fork between his two front paws with a wry smile.

‘Worryin’ about that kind of thing won’t fill your stomach. More important than that is this chicken right here in front of me. I’m eatin’!’

With a look of heartfelt happiness upon his face—and splattering sauce all around—Grim digs into his food, each bite he takes bigger than the last.

‘Aw, come on.’ Wiping up Grim’s mess with his napkin, Yuuya makes eye contact with the group of students at the table across from them. Their faces are contorted into grimaces. Yuuya quickly bows his head, but he can still hear their mocking laughs and giggles.

—That normie. Trein had him stay after class, I heard.

—Are you serious? For someone with no magic to become a student here—it’s just impossible.

—It’s obnoxious is what it is. Lumping him in with us? It makes me ashamed to be a student here.

The malice that surrounds him is cold and sharp, and Yuuya can feel it stabbing at him, mercilessly. Their needles are small, but they’re as relentless as the rain. And the pain—it hurts so much he cannot even lift his head. He has lived his entire life without ever getting into a single fight, without anyone ever hating him. He is wholly unprepared for the ridicule of an entire school.

Should he be angry at them? Should he ignore them, as mere trivialities? Yuuya can think, but he cannot move. It is like he has been drained of blood, and while his limbs have gone numb, his ears are burning hot.

The very moment that his limit is reached and he cannot take it anymore, the eyes and voices are suddenly blocked; someone has sat down across from him.

Thinking that it is Deuce again Yuuya raises his head, but what he sees instead is terracotta-colored hair: Ace.

‘What’s your problem?’

Yuuya isn’t sure what Ace has deduced from meeting his eyes, but Ace continues on without waiting for him to answer.

‘You look pathetic. Were you thinking I’d come to protect you from all those guys or something? Gonna make this clear right now, but I’m only here because there isn’t anywhere else to sit. So don’t be naive. It’s just a coincidence—happenstance.’

Ace takes up his spoon. ‘Also, it’s not like I’d ever do something as lame as whispering around about someone without even talking to them straight on! I’d do what I did before and mock them right to their face, fair and square.’

As Ace glances around the surrounding chatter goes dead silent; the only sounds to be heard are Ace sipping his soup, and Grim gnawing his meat.

‘Hoo, that hit the spot!’

After stuffing his face with enthusiasm Grim clears his throat and pats his stomach with one paw, noticing Ace’s plate with a greedy glance.

‘That pasta looks good, too…’

‘And who’s gonna take it from me? You should get to eating too, Yuu. If Grim gets your lunch first, that’s on you.’

‘Ah, over there.’

Weaving in and out of the crowd and making a beeline for where they sit: it’s Deuce.

‘There’s always so many people—and it took me a while to decide between the carbonara or the chicken.’ Deuce explains, sitting down beside Ace like it is the most natural thing in the world.

‘What is with you? Can’t I even eat my lunch without having to see your face?’

‘I’m not happy about it either. Can’t you give us some space? That collar stands out so much that people are going to think we’re rule breakers, too, by association.’

‘Shut up, will you! Actually, you’re no better than me, as the one who busted the chandelier. With this kind of stuff, the only loser is whoever actually cares.’

‘Rgh…it’s not too late. I’ll show you—from now on, I’m going to be a real honor student.’

Ace and Deuce descend into their usual arguments and bickering. Their voices are louder and more biting than the whispered gossiping from before, but Yuuya does not mind in the least.

‘Ace. Deuce-kun. Thanks.’

‘What IS your problem? Weirdo.’

‘Why do you use ‘-kun’ only with me? Just Deuce is fine.’

Yuuya can still feel the muffled ridicule and stares that surround them. If anything it has gotten worse, as now the full group from the previous day’s incident has come together.

But the stinging pain has disappeared. Yuuya surprises even himself by giving them a smile, and thanks Ace and Deuce once again.

#twstnovel #twst translations #Kuroki Yuuya #twisted wonderland

167 notes · View notes

acapelladitty · 2 years

Text

Scarecrow & Doc Ock: Glow (fic)

(the art above is by the amazing @hermannco who is my partner in crime for this cheeky little self-indulgent endeavour)

Unexpected visitors were an unfortunate regularity in the life of any career criminal but, as Crane observed the man who stood merely a few feet from his own position, he had to admit that this visitor was decidedly more interesting than most.

Doctor Otto Octavius, alias, Doc Ock.

A man who had not been sighted in Gotham since before the new millennium.

A man who had he once shared a university campus with.

A man who had four extra limbs that one might consider slightly unnatural.

But as his eyes roved over the metal arms which were floating casually behind Octavius’ back, their calculated movements clearly collecting data for their AI based on video observation, Crane could admire the sheer technical prowess which went into creating such things.

“I was not too surprised to hear of your exploits, Doctor Crane.” His goggles pushed back into his hairline to expose a handsome face, Octavius tilted his head as he took another small draw of his cigar, “I have distinct memories of a young man barely scraping by his ethics class due to his controversial opinions. Or do you prefer to be known as Scarecrow these days?” His words trailed off into a thoughtful hum

“Doctor Crane is sufficient, but I must confess that I cannot share the same sentiments for you, Doctor Octavius.”

Matching the casual tone of the conversation, Crane’s words were laced with ice as he responded. Within his pocket was a small vial of toxin but, should this encounter take a turn, he felt woefully unprepared for a fight.

So, he settled on diplomacy as he continued.

“I followed your accident and subsequent rebirth into the guise of Doctor Octopus with some interest. It is not everyday that a man develops limbs which possess their own consciousness, and I say that as a man who spends his days working alongside human-crocodile hybrids and men who depends on sub-zero temperatures to survive.”

“How strange the world we live in.”

Speaking freely as though catching up with an old friend over coffee, Octavius focused his attention on the high collar of his coat as he smoothed it out against his neck, his fingers brushing against the useless chip still implanted into his skin as he spoke again.

“I am here because we both have a problem with pest control, and I would appreciate some assistance.”

A low, cold laugh broke free of Crane’s throat before he could prevent it.

“Your pest is a mere child,” he offered dismissively, “and I think you will find that my pest is being very well managed at the moment by an onslaught from the clown, or perhaps you haven’t been following the Gotham news?”

The scent of smoke wafting from Octavius was subtle in the air but it was enough to move Crane’s hands to his inner pocket as he pulled free a pack of cigarettes. Plucking one from the pack, he held it still between his teeth as he dropped the pack back in his pocket. His hands lowered to pat at the outer pockets of his lab coat but a frown of irritation was quick to marr his forehead as they came up empty.

A huff of annoyance, slightly muffled by the cigarette clenched between his teeth, escaped him.

“Allow me.”

Stepping forward with clear purpose, Octavius crossed the short space between them as he slipped into Crane’s personal space. One of his actuators dipped within the side pocket of his leather trench coat with obvious dexterity and pulled free a small box of matches, dropping them into his outstretched palm.

Crane, to his credit, did not flinch as he was openly challenged by the other scientist.

To flinch or take a step back would show weakness and he would not allow it.

While his impressive height usually gave him some advantage of intimidation, the sheer physicality which Octavius exuded, his wide body pairing with the obvious threat of his impressive metal arms, made it quite clear who would win in a physical bout.

Luckily, that was something Crane had no interest in and his skills in avoiding unnecessary combat were tuned like a fine guitar after years of experience.

Opening the small box of matches, Octavius was quick to strike the match and allow the bloom of fire to briefly add some illumination to his face; showcasing the focus in his eyes and the slight smirk which graced his lips. The match remained in his fingers for only a second before being plucked free by the metal arm once again as it was held in the space between them.

Steeling his spine, Crane allowed a sour smile to tug at the corners of his lips.

“My thanks.”

Crane was careful as he dipped his head, ensuring that the tip of his cigarette was lain against the match with enough pressure to ignite. Their faces now mere inches away, Crane focused his attention on Octavius’ cigar, glowing away as it lay pinned leisurely between his white teeth, and Crane felt the sudden itch of unwanted observation as the deep, brown eyes refused to leave his own

Only when the glow of the tip of his cigarette was certain did he pull back and inhale softly.

Holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment, he exhaled slowly and watched as the plume of cigarette smoke dissipated quickly in the dim lighting of the room.

“What do you want from me?”

“Your value as a distraction.”

“I have no interest in playing with the child you have the shame to call your enemy. I am nearing a breakthrough in my own work.”

“Help me,” voice lowering a notch, Octavius spoke with a honeyed tone, “and I will open up fresh networks of contact with my associates and their impressive resources.”

“You want me as a distraction, but know this Octavius, if you pit me against that child then I will kill him. Morality still beats at your heart while mine has long since ceased and I do not temper my toxin for the young. He possesses no immunities to my chemicals and he will die experiencing his greatest fears and screaming for all New York to see.”

For the first time since he had entered into this little exchange, something akin to uncertainty shone within Octavius’ eyes as he listened to Crane’s words.

“Are you surprised?” Picking up on the change, Crane honed in on the weakness like a shark.

“No.”

“Then why are you hesitating to accept?” Feeling bolstered, Crane took a long draw of his cigarette before dropping it to the floor and stubbing it out with the heel of his shoe, “May I indulge myself in some home truths?”

Without giving Octavius time to respond, Crane ploughed on.

“Your contacts within Gotham are limited and so you seek me out to assist you, not realising that the man you knew briefly in college is long-since dead and the creature that inhabits his body has long since lost any petty humanity which would hold him back from his goals.”

His fingers closed around the vial of toxin in his pocket, preparing for the possible outcome of his next words.

“You left this city to experience success; a fully funded project to save this planet from itself and a beautiful wife making you content with your life. Both of which were then lost to you to, leaving you trapped in a body which is barely your own.” A grin of malice stretched his lips. “The sheer amount of fear which must now guide your life is intoxicating to me, tell me, what do you fear more; the knowledge that you are responsible for your fate in this life or the fear that one day you will lose yourself fully to the AI and becomes the monster that you already suspect you are?”

As his words continued, a mottled flush of rage appeared on Octavius’ face and his metal arms bristled in position, twitching angrily as they prepared to attack. Through gritted teeth, fury flashed in Octavius’ eyes as he spoke.

“I’ll kill you.”

Having anticipated such a move, Crane pulled free the vial of toxin and ensured that it was clear in the low lighting.

“Move against me and we will find out, first-hand, which of those fears is truly the one which knocks at your soul. I am not the solution to your current problem. You may come back to me when you need something greater than a glorified babysitter.”

A crack of bone came from one of Octavius’ gloved hands as he tightened them into a fist.

“You will one day regret this, Crane.”

“Perhaps I will. We shall see about that.”

Knowing when a cause was lost, an aggravated snarl escaped Octavius as he turned on his heel and made a swift exit from the failed exchange. As a final insult he dropped the cigar which he had been holding within his fingers to the floor, the embers glowing subtly against the dark ground as the heavy footsteps of their owner grew fainter with every moment.

In the sudden quiet of his lair, Crane exhaled deeply as adrenaline continued to pump through his veins. Dropping the vial back into his pocket for safe keeping, his thoughts were piecemeal but the one which kept springing to the forefront of his mind involved his assessments of the handsome Doctor Octavius and his greatest fears.

Maybe he would agree to assist the scientist, if only to confirm his suspicions. It would break the monotony of the usual costumed rogues he subjected to his whims and provide some interesting data on how, or if, his compounds influenced artificial intelligences.

Anything for his beloved toxin.

#otto octavius #doc ock #Jonathan crane #scarecrow #gotham rogues #spiderman

305 notes · View notes

gb-patch · 3 years

Text

Ask Answers (February 22nd, 2021)

Hello! Here’s another collection of anon ask answers all put together in one big post.

This might be strange considering how upbeat yall are about the fandoms for your games in general, but is there any particular trope or ship you WOULDN'T want us writing/drawing/etc. in relation to your stuff? (IE, any canon you don't want us 'overwriting' or something like that?)

Of course we would want the fan content people make to not be racist, sexist, homophobic, bigoted, harmful, etc. But in terms of generally doing non-canon pairings or adding in headcanons or stuff, we really don’t mind that. People are welcome to have fun and explore their own ideas.

for the 1.2 Android update was it meant to download as a separate app? I really want to keep my previous save files but they don't show up (also thank u for the updates I'm really excited to get back into the game!!)

We had to change the name of the file and unfortunately for some phones that meant it’s treated as a brand new game. I’m sorry your saves didn’t transfer over to the new version. You can try to look up your specific phone and see if there’s a way to access save files for games on your device and then transfer those saves over to the new build manually. It may or may not be possible.

I'm having some trouble figuring out how to get the update from Itichio without losing my save files? Is it the same game or a folder I can put in the properties? Sorry if this question is not worded well or if this isn't the avenue you'd want to take technical questions on

Are you using Android? If so, the above answer may apply to you. If you’re on PC or Mac, the save files will automatically still be included.

Hey. I really loved playing our life. It was a fun experience and I never thought I would like it this much. I do have a question, I am currently replaying the game and I am choosing choices I never chose at first. In step 2 during the road trip arc, I decided to ask Cove about what he liked to see on people. One of his response was anklets and black eyes. My MC have just happens to have black eyes. Do Cove say black eyes cuz my mc have it or it was just a coincidently programmed into the game?

He uses your eye color intentionally! If you changed your eye color he’d change what he said.

Will step 4 have 10 moments like steps 1-3?

Step 4 is only an epilogue. It plays like the openings/endings of the earlier Steps where it’s a bunch of scenes all in a row, there aren’t any individual Moments.

hi! who was/were the artist(s) for our life?

who is the artist for Our Life: Beginning and Always?

Main Sprite and CG Artist: Addrossi

Main Background Artist: Vui Huynh

Main Interface Artist: Winter Slice

Other artists who helped out can be seen in the credits of the game.

In the new ol, there are two main love interests... Would it be possible to pair them together or is that weird?

You can’t stay single and pair them together. If we are going to add all the extra content to have a route where the two LIs get together, it’d be a full poly route where them and the MC were all dating. And that’s not a for sure option yet because it’d add a lot of extra complications. But either way, in OL the relationships all gotta be about the MC, haha.

In OL2, there will be extra LIs in form of DLCs? Like Dexter and Baxter.

Maybe! We’ll see how it goes.

Since Cove will have 2 diff body types in s4, will the storyline and dialogs reflect this? Or all of it will be the same? Btw love the game and sorry for bad english. Hope this doesn't sound rude 😅

Some descriptions and pieces of dialog will change, but it won’t impact the story really. And you don’t need to apologize! It’s all good.

Will you ever release the transparent sprites of the Our Life characters?

Probably not, I’m afraid. They’ve got a lot of pieces and it’d just be kind of hard to deal with, aha.

Something I was curious about, what was your inspiration for making a game with so much customization?

Initially, the idea was just about having a romance where you actually grew up with the LI. But it was pretty stressful to try deciding how fast the relationship would progress with it taking place over such a long period of time and with no real storyline carrying it. People might not wanna play a game where the characters don’t get along as kids, but other people might not bother with a game where kids immediately liked each other. So the obvious answer came, just let the player pick themselves how it goes. From there we simply continued to add more flexibly with the MC due to the same thought process of wanting to make sure people were onboard with how their life was going.

What made you decide to change the artstyle for ol 2 so much? I of course respect all your decisions and will buy the shit out of everything related to ol 2, but i love the original style and i m honestly not a fan of the styles shown on patreon, despite me liking the painterly style in general. (I don t mind the style being changed, just that the examples shown so far all feel like there s something wrong with them.)

We’ve always used different art styles for each of our projects. They all have distinct looks from each other. It’s just nice to do something new. I’m glad you really like how the first game looks, though. And those samples were only general concepts, rather than the exact options being decided between. We wanted to see reactions to different options. The art style we’re going with won’t be exactly like those, though I personally like all of them. I think players are gonna enjoy the style Our Life: Now & Forever when it’s revealed.

Hey! Is it ok to ask what gender ourlife2 protagonist will be and if we'll be given the same opportunity to customize an MC? Totally understand if you're keeping this under wraps for now if u don't wanna say!

OL2 will have the same type of MC customization as OL1, but even more refined! So their gender will be up to you.

Hi! I happened upon Our Life on Steam by pure chance. It is such a great game, I am super excited about the DLC, and I just want you all to know that you are awesome! :D I have a question, and I'm sorry if it's been asked before. Do you have plans of making more games similar to Our Life, with customizable player character? The customizable player character was probably the one thing I personally have been desperate for in romance VNs. So glad there finally is one and would love to see more.

Thank you! And yep, we do have plans for more games like Our Life, most notably is another game in the franchise- Our Life: Now & Forever. We’ll also likely have other, non-OL, games with customizable MCs, though we may still have some games with set MCs in the future as well.

On the patreon dlc just curious but is it possible to play it without actually sleeping together/getting the nsfw content? I just want to spend more time with Cove

Yeah, you can still choose not to go that far. Though the event is shorter if you pass on the 18+ stuff.

At the beginning of Step 2, did Cove end up accidentally falling asleep in your bed? Or did he fall asleep on the floor?

He fell asleep sitting on the floor with his body/head leaning against the side of the bed.

This may seem like a weird question, but what exactly is the difference between "direct" and "relaxed" on the comfort scale?

Direct is blunter and more teasing, relaxed is lighthearted and goes with the flow.

can the MC have tattoos in step 3?

Not in Step 3, but you can in Step 4.

how would Cove react if he visited somewhere like North Carolina in winter where it can get in the 20s(F) at night sometimes?

He would be shocked and unprepared for what serious coldness is really like, haha. The poor beach baby would wanna go home.

Hello! I just joined the PATREON!! It’s amazing! I love your games! I have a question, approximately how much after will the nsfw be out? After or before the dlc 3 and step four? Sorry my English isn’t the best!❤️❤️❤️

Thanks so much! The NSFW DLC will be out after the Step 3 DLC but before Step 4. And you don’t need to apologize for that ^^.

This might be obvious but, will step 4 have dlcs? Also, where will the nsfw dlc happen? Won't bother me at all if it s in in our or his house but i do think it d be moderately funny

Step 4 will have the Cove Wedding DLC and the Derek and Baxter romance DLCs each add a lot of new content to Step 4, though they’re also partially set in Step 2 and Step 3 respectively. The NSFW DLC happens in Cove’s room.

I keep wondering what would've happened if Mr. Holden met Lizzie first instead of the MC. I can't see that turning out well somehow lol.

It wouldn’t have made a difference. He met the MC’s parents first and they told him about their two kids. He wanted the MC specifically to be Cove’s friend because the two were the same age.

Even though we have a way to go I'm really excited for OL 2! I was curious though, is the next main character going to be adopted again? I thought it was really clever to make the first main character adopted so when players are customizing, they can make them look how ever they like without worrying about pesky genetics. Just wondering!

The OL2 MC is not adopted. We wanted to go for a new dynamic. Instead their parents are their biological single mother who is partially customizable and an off-screen sperm donor father. So the mom will look generally like the MC and any other traits not from her can be assumed to come from whoever the father was.

—– —– —–

Thank you so much for all the asks ^^

FAQ If you prefer to just see the main posts without all the asks/reblogs, feel free to follow our side account instead: GB Patch Updates Blog

#our life #Our Life Beginnings & Always #ourlifeba #ask #gb patch #gb patch games #Our Life: Now & Forever

170 notes · View notes

texanredrose · 3 years

Text

Showing Off

Inspired by prompts submitted to @unsteadyshade on tumblr (here), that I reblogged earlier, or AO3 (here). Also, yes, I'm very much American but I decided to use the non-American lingo in regards to soccer here. Don't look at me expecting logic, my friends, I just do what the winds of whimsy tell me.

---

Blake pulled the hotel door shut behind her, following after her teammate and best friend who was further down the hall and carrying their tote bags. While she didn’t hold the same superstitious beliefs, Yang swore up and down they’d lose unless they brought along their ‘lucky’ practice ball; after going back to retrieve it, the woman seemed satisfied and started walking towards the elevator while Blake caught up. “This is ridiculous, you know that right?”

“Hey, don’t sass me; we’ve never lost a road game when we’ve had the ball,” Yang said, already wearing her keeper jersey, the material stretched a bit thin over her muscled frame. It had seen better days but, much like the ball, the woman refused to replace it, especially during their run up to the championship. “A little extra luck can’t hurt anyone. Except the other team, I guess.”

“It can make us late, though,” she said, one of her ears flicking back as one of the doors they passed opened and closed- had to be other patrons of the hotel, seeing as the rest of their team was already downstairs by the bus. “Which would mean we forfeit.”

“We’re not running that late,” Yang replied, throwing a grin her way. Then, lilac eyes were drawn behind them and lingered a moment before her lips pulled into a very specific smirk. Blake knew that smirk- it was the ‘oh, I’ve got an idea, you might not like it but you’re gonna do it’ expression, because aside from being one of the best keepers in the region, Yang Xiao Long was also ridiculously persuasive. Dangerously so, in fact. “Hey. Toss me the ball.”

“Your hands are full.”

“Wasn’t going to use my hands.”

Blake narrowed her eyes, vividly remembering the last time someone tried doing agility drills down a hotel hallway, and picked up on the subtle look behind them. After a few more steps, she turned to say something about the game to Yang as an excuse to glance behind them. And then, it all made sense.

A bit further down the hallway were two women, both of whom were dressed in sharp business attire, and the moment Blake returned her attention to Yang, she pointed at herself and mouthed the word ‘tall’ with a wink.

“C’mon, toss me the ball,” Yang said, coming to a stop.

Blake glanced at her watch and, although a touch reluctant, decided they had enough time for a little demonstration. Tossing the ball towards Yang, she stepped back to lean against the wall while the woman started juggling while still carrying both totes. With her best friend as a distraction, Blake could take a longer look at the women Yang was trying to impress, and realized a few things, chiefly: they weren’t just any business women following behind them.

They were the Schnee sisters.

Atlesian elites, borderline nobility, some of the richest and most powerful people in the world; the Schnee sisters were in the news for one reason or another practically every day. Blake was more familiar with the attitude and mentality of the younger sister, Weiss Schnee, because it was her actions that Blake, as a faunus, found most… interesting. All the way up until she assumed control of her family’s company, the woman didn’t seem much at odds with the stuffy, bigoted, narrow minded people found in her social circle. After, though, she not only did an unapologetic one-eighty in the other direction, she became so aggressively progressive that it created a wide schism in the highest echelons of Atlesian society. More than once, she’d deployed the surprisingly well equipped private SDC security forces to protect protestors from Atlesian police and military personnel, and paid an exorbitant amount of money to keep those protestors out of jail, either by paying off bonds or hiring attorneys. In a relatively short amount of time, she’d become a juggernaut for social changes, and the careful monopoly her scheming father had built became the ultimate tool for exacting those changes.

Blake could admire the woman’s sense of justice as well as her commitment to it.

The elder, though, she only knew by name. Winter Schnee stood on her sister’s side when it came to social issues and did something tangentially related to the SDC but, beyond that, the details were a blur. She’d never heard Yang mention either sister in anything more than a passing comment while they pursued the news together waiting for flights, certainly nothing she could recall that would explain why the woman wanted Winter’s attention specifically. However, it also wasn’t out of the ordinary for Yang to show off a bit for pretty ladies when presented the opportunity.

By the time Blake had made a decision herself, Yang had run through every trick she knew and had popped the ball up to balance on her chest. She motioned for the woman to pass the ball, which earned her a raised brow at first before lilac eyes twinkled and she popped her shoulders back to set the ball in motion.

Blake caught it before it hit the ground with her foot, stalling the ball’s momentum entirely for a moment before she began juggling herself. For her, it was less a skill she’d developed for showing off as one of honing control of her body and the ball, but she knew a few tricks, moving slightly away from the wall so she could juggle the ball in a circle around her while still facing Yang. It meant juggling with her heel behind her back briefly but she managed it without losing control and that prompted a low murmur from their audience. Impressively, she couldn’t make out the words, which made her think the speaker specifically didn’t want her to hear.

After transitioning between using her feet and knees, the faunus popped the ball up high enough for her head to get under it, her feline ears laying flat against her skull to prove she wasn’t using them to help her balance the ball in place, which earned a brief chuckle from Yang. Then, she began bouncing it atop her head while moving her head just so to get the ball rotating before allowing it to roll off her head so she could catch it with her foot.

With a glance to confirm Yang was prepared, Blake passed her the ball, and the two of them traded it for a while, trying to catch the other off guard to make the eventual save and pass even more impressive. It was a show of control and dexterity and, had they planned it, would’ve had a better end to the display. Unfortunately, a short pass from Yang resulted in both of them trying to save it, which sent the ball bouncing harmlessly down the hall until it came to a stop at Winter’s feet.

Then again, given the glint in Yang’s eye, perhaps that was her intention. “Oh, sorry about that. We’re just… warming up.”

With a jerk of her head, the faunus realized her friend was requesting some back-up. “Yes, we, uh… are on our way to a game. The semi-finals, actually.”

“We can probably get ya seats, if you want.” A nonchalant shrug. “You should come watch us play.”

The sisters exchanged a look then. The elder, questioning, and the younger… Blake couldn’t put a word to that look. It was equal parts goading and secretive, and perhaps something else dancing in blue eyes. She would need a lot more time to decipher that look.

And she found herself wanting it.

Then, without a word, Winter put her foot on top of the ball and rolled it back, popped it up, and… began juggling with just as much precision as they’d displayed. Except, unlike them- bedecked in jerseys, loose shorts, and tennis shoes- she was doing it in a form fitting pants suit and dress shoes, hampering her mobility somewhat though it hardly impacted her performance, executing all the tricks Yang had done. Then, she passed it to her sister, who, in high heels and a skirt, proceeded to do the same, keeping many of the tricks low so her skirt wouldn’t ride up. Which, of course, meant she had less room to manipulate the ball, had to move faster to get into position to execute each trick, and when she did a version of Blake’s around the world one, the faunus felt her mouth pop open in astonishment.

Once satisfied, Weiss passed the ball back to her sister, who caught it one handed.

“We appreciate the invitation. However...” Winter tossed the ball, hard enough that it hit Yang’s chest before the keeper thought to catch it. “We unfortunately have a prior engagement that requires our attention.”

The sisters began walking past the gobsmacked footballers and Blake didn’t miss the look Weiss directed her way as she spoke. “After you’ve won your game, perhaps you’ll join us in the hotel’s hot tub?”

Blake didn’t notice how close they were to their floor’s elevator until Winter reached over and pushed the button to call a car. “Unless, of course, you have your own post victory traditions that take precedence.”

Yang just shook her head while Blake managed to find her voice. “No. We don’t. Have traditions, I mean.”

“Excellent,” Weiss said, stepping into the car the moment the doors twanged open and hitting a button inside, smiling in a way that… well… Blake would call it seductive in another setting and found herself hard pressed not to call it that now. “We’ll see you there. Don’t be late.”

When the doors closed, both Blake and Yang were left standing in the hallway, both just… recovering from how mentally unprepared they were for their tricks to be used against them to great effect. After another moment, Yang turned to look at her, holding up the ball.

“Lucky. Ball.”

Blake resolved to not argue that point and instead focus on winning the game, ushering her teammate towards the stairs rather than waiting for the next car.

---

Weiss leaned back against the wall of the elevator. While they’d chosen to book this particular hotel for their business trip specifically because their favorite football team would be staying there, and they’d opted to not use the penthouse suite because they wanted a chance to catch glimpses of the team while going to and from meetings, neither expected to meet their personal favorite players in the hallway like that. Weiss had followed Blake’s career since college and, while responsibilities had prevented her from attending as many games as she would’ve liked, she always recorded them and watched them later. Up until the encounter in the hallway, that was how she and Winter had planned to spend their evening.

Now, though…

“Would it be inappropriate for me to bring her jersey to the hot tub in the hopes she’ll sign it?”

Winter made a considering noise. “Bring the jersey, leave a suitable pen in the room.”

“How would that accomplish her signing it?”

“Invite her back to the room.” Her elder sister smiled, and a twinkle in her eyes spoke to the crude humor of a former soldier. “I’ll be… elsewhere tonight.”

“Spare me the details,” she replied as they reached the ground floor. “... but thank you for the idea.”

As a general rule, Weiss was never overly fond of business meetings, but she found herself looking forward to the end of this one more than usual, if only to see where the night led.

---

Blake pushed out a nervous breath as she and Yang made their way towards the hotel’s pool area. The game itself ended in a shootout and while Blake had made the final goal that secured them a berth to the finals, she couldn’t relax quite yet. Post game celebrations usually involved Blake joining the rest of the team for a glass of champagne or a toast of some sort before the others prepared for a night on the town to celebrate the win. Most of the time, Yang went with them, leaving the faunus plenty of time to wind down with a book of her choice and a peacefully quiet hotel room. Even on the odd occurrence when Yang didn’t join the others, the blonde still found other ways of occupying herself that preserved Blake’s quiet.

So, rushing back to the hotel room to change into their swimwear before the hotel shut down their pool was a major break from their normal routine, and knowing they’d be going to meet two very beautiful and apparently incredibly talented women… well, she was just a touch nervous.

Unfortunately, her best friend didn’t share that anxiety.

“One piece or bikini?”

“What?”

“Which do you think they’re wearing?” The blonde shrugged, the tips of her hair brushing the back of her neck. Normally, Yang wore her hair down or in a thick braid for games, but seeing as she didn’t have the energy to deal with drying her hair again after the quick post game shower they’d rushed through. “I’m hoping Winter’s wearing a bikini or a two piece. She’s gotta have some abs, right?”

“You have an eight pack; what does it matter to you if she has abs?”

“It’s about the commitment.” With a smirk, she gestured towards her own abs, prominently on display thanks to her yellow bikini top. Along with a darkening bruise around her left eye, there were bruises along her ribs from a few sliding tackles that had almost sidelined the keeper entirely, but Yang was a bit tougher than their opponents expected. “It takes work to get these and keep ‘em.”

“And what’s the point of wearing a bikini top if you’re just going to wear swim trunks for bottoms?” She arched a brow, more comfortable poking holes in her best friend’s thought process than confronting reality as they neared their destination. While she, too, opted for bikini style swimwear, Blake had chosen a black top with matching bottoms and a light purple sarong around her hips. She might claim to be somewhat modest in comparison, but she was showing a bit more skin- which, rationally, she could justify because they were getting in a hot tub, not attending a gala, showing a bit of skin should be expected-

Blake shook her head, trying to calm her anxiety again.

“Gotta make her work for the goods,” Yang replied, either oblivious to or pointedly ignoring her nerves. Then again, perhaps she had a few of her own that she was hiding, considering the way she reached up to fiddle with her hair. “Besides, my bottoms always ride up. Trunks are more comfortable. Not all of us have an ass that won’t quit.”

“Not judging, I just think it’s… silly. To focus on what they’ll be wearing.”

“What else is there to think about?”

“How hard we’re going to flirt.” She pointed out, tilting her head thoughtfully. “What to say, how to say it… what result we’re hoping for.”

“Don’t overthink it, Blakey.” A laugh. “Let’s just have some fun.”

They came to a set of glass double doors that granted entry to the pool area of the hotel… at which point they realized the pool officially closed half an hour ago. Yang cursed under her breath as Blake’s shoulders slumped. They’d missed their chance, it seemed.

“Oh, Miss Belladonna? Miss Xiao Long?”

“That’s us,” Yang replied as a hotel employee approached them, already grabbing a key card attached to his lanyard and holding it up to a sensor beside the doors.

“Here. Both Miss Schnees are waiting for you.”

The footballers exchanged a look, surprised by the special treatment. True, they were quasi celebrities themselves, but this hotel handled all teams from the league, which meant they weren’t any more famous than the average patron. Then again, the Schnee sisters had quite a bit more clout than they did and could probably swing something like being given unfettered access to the pool area.

With a shrug and a smirk, Yang opened one door and they entered, spotting the sisters sitting in chairs beside the hot tub. Both were reading magazines, with fresh drinks on a table between them, and were… well… Blake found she couldn’t immediately discern their taste in swimwear because both sisters were wearing football jerseys. And not just any jerseys.

“I see you took us up on our offer,” Weiss said, getting to her feet and motioning towards the hot tub before reaching for the hem of the jersey to pull it off. At a glance, Blake could tell it was the special limited edition run from a few years ago, and her number no less. And while she would be sorely tempted to assume the woman had found one last minute, the careful way Weiss placed the jersey on the chair- not dropped or thrown carelessly- made her think otherwise. Only then did she notice the woman had opted for a light blue one piece with a single strap, leaving her upper back mostly exposed. “Splendid.”

“Congratulations on your win.” Winter also set aside her magazine and stood up, revealing she was wearing Yang’s limited edition jersey, and she took the same amount of care in removing it and setting it aside. Much to her friend’s delight, the elder of the sisters did wear a bikini of a darker blue and also sported some abs, though they lacked the definition of Yang’s. “A hard fought victory like that certainly deserves a celebration.”

As the sisters entered the hot tub, Blake looked over to Yang, who seemed equal parts excited and… intimidated- and that second one was hard. But what intimidated her ultimately evolved into a challenge and Yang never backed down from a challenge. For her part, the faunus just found herself wondering if, perhaps, they had a different idea of who needed to impress who than the sisters did.

Removing her sarong, Blake tossed it onto the chair Weiss had used and went to the hot tub, noting how the sisters had chosen to sit across from each other. She hesitated in entering, if only because she didn’t want to be too forward. Yang, of course, took the seating as a goading taunt of sorts, and settled herself in the tub hardly an arm’s length away from Winter. Probably closer than would be considered polite but neither seemed uncomfortable or surprised by the decision, so Blake opted to test the waters herself, sitting approximately the same distance away from Weiss but also across from Yang.

Almost instantly, she let out a sigh of relief; while focusing on getting to the hot tub, she’d done her best to ignore the lingering aches and pains from the game. Now, though, she could feel herself relaxing as the warmth began sinking into her muscles. Usually, she just focused on stretches before bed and had a tub of balm if that failed.

“Should probably do this more often,” Yang said, obviously relaxing herself. “Forgot how good hot tubs feel after a rough game.”

“Speaking of that, did you get checked out?” Winter gestured towards her eye. “You took a few nasty hits. I’m surprised seventeen didn’t get thrown out of the game.”

“The Vipers always play hard.” The blonde tried to shrug off the concern. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“You took a few shots, too.” Weiss pointed out. “How’s your knee?”

“I’ve taken worse falls.” She gave a wry smile. “But I’m beginning to suspect you know that.”

“I’ll admit I’ve been a fan of yours since your college days.” The woman shrugged one shoulder, feigning nonchalance- and Blake only suspected it was a show because blue eyes didn’t meet hers as she spoke. “I hardly think that is remarkable. You’re one of the best strikers the league has ever seen.”

“Did you ever consider playing?” At the curious look she received, Blake inclined her head. “It took me years to develop those tricks, and you did them better. That speaks to a remarkable amount of skill.”

“Well, I’ll admit I entertained the idea a time or two. Ultimately, I chose my path, and it didn’t leave enough room to become a superstar footballer.” She shook her head. “I don’t regret it but, I suppose, part of the reason I practice those little tricks to keep the dream alive.”

Her ears perked up, catching something between the lines. “Part of the reason? What’s the other part?”

“Why, to catch your eye, of course.”

“My eye?” She couldn’t help the surprised chuckle that bubbled up from her chest. “You’re Weiss Schnee; you don’t really need to try to catch anyone’s attention.”

The woman’s expression faltered then. “Yes, well… unfortunately, the sort of attention I garner on my own is markedly less… impressive, by some standards.”

“I’d think those people have poor standards, then,” she said, opting to tip her hand as well. “You’ve managed to galvanize social changes that have taken some kingdoms entire decades in a matter of years. Comparatively, bouncing a ball’s hardly anything. Don’t you think?”

At that Weiss laughed, a bright, high, unrestrained sound that Blake rather liked hearing. “If I thought that, I wouldn’t be trying so hard to impress you, now would I? And you shouldn’t discount your own efforts outside the pitch.”

The faunus felt her lips quirk up in amusement. They’d been watching each other from afar all this time; the only thing she didn’t account for was the magnetic attraction that being in the woman’s presence seemed to engender. And, as she made an excuse of stretching to cover her moving slightly closer to Weiss, it seemed she wasn’t the only one feeling it. The woman, mysteriously, decided to move and dip her shoulders beneath the water’s surface long enough to bring out a lovely light pink blush to her skin, and when she sat back against the tub’s wall, she was a bit closer to Blake.

Surreptitiously, she snuck a glance towards Yang, if only to gauge how much teasing she would be in for on the flight back home the following day. She quickly realized her best friend wouldn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to teasing; somehow, Winter had coaxed Yang into her lap and was apparently giving the footballer a message. For her part, Yang seemed to be in a luxurious sort of heaven, eyes half lidded and with a silly sort of smile on her lips.

“Forgive my sister,” Weiss said, a sardonic smile on her lips. “I’m impressed she’s shown this much restraint.”

“I can hear you,” the woman replied, blue eyes flashing towards her younger sister. “But that can be remedied. Yang?”

“Hmmm?”

“I think this would work better if you were lying down.”

Lilac eyes widened as the woman tilted her head, glancing over towards Blake. With a small nod, the faunus made the silent agreement to avoid their hotel room for a few hours. Frankly, Yang had slept in a few lobbies over the years, when she’d returned too drunk to be quiet and not wanting to risk waking the faunus. She could spend a night elsewhere to return the favor.

“Yeah… I think you’re right.”

As the two got out of the hot tub and retrieved towels, Blake returned her attention to the woman beside her. “You don’t have to try, you know.”

“Pardon?”

“Impressing me. You don’t have to try.” Blake tilted her head, leaning back to brace her arms against the rim of the hot tub. “I think that’s the part I don’t like about being with the league. The mandatory press conferences and the rules- sometimes, I just want to get straight on the bus after a game and go back to reading my book, not sit and play twenty questions for an hour. It’s like… wearing an ill fitting mask.”

“You handle them remarkably well.” Weiss smirked. “But I suppose I say that because I speak my mind a bit too bluntly during press conferences. I admire your restraint.”

“I admire your candor,” she replied, very carefully laying one arm along the tub’s rim behind the woman. “I really liked the interview you did with the Atlas Economist. It looked like you were going to give that guy an aneurysm.”

“That would’ve been impossible.” A light chuckle as she moved closer, lowering her voice ever so slightly to coax Blake into leaning closer. “He would need a brain first.”

They both laughed, using their amusement to hide their shifting movements until Weiss was pressed into her side ever so slightly. They continued talking and laughing quietly until sitting in the hot tub started becoming uncomfortable. However, the faunus did her best to ignore it simply because she didn’t want to part ways quite yet. Weiss was… a lot of things- emphatic, sharp tongued, witty- but above all good company that Blake wasn’t keen on losing quite yet. However, she couldn’t ignore that the heat of the tub was taking a toll on them both.

“Your skin’s turning red,” she said, running a thumb over the ball of Weiss’ shoulder. “We should probably get out.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

They both stood and exited the hot tub, grabbing towels to start drying themselves off. While doing that, she wracked her brain for some excuse to continue their conversation but found herself coming up woefully empty. Every suggestion she could come up with either sounded ridiculous or… risque. It wasn’t like she could simply invite the woman back to her hotel room for some tea.

“Thank you for the invite, by the way,” she said, trying to buy herself some time. “A good soak after a tough game feels… fantastic. I don’t often indulge.”

Blue eyes lit up as the woman wrapped a towel around her hips. “I’m more than glad you accepted. However, if you wish to… pay me back… I’ve been meaning to ask for your autograph.”

Blake raised a brow. The request seemed… deceptively innocent, especially with the way Weiss was looking at her. “I can do that. You want me to sign your jersey?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble.” The barest moment of silence, and then she tilted her head. “Unfortunately, the only pen I have is in my room.”

Blake took a step closer, pleased to see she actually stood a few inches taller than the woman when she wasn’t wearing heels, and lowered her voice. “Well… I suppose we’ll have to go to your room, then.” A pause. “And, maybe, we’ll think of something else I can sign along the way.”

Weiss smiled and donned the jersey, setting her hand in the crook of the faunus’ elbow. “Perhaps. Do you have any ideas?”

“I do.” As they started walking, she chuckled. “But I wouldn’t want to use a pen to sign something so… delicate.”

The woman hummed, pointedly looking at her mouth. “I believe I know of something else you can use.”

While outwardly Blake merely smiled a bit wider, internally she asked herself a question: just how far was she willing to go?

Before they reached the elevator, she’d decided that if she wasn’t officially dating Weiss Schnee by the time she boarded the plane tomorrow, she’d be disappointed in herself.

---

Weiss stretched luxuriously in her bed as the morning rays streamed in through the window. She was sore in places she’d forgotten existed- but the pleasant type of sore, the kind that eventually turned into an itch for more, and it took conscious effort not to reach for her scroll just then. It would probably do her well to show some restraint.

That mentality lasted all of thirty seconds before her scroll was in hand and she was admiring her new background picture, taken just before Blake put on her swimwear from the night before and left to return to her room. Nothing terribly suggestive or revealing, of course, just the faunus resting her chin on Weiss shoulder. An ordinary selfie. With her new girlfriend.

She couldn’t help the smile curling her lips.

The door opened and she looked over her shoulder, watching her sister strut into the room wearing her bikini with her usual air of complete and total confidence. Her jersey was held in one hand. Probably because she wanted to… show off. “You walked down the hallway like that?”

“Of course,” Winter replied, not even batting an eye at the words ‘Property of Yang Xiao Long’ written in marker across her chest and abdomen. “I’m pleased with the outcome.”

Then, a smirk.

“Please, don’t elaborate.”

“I won’t but I do hope you were as successful as I was.”

She glanced at her scroll as a message came through from Blake, a smile coming to her lips. “Indeed I was.”

Who knew giving in to her impulse to show off would have such wonderful results.

#Monochrome #Elderburn

35 notes · View notes

littlemdzsdump · 4 years

Text

practice makes perfect (or close enough)

it’s little ol’ me, xicheng-ing it up again (๑>ᴗ<๑) ~

Jiang Cheng did not have musical hands.

His hands have their own personality to it. They mirror the training and the hard work he put into his craftsmanship as a swordsman. They’re large and strong and they embody the sect leader that he is. But they’re calloused and stiff, only knowing the hilt of a sword and coarse bow strings. They cramp up when he writes papers for too long and they’re hard enough to call attention to a loud room with an easy slam. His hands are too rough from hours of archery and didn’t have nearly the dexterity that musicians of the Gusu Lan sect were born with and trained to hone.

Jiang Cheng never realized that his hands could never hold an instrument, because he never thought about holding one anyway.

But ever since he had walked past the winding paths of Cloud Recess, following a lingering melody and had accidentally seen a certain Gusu sect leader practicing in peaceful serenity, well…

The smallest part of his heart yearned to be able to reply with a melody of his own.

But Jiang Cheng hasn’t ever been musically... inclined to say the least.

So he had begrudgingly decided to ask his older brother for help. Mainly, because Jiang Cheng didn’t really have a plethora of choices to choose from anyways. It’d be the first olive branch that he’d be extending to the other man after the years of misunderstanding and guilt that had built up between them.

The reaction his brother had upon hearing his request was not… unexpected as much as it was just plain excessive.

Of course, Wei Wuxian had to laugh in his face first, going so far as snorting loudly and continuing to laugh so hard that he couldn’t hold himself up. It could have been worse if Jiang Cheng had decided to ask for this favor in public, with how hard Wei Ying was laughing at him. But his brother came around and had proposed the dizi as it was both his cultivation weapon and pass time hobby.

“Can you...I don’t know, not spit when you’re blowing on it?” Wei Ying suggested, though he sounded more teasing than helpful.

“Well it’s not like I’m trying to,” Jiang Cheng replied exasperatedly. Jiang Cheng held the instrument to his lips and blew into it again. He’s grateful that he had little to no affairs to take care of today. He didn’t even want to begin to imagine what people would say if they saw their sect leader failing to blow out a note on a stupid flute.

“Jiang Cheng, how dare you call it stupid? Chengqin is a prized musical masterpiece” Wei Ying said, pulling his flute close to his chest. He hadn’t realized that he had spoken out loud. But honestly, Jiang Cheng didn’t even regret it. Jiang Cheng rolled his eyes, roughly putting down his own dizi. It wasn’t like he was using Chengqin anyways, so he didn’t see what the problem was.

“I can’t play this.” Jiang Cheng stated, crossing his hands over his chest. He was acting like a child, but they had been locked up in his room for hours with no progress. Though Wei Ying didn’t explicitly say anything, his brother was just as tired as he was.

Wei Ying let out a soft sigh, sitting comfortably down across from his brother.

“Well, I don’t think that you can’t play it. I just think you don’t want to play it,” Wei Ying said, twirling his dizi around on his fingers. Jiang Cheng let out a disbelieving snort.

“I really think that I just can’t play the dizi” Jiang Cheng said, pouring some tea for himself and his brother. He’s taking a sip from his cup when his brother speaks up again.

“I don’t understand why you’re so adamant about not asking the Gusu Lan sect. You know they’re home to two of the best musical cultivators in our generation” Wei Ying comments, sipping at his tea. Jiang Cheng just shakes his head.

“I’m just learning to learn, not for cultivation or anything. I can’t ask for their time over something like this-”

“Oh please Jiang Cheng,” Wei Ying interrupts. He’s a bit aggressive when he puts down his finished cup but Jiang Cheng doesn’t comment on it.

“Just come to Gusu with me; I’ll make sure they can’t say no,” Wei Ying proposes. The wide smile on his face doesn’t go with the mischievous glint in his eyes. But Jiang Cheng can’t refuse, when his brother has extended an olive branch back to him. ~

With all the responsibilities of a sect leader, it is hard to find enough open time for a trip, let alone to leave his sect for another far away place. But Jiang Cheng manages it after Wei Ying’s relentless persistence. Some time when the cherry blossoms begin to bloom, Jiang Cheng shares a sword with Wei Ying as they head to somewhere high above the clouds.

It’s a bit difficult, carrying two people, but Jiang Cheng’s cultivation is more than adequately prepared to handle it. Besides, the wild golden core in his body wasn’t technically his anyways.

“Glad we’re finally sharing something,” Wei Ying tells him in the midst of their flight.

Jiang Cheng huffs a dry laugh. Between the two of them, at least Wei Ying can joke about it.

When they arrive at Cloud Recess, Wei Ying rushes towards the gate with more comfort than Jiang Cheng expects. The sight leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He pushes away the small lingering dreariness in his chest and follows after someone who knows where they were going.

Jiang Cheng could have easily been escorted as part of Wei Ying’s company, but he shows his sect leader’s badge when they get to the gate.

It’s been a few months since Jiang Cheng had last visited Cloud Recess.

It is the same as it always is. They walk the misty white mountain path quietly.

Their path leads them past the rushing stream and the small hill that was home to the bunnies. Jiang Cheng planned to wait on the side as his brother tended to the bunnies. But Wei Ying is very persuasive and he ends up sitting in the middle of all the fluff balls.

It’s how they’re found, an hour or so after their promised arrival time. It is not the image that Jiang Cheng wanted to put for himself as a dignified sect leader.

As Wei Ying babbles about how the bunnies have been behaving to his stonic husband, Jiang Cheng is too busy ignoring how Lan Wangji is glaring at the bunnies that he pets to take notice of the relief in Lan Xichen’s eyes.

For the next few days, Lan Xichen becomes the main person that keeps him company. It was very obvious that it wouldn’t be Lan Wangji, because they weren’t that good of friends. Besides, he was too busy being better than friends with his brother. Jiang Cheng wasn’t necessarily complaining, but at the same time, Lan Xichen’s company was a bit more of a distraction than he could handle. Despite all the time they spent together, he still couldn’t make the words he wanted to ask come out.

Even when Wei Ying had explained the main gist of why Jiang Cheng was meandering around Cloud Recess in the first place. Even though Jiang Cheng and Lan Xichen had taken care of most of their sect leader duties. Only when Jiang Cheng had about two days left of his stay did the words finally come tumbling out of his lips.

On a random afternoon walk, nonetheless, at the most inconvenient time possible.

“If you don’t mind, I would like to watch you play the guqin” Jiang Cheng had stuttered out, hopelessly unprepared. The pace that Lan Xichen walked with did not stop at his request, though it did slow down a bit.

“You want to watch me play? Have you been feeling any ailments recently, or…” Lan Xichen prompts, his soft voice as assuring and calm as ever.

Jiang Cheng swears the older man is just teasing him right now.

“No... I would just like to watch you play a normal piece.” Jiang Cheng tries. At the request, Lan Xichen hums. Jiang Cheng is surprised at how close to a purr his voice sounded. They reach the top steps of Cloud Recess, nearing the path into the pavilion. Lan Xichen suddenly turns around to face Jiang Cheng, who had fallen a step or so behind in embarrassment.

“I usually play the xiao but—”

“Anything you want to play is fine” Jiang Cheng stutters out helplessly. Lan Xichen’s smile does not falter at the interruption, though he does let out a breathy laugh. The Lan sect leader turns around, Jiang Cheng nearly walking into him.

“If you would care to join me at the Hanshi, I can play a short piece for you and share some music,” Lan Xichen suggests.

Golden hour in Cloud Recess paints Lan Xichen’s already perfect profile with heavenly sunlight.

Jiang Cheng can’t deny him.

Sat across from him, Lan Xichen plucks the strings of the guqin delicately. It is as beautiful as the player and Jiang Cheng is immensely (helplessly) distracted for many reasons. So it feels kind of redundant when the same instrument is placed before Jiang Cheng and he is supposed to play the same thing.

Though, blessedly, Jiang Cheng is able to pick out a few wobbly notes from the guqin after the first try. He no longer has to live out his sad dizi days (read as hour).

The melody that Lan Xichen picks is quite short and light. It is happy and Jiang Cheng finds the notes memorable. But even after the numerous times that Lan Xichen spends teaching him which place to pick and which strings to press down, he still mixes it up. Jiang Cheng is easily frustrated and music is a very patient hobby. He figures this out a bit too late when he plucks one of the strings too harshly and it lets out an ugly whine under his hand.

Jiang Cheng sighs loudly, lifting his hand up harshly from the guqin and slamming his fisted hands into his lap. He stares at the instrument as if to scare it into playing the right notes for him (this seems to work with people, so maybe it’s a transferable skill).

But moreso Jiang Cheng is just feeling embarrassed.

He’s too busy wallowing in his own self pity and shame to notice that Lan Xichen had walked across the room and sat down beside him.

Jiang Cheng jolts a little bit when he feels a small nudge against his shoulders. He looks to the right to see Lan Xichen sitting really close. If the man just leaned over, they would be cheek to cheek.

“Playing the first time is always hard. But the more you practice, the easier it gets”

Jiang Cheng lets the sect leader place his hands onto the instrument again. When Lan Xichen removes his warm grasp from Jiang Cheng’s wrist, Jiang Cheng stares wordlessly at the instrument in front of him, not fully processing how his hands were transferred to the strings. It takes him another moment to gather his wits enough to shakily pluck the notes of the melody that was first shown to him. With his mentor so close, he can’t make a mistake.

His pride can’t afford it.

A bit shakily, he still manages to pluck out the right tune. At the end of the melody, Jiang Cheng turns to see Lan Xichen look at him with a bit of pride (he didn’t dare think it could be) or something akin to that in his eyes.

“That was very good, Jiang Wanyin. I have some small pointers, if you would accept them” Lan Xichen says, staring deeply at Jiang Cheng as he asks. The Jiang sect leader can only nod silently as Lan Xichen waves to the guqin again.

“Please place your hands as you normally did and play the melody a bit slower,” Lan Xichen instructs. Jiang Cheng easily does what he is told and plucks the strings slowly. But his fingers falter after the fourth note of the 12 note melody. Before he is able to draw his hands back in frustration, Lan Xichen’s hand is covering one of his own.

Jiang Cheng takes in a startled breath. He hopes it is quiet enough that Lan Xichen didn’t have time to catch it.

“Usually I would use a pick for this. But as a finger picking technique, try to brush the tips of your thumb under the strings…” With one free hand Lan Xichen shows it on the same musical plane, while the other hand molds against Jiang Cheng’s hand as the other plays as told.

They continue slowly through the rest of the piece with Jiang Cheng (admittedly) getting more and more comfortable in the space that he shared with Lan Xichen. When the last note rings out, Lan Xichen moves a bit back and stares at Jiang Cheng’s profile.

Jiang Cheng can’t find it in himself to look at the other sect leader.

“I must say, you have a very nice voice, Jiang Wanyin” Lan Xichen compliments. Jiang Cheng stares at him in confusion. His face must have quite the expression on it, for Lan Xichen lets out a small laugh and shakes his head softly.

“You must not have realized that you hum along to the notes that you play,” Jiang Cheng widens his eyes and he quickly looks down to his lap, “But your pitch is very accurate. I would recommend a look into voice cultivation if you have some time on your hands,”

Lan Xichen is all soft suggestions and it does nothing to stop the blush that rises high up onto his cheekbones.

“Now that we’ve practiced so hard, would you like to accompany me on this piece?” Lan Xichen suggests, brushing his robes softly. Jiang Cheng sputters, so much like a sect leader.

“I-I, how can I? I just learned to-”

“I will play the melody from before along with you,” Lan Xichen reassures. Jiang Cheng can only look up helplessly as the older man gets up and crosses the room again. When he gets to the other side, he sits down at the guqin. Lan Xichen takes some time to settle himself. But when he is finished, he stares at Jiang Cheng in anticipation.

“Won’t you try?” Lan Xichen asks, almost prompts. The fear that courses in Jiang Cheng’s veins oddly reminds him of the first time that he had first stepped out into a duel. When he was much younger and much more insecure. He’s surprised at how similar this feels now, even though he is not performing at all.

But he is playing with the infamous Zewu-Jun, so maybe death would be a light punishment.

Lan Xichen plays some opening notes, something that Jiang Cheng recognizes as the same key and he enters with his practiced melody when Lan Xichen nods to him from across the room. He plays it well enough and they end up repeating the melody together a few times before Jiang Cheng lifts his hands off the instrument as Lan Xichen takes over. The song lifts and sways with life in each ringing note. It may not have any cultivation purpose, but the movements throughout the music is piercing and clear.

The song crescendos and Jiang Cheng’s ears ring with familiarity.

He’s heard this piece before.

When Jiang Cheng looks up at Lan Xichen, he looks so immersed in the music that it seems as if there were no one else in the room. It is an alluring look on him and makes Jiang Cheng realize that no amount of practice will bring him to the same sentiment. However, as the music rings in his heart, Jiang Cheng can’t seem to mind.

“I quite liked that,” Jiang Cheng admits in the quiet overcast after Lan Xichen’s emotional playing. Lan Xichen smiles a bit to himself before looking up from the guqin.

“I am glad to have shared my own music with Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Xichen says.

“You wrote that?” Jiang Cheng is not surprised, it was such a beautiful piece.

“Hm…” Lan Xichen admits softly. Jiang Cheng huffs out a small laugh at how much he sounds like his brother.

Outside the Hanshi, Wei Ying hides behind the other Twin Jade of Gusu. He’s peeking inconspicuously through the window, praying that Jiang Cheng’s attention was drawn elsewhere to really see him. Covering for his boyfriend, Lan Zhan’s white robes match enough to camouflage with the colors of the Hanshi doors.

Wei Ying smiles as he watches the interactions between their brothers.

“Finally!” Wei Ying whispers shouts into Lan Zhan’s shoulder. He’s hiding behind his broader boyfriend, so he misses the small smile that graces his lips.

“Brother will be pleased,” is what Wei Ying hears instead.

109 notes · View notes

chroniccombustion · 4 years

Text

River Stones, Volcanic Glass

Genre: implied romance, friendship, angst Rated: K+ Characters: Demyx, Axel, Organization XIII Warnings: implied Nobody death Status: oneshot, complete

(Written for the Missed Connections: KH Rarepair Zine)

Axel is assigned to be your trainer, for lack of a better term. He takes you on missions with him, has you follow him around as he instructs you how to summon your weapon on command, how to control the lesser Nobodies, and all the while he watches you with an appraising eye. You know that he’s assessing you, know that he’s both teaching you how to fight and also reporting back to Saix about your progress. You have no doubt you'll be disposed of should you turn out to be a waste of time, so you listen closely to what Axel tells you and make sure he has something favorable to say about you at the end of the day.

You join Organization XIII with surprisingly little fanfare. With as dramatic as the apparent leader seems to be, you were honestly expecting an uncomfortably invasive amount of attention directed at you. Thankfully this isn’t the case.

Instead it’s almost the opposite. There's a small measure of interest paid upon your initial introduction, but from what you can gather at a glance the entire group – eight, now nine with the inclusion of yourself – seems too focused on their own daily routines to give you much more than a few moments of interaction. You file away what information you can and stay quiet, still unsure how to act around your new coworkers. Better to play it safe, to pretend you’re still disoriented from your sudden transformation from human to Nobody, and form your outward personality accordingly once you know more.

A few of the other members seem friendly enough; the ones called Lexaeus and Zexion are quiet and a little stony, but cordial when they do speak, so you suppose it’s just in their nature to observe rather than interact. You like that, you think.

Then there’s Xigbar, who is handsier than you’d expected and it tinges on unpleasant. You think maybe, had you been given the chance to acclimate a bit more, the over-familiarity might not be so bad. As it stands, you can’t help but tense whenever Number II slaps you on the back in greeting.

The rest of the Organization doesn't interact with you much. Xaldin is… interesting. He has a hidden flair for the melodramatic but, again, he’s relatively personable when he isn’t busy. Vexen is about as arrogant as you’d have expected and you'd been hoping maybe there’d be more to pick apart, but no; he really is as boring as he seems. Xemnas is like a ghost that doesn’t entirely recognize his surroundings, or that there are even other people around him at all. Honestly though, that’s fine, because if he barely pays anyone any attention then it just makes you easier to overlook. You’re perfectly happy staying under the leader’s radar until you know more about what your situation.

It’s Saix, though, that you learn you need to watch out for. He's cold, monotone, and constantly glaring indifferently at whomever is in his vicinity. If there was anyone in the Organization capable of tearing out someone’s throat with their teeth, you’d bet munny it’d be him.

(You decide to stay out of Saix’s line of sight as much as possible, and respond in nods and single-word answers when he speaks to you directly.)

The last member of the Organization, the one that claims the number directly before yours, you don’t even properly meet until about two weeks after you arrive. They come striding into the common room in a whirl of shadows and ash, darkness trailing off their shoulders like the smoke you can smell all over them, combined with the frigid scent of the Dark Corridors. You’ve taken to watching everyone’s movements when they walk, when they gesture; it’s how you’ve managed to identify them all with their hoods up. You memorized each and every body shape within days of arriving, so when an unfamiliar figure in a too-familiar coat appears in the corner of the room, you tick your eyes over to watch in wary interest.

You observe them silently, taking in as many details as you can before you have to play dumb; a tall build with thin limbs and a skinny torso means they’re probably not a purely physical fighter. Their coat is different, too, with tapered sleeves instead of the usual bell shape – they likely use a weapon that could get caught on loose fabric, or maybe a power that requires more dexterous use of their hands. The bonfire scent hanging around them means they’ve either just come from someplace that’s been burning, or they themself are cloaked in cinders. Fire magic? you wonder briefly, and given that you’ve seen just about every other type of element in this place, it wouldn’t be much of a reach.

The figure stretches their lanky arms over their head, rolling their broad shoulders until you can hear a deep ‘pop’. You stay quiet on the couch and keep your head down as if you’re busy tuning the sitar lying across your lap.

“Ahhh,” the stranger drawls, and the voice is masculine, a nasally tenor, and you’re momentarily caught off guard by how young they sound. Even Zexion, youngest of the group so far, has a way of speaking that makes him seem older. The rest are all older than you are, from what you can tell, but the voice currently huffing out a low sound of amusement seems… almost exactly your age. Then again, none of you are human anymore, you’ve been told, so you’re still trying to figure out how age works in this liminal, lifeless city.

The figure steps closer, rounding the couch opposite you and planting a hand on a cocked hip. He seems to study you for a moment, head tilting, and you look up with your expression perfectly blank. You don’t know him yet – best not to give him anything to work with.

“I heard we were getting a new guy,” he says, and there is clearly a smile in his tone. You don’t know if you like the sound of it, unable to see what sort of smile it really is.

He reaches up with long fingers and finally pulls back the hood still covering his face. You’re greeted by a set of acid-green eyes, framed by hair the color of fire and fresh blood, with inverted teardrops, purple like old bruises, sitting just below his eerily vibrant gaze. He smiles at you, and it’s far too sharp for a smile that isn’t showing any teeth.

“I’m Axel,” he says, with tiny pinpoints of yellow and orange crackling at the edges of his lips like dying sparks. “A-X-E-L. Got it memorized?”

You don’t have a title yet, but you slowly tell him your name is apparently Demyx now, and Axel’s smile widens into a wolfish grin.

---

You also make it a point to watch him as much as he watches you, though you keep your observations to yourself unless they’re mission-related, and keep up the act that you’re more naive than you really are. You watch the way he fights, how he moves, his facial expressions as he talks; at first glance he seems friendly, but you don’t yet trust anyone, let alone someone obviously tasked with making sure you’re worth keeping around. You can’t be sure how deep in Saix’s pocket he is, either, and that’s the part that worries you most.

As you observe him you start to notice just how like a chameleon your new field partner really is. In the Castle, Axel is easy-going, languid, all snarky comments and lazy grins. His body language is relaxed and his dialogue bordering on flippant and you wonder just how he manages to get away with it around someone as severe as Saix.

On your missions together, Axel is brighter, more vibrant in his movements and speech. He’s beautiful in battle, as fierce as his fire is hot, and you don't miss the gleam in his venomous eyes as he burns his enemies to dust. The first few times you go up against a handful of Heartless, Axel annihilates most of them with a flourish, leaving the rest for you to practice on. “Show me what you’ve got,” he says.

So you do. You barely have to strum your sitar’s strings for the water that flows through your music to slam into their wriggling, yellow-eyed bodies and rip them apart. You could do more, but you don’t; you keep your real strength hidden. You even pretend not to notice one of the larger Heartless behind you, letting it get almost too close just to make it seem like you’re not as aware as you are. You feign surprise when it swipes at you from the side, flinch appropriately when a flaming chakram comes flying past and slices the Heartless in half. Axel gives you an odd look afterwards and you wonder if you’ve made the wrong move after all.

(During the next few missions he lets you fight them all on your own, never once stepping in to help, and while you don’t pull the same stunt a second time, you do let the battle drag on for longer than you really need to, just to keep up the illusion. You look to Axel for approval once the Heartless are dead; he gives you a quirked brow and a slow, strange grin in return.)

It’s not until about a month into your missions with Axel that you get to see an entirely different version of him altogether – and for all of your careful observations, you’re entirely unprepared.

The mission is a simple one this time. Some of the more intelligent Heartless had been stockpiling items in the train tunnels beneath the world called Twilight Town and you'd both been charged with flushing them out and collecting whatever useful things they'd left behind. You actually find a decent amount of stuff you can take back to the Castle, too, though it doesn't escape your notice that Axel seems more interested in you than the mountain of potions tucked away in a shadowy corner. He lets you stuff everything into a backpack, just watching, until you finish and turn silently to face him.

He smirks. “Come on,” he says, gesturing with his chin back towards the way you'd entered. “I wanna show you something.”

Wary, you follow him up out of the dank tunnels where all the world's rainwater seems to collect, and down the winding streets to the center of town. He approaches the vender in a small shop while you hang back; minutes later, he's reappearing with two blue bars in his gloved hands.

“One more stop,” he says.

You're left with little choice but to keep following.

He takes you up to the top of the massive clock tower that shadows the streets below. From way up near the horizon, almost touching the sky itself, you look down at the ground and see nothing but rooftops shrouded by haze. But it's when you look out and above, over the rooftops and the stretching edge of the world, that you see it. You lose your breath at the sight of the sunset, glowing every shade of warmth and summer that you can name, with vibrant splashes of gold and scarlet painted across the clouds.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?”

You look over. Axel has taken a seat beside you on the rim of the tower, one foot propped up on the ledge with his elbow resting on a bent knee. You frown. It seems entirely unsafe.

He grins up at you and gestures for you to join him. Tentatively, acutely aware that he could easily shove you off and to your probable doom if he chooses, you lower yourself to the ground and sit beside him. He doesn't push you off. Instead, he reaches over and holds out one of the blue bars from earlier.

Taking it, you stare at him in confusion.

“It's ice cream,” he says with an amused chuckle.

You narrow your eyes. “I know what it is.”

His head tilts, catlike, and those green eyes that see far too much stare directly into you. You stare back just as intently, trying to read him the same way he seems to be reading you. He smiles, which unnerves you a little bit because it's a much different kind of smile than you're used to and for a moment you wonder if maybe you've already screwed up, if maybe you've somehow played right into a trap. Because that smile is not one of his usual smirks, nor is it any kind of friendly; it's knowing.

“Do you now?” he drawls.

You feel the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

Axel chuckles again, leaning back on his hand and finally looking away out across the horizon. “You know a lot, I think. More than you let on.” He takes a huge bite out of his own ice cream and glances back over at you, chewing through his renewed smirk.

You stay silent, stunned.

He turns away once more. “It's alright,” he says with a shrug, the motion, awkward due to the way he's leaning on his one free hand. “Your secret's safe with me.”

You don't trust that. Eyes narrowing further, you drop enough of your act to square your shoulders out of the usual slouch and peer at him with open suspicion on your face. “What do you want?” you ask flatly.

Axel just gives another shrug. “You know, normally I would probably try and blackmail you, but now? Eh. Not really interested.” Another sidelong smirk in your direction. “Why? You got something you wanna offer?”

You scowl at him and he laughs out loud. “No, but in all seriousness, I don't want anything.”

You find that hard to believe; you tell him so.

“Fair,” he replies. “I honestly wouldn't trust me either.”

“Then what are you doing?”

This seems to stall him. He looks out over the town below your dangling feet and nibbles at his ice cream in apparent thought. A full minute passes in silence before he speaks again. “You're like me.”

He pops the rest of his ice cream into his mouth and scrutinizes the wooden stick. Sighing through his nose, he tosses the stick off somewhere behind him before flopping backwards and staring straight up at the sky with his hands folded behind his back. You wait, and your quietude is rewarded when he heaves another sigh.

“How so?” you dare to press.

Axel hums. “You and me? We're both really good at pretending.” Green eyes close. “I'm the Organization's assassin,” he admits quietly. “Everybody has a role to play here, if you don't fulfill it then they cut you out. That's just the way it is. My role is to kill stuff, get things done...” He cracks one eye open and peers at you with a quirked brow. “...Training the newbies, apparently. My point is, all they need me to be is my assigned role. That's it. I get too smart or too good then they can just pile on the workload until I'm too much of a liability to keep around. Gotta find that balance there, walk the line between juuuuust useful enough and nothing more. So I pretend.”

He turns his head to look at you fully, gaze too green and too sharp. You don't know how to react.

It's unnerving, how succinct he is; you never would have expected this from him with the kind of facade he usually wears. But then again you suppose that's the point. Axel has you pegged because he, too, likes to observe, likes to play at being something to underestimate. You can't believe you went and fell for the same trick you've been trying to pull the entire time you've been here.

As if sensing your disturbance, Axel hefts himself back up into a sitting position and nods at the ice cream still untouched in your left hand. “You should hurry up and eat that.”

You blink down at it, having pretty much forgotten its existence, and make a face. “I don't really want it.”

He shrugs yet again – apparently a favorite gesture of his – and holds out his hand. You pass it to him without hesitation.

“Suit yourself,” he says, and proceeds to run his tongue over it to keep it from dripping all over his fingers.

You turn away and find yourself watching the sinking of the sun, red like the heart you’ve lost. As you process Axel's words you realize that, while you should be tensing with fight or flight instincts right about now, you're strangely not. You're wary, yes, and certainly caught off guard, but there's something about the way Axel had said what he did about playing pretend that... sticks in your head. Would it be so bad, you wonder, if there was another member you could relax around? If only just a little. Admittedly, the last few months have left you with a proverbial crick in your neck from constantly being on edge, holding yourself in check so that no one figures you out before you can do the same to them. It's exhausting.

“Alright,” you tell him, still looking ahead. “I'll bite, what are you proposing here?”

Axel full-on grins. “Knew you were smart,” he breathes. “I like you. Well,” he huffs, the sound more sardonic than actually amused; “as much as a Nobody can like anything.” He waves a hand. “Point is, I think you and I are gonna get along, yeah? And I don't particularly feel like being the one getting stuck executing you if you turn out to be something they can't exploit, so! We're gonna find you a role to fill.” He grins wider, and it's nearly feral in its intensity.

“Oh?” you say, because that's all you really can.

Axel nods. “You're observant. You're clever, too, and yeah, you can fight but why waste you on battle missions when they've already got a ton of us to do that anyway?”

“...Like you?”

He scoffs, a bitter, hollow kind of laugh. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Like me. Don't need another one of me around, I can tell you that. Anywaaaaay...”

White teeth flash as he bites off the last of the ice cream bar – once more taking a moment to inspect the stick – and you let yourself pick the action apart. It's casual, almost deliberately so; like he's still playing, still pretending. You realize that he must not trust you either, despite having said everything he has. He could blackmail you probably, but what would be the point of that if it meant throwing himself under the bus as well? And that, that is what makes everything click in your brain about what Axel is up to.

He's tossing himself onto the tracks alongside you – willing to risk personal injury because you know he can hurt you back if you try anything funny. Oh, you think. Well played.

For the first time since your arrival you feel your face twist into a wide, amused smile. “You need a recon agent?” you ask, allowing your voice to come out unhindered, no longer stifled and purposefully monotoned. “I look, you shoot?”

Axel laughs. “Oh hell yeah.” He reaches out a leather-clad hand towards you, grin stretching impossibly wider, growing more real as you clasp his hand in your own and shake. “Stick close to me,” he says, “and I'll make sure you stay alive, okay, Demyx?”

Something about the sound of your new name on his tongue makes you shiver. All you can do is nod.

---

He keeps his promise.

Time crawls slowly in the World That Never Was; days and months and years becoming completely indistinguishable from each other in a place without seasons. You think maybe it's been a while, but you can't be sure; you can only mark the passage of, well, anything by the way the sky looks on other worlds.

Twilight Town, though, is liminal in another way. Instead of constant, stagnant darkness, there's an eternal dusk – that sort of heavy amber glow that hangs like a veil over the whole city but is still better than the moonlit void outside the windows of the Castle. It's another place where time seems to stand still, but instead of stifling... Well. You're not sure you can name what it makes you feel.

Because you do feel, no matter what Xemnas has decided or what Axel seems to believe of himself.

And what you feel in the shadowy, goldenrod light up on the highest rooftops and the longest alleyways of that town, when you sit together after a mission or hide from your duties in the shade of the clocktower for just a little longer, is something good. Time suspended in the Castle is suffocating; time suspended in Twilight Town, with Axel's red hair like fire in the sunset, is something closer to hope, to quietude. It feels like the kind of day that can last forever, a little bubble of something just for the two of you that you never have to give up, never have to leave. Even if you know you only have so long before you have to blink away the dream and report in.

But it isn't the town that makes you feel this, you slowly come to realize over weeks and months of countless extra hours stolen away after missions while you're still pretending to be inept. It's not the sunsets or the quiet moments, it's Axel. Axel, who treats you like a person despite being convinced that none of you are anymore. Axel, who doesn't see you as lazy or stupid, doesn't mock you but teases you with a smirk that sparks a flutter in your supposedly empty chest.

And you think he might possibly think the same, because there are moments when you can't tell if your mind is playing tricks on you or if you really do see him watching you out of the corner of your eye. It's not the same as his original calculating stares; it's softer, almost fond, and maybe it's because he's comfortable enough around you to be like this, but you'd like to believe it's also something more. You can't help but hope – so hope, you do.

Despite the hope, however, you cannot shake the underlying current of anxiety and sorrow. For all the horrible things Axel's done throughout his time in the Castle, (which he slowly confesses as trust between you builds) there is good beneath it. It's obvious that he thinks there isn't, but you fervently disagree. He's seen through your act and knows just how capable you really are; he helps you hide it so that you don't get exploited like he's been.

You don't like what they've made him into. An assassin, a killer, something you with your uncanny observance can see wears him down like river water over stones. It eats at him, chips away at that harlequin smile until the edges are crumbling and you hate, hate, hate the emptiness behind those glass-green eyes every time he comes back from a mission you're not allowed to join him on. And the worst part is that you can tell that he believes it all. Axel believes that he's a monster, that he's inhuman, that the only way to ever be real again is to do what they tell him to, no matter how much it destroys him. You wonder what kind of person he was before this, mourn them as dead inside the Organization's No. VIII, smothered and murdered by Xemnas' hands.

You try to tell him that it isn't true, that he's still redeemable without the Organization, that you both could leave and start over, be anyone you wanted to be, even your old selves.

He just smiles at you with a deep, deep sorrow he claims he cannot feel, and reminds you that he's been sent to annihilate others that had similar thoughts of running. “You're not the first No. IX,” he admits, choking on the words like they're poison. “And I doubt I'm valuable enough to bring back alive.”

You hold your tongue after that – almost as tightly as you hold his shaking hand.

---

One by one by one, your comrades are destroyed. They're beaten, scattered, silenced, until you have no idea where anyone is or who is even left alive to return once their missions end. It's only a matter of time before Xemnas runs out of fighters; only a matter of time before you're deployed as a last resort.

You miss Axel. You miss the whispered conversations, the feel of his gloveless fingers laced with yours. You miss the time spent talking in your room after you'd both come back from separate worlds, now no longer paired together like you once were in days long passed. You miss him, but Axel is gone.

Saix calls him a traitor, though you know that Axel wouldn't run the way they said he has; you know because you've been trying to get him to run away with you for years. No, Axel hasn't run. Instead, he's gone to find the one that did. It's Roxas that's fled, that's turned against the Organization and disappeared. Axel left to bring him back, desperate to keep the boy alive, to never again have to cover his hands in the proverbial blood of a teammate.

(Axel told you what he'd done in Castle Oblivion, and though he'd claimed it had been easy for him you can see the hairline cracks below the surface as he speaks. More scars on his volcanic-glass heart.)

You cling to the hope – it's all you have now – that Axel is still alive somehow, that Roxas' Somebody hasn't found him and torn him apart. You wish he'd taken you with him, wish you could find him, wish that there were more members left for Xemnas to focus on so that you could get away to actually search.

But you can't. And by the time you're finally sent out to play the good soldier, you've nearly succumbed to the reality of never seeing your friend again in this lifetime.

I'll find you again, you tell him in your heart, praying he can hear you though you know he likely can't.

You kept your promise, now I'll keep mine. I'll find you.

It’s that thought that keeps you going as Sora stares you down.

---

You wake up face down in a back alley of Twilight Town, chest aching. You don’t know how you got there or how long it’s been since you died, but you’re not really too invested in finding out. What matters is the weight you can feel behind your ribs, the stuttering, physical beat of a brand new heart where only a phantom one used to be - still capable of emotion but intangible and therefore the perfect collateral to be used against you. But not anymore.

It’s with a feral grin and a hand to your sternum that you stumble your way out into the amber-lit city that holds your best memories, not as Demyx, but as you. The Organization took your life from you for a decade, you name, your identity. Never again.

On instinct you turn over your shoulder to grin at Axel…

only to startle when he isn’t there.

Suddenly your resurrection isn’t quite so joyous. You’re used to the feeling of hollowness, of the dullness inside your chest as your heart grew back in, but this is somehow deeper, stronger. You don’t like it; it hurts in a way you didn’t think possible. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to pinpoint the sensation as grief.

Fear comes next, along with desperation as you scour the streets, the tunnels, the woods, everywhere, and still cannot find him. It's not long before panic sets in as well, because once it's obvious that Axel isn't anywhere in Twilight Town you realize that you have absolutely no idea where else to even begin looking. You also realize you don't know which is a worse thought: that he's possibly been destroyed and not reconstructed, or that he isn't destroyed and is still under the Organization's thumb. What do you do then?

You don’t know - and that’s the truly scary part.

You allow yourself a minor breakdown on top of the clocktower, arms wrapped around your knees like you’ve seen him sit a thousand times before. Tears stream hot and salty down your face, the first in a very long time, and as you stare out at the gold-and-red horizon you let out everything that’s been building up inside you for a decade, for a day. You’re exhausted by the time you’re done, but beyond the headache and the stuffy nose you feel a determined sense of calm.

For the past ten years you’ve survived under the guise of incompetence, of naivety - at this point it would be like second nature to you. No one would notice. If anything is left of Organization XIII, who’s to say you couldn’t infiltrate them? Use their resources? Find a way to hack back into one of their computers, track someone down?

You were a Nobody for a long time. What’s a little longer in the black leather coat?

Besides, you think as you stand on surprisingly steady legs; what good is having your heart back if the one you gave it to forever ago isn’t there to give you his?

Wait for me, Axel, you tell him, reaching out with the steady rhythm in your chest as you summon a Dark Corridor and step into it, bound for what remains of the World That Never Was.

I’ll be there soon. I promise.

#kingdom hearts #Demyx #Axel #akudem #akudemy #kh3 #kh2 #fanfic #fanfiction #kh rarepair zine

7 notes · View notes

elesianne · 4 years

Text

A Lord of the Rings fanfic, chapter one of two

Story summary: Lothíriel felt prepared for everything that happened at her and Éomer's wedding in the mead hall but at the end of the feast, in the privacy of their bedchamber, she knows less of what to expect and do. Fortunately her new husband is patient in this, if not in many other matters.

Chapter length: ~4,300 words; Rating: Mature audiences

Some keywords: arranged marriage, wedding night, virginity, mild sexual content, post-war of the rings

A/N: This is rated M just in case, but is very light on smut.

AO3 link

Midyear’s night: Chapter I – Night

Seated in front of the mirror, Lothíriel takes off with gentle fingers and for the last time her pearl and diamond diadem. Tomorrow – for a bride must be both wedded and bedded, the Rohirrim believe, before she can be declared his lord's lady – she will be crowned queen, and Éomer will give her a new crown.

She takes the diadem to a table next to the door. She will give it to her brother Elphir to give to his daughter, the next eldest unmarried daughter of Dol Amroth. Her niece is only three months old, so the diadem will wait unused for many years. Lothíriel will miss it: it has been the finest, most beautiful thing she owns, and she has been proud to wear it on feast-days and other important occasions.

From the door she looks around the bedchamber. During the day servants have brought all her things here from the room where she stayed before. The books and scrolls she brought from Dol Amroth lie in neat piles on a side table, the only such objects in this room; beside them, the chest of her writing things; in the corner her harp, which had survived the long journey better than she'd dared to expect; and piled on top of each other and next to each other, many trunks full of clothes and fine fabrics and silk thread. She brought a lot of fabric and thread for the works of future years.

The room is cluttered with her possessions, more of them here than there are Éomer's things. For a king, he appears to have little need to surround himself with many fine, expensive things, or else he keeps very few of them in his bedroom.

She can still hardly believe that he left her here alone. After he brought her to this room – his room – and closed the door behind them, he just gazed at her until the drunken cheers outside the door died out. He then pointed at her hair and mumbled something about having her maid undo it. Then he was gone, and Lothíriel was left in a man's bedchamber for the first time in her life.

Well, she'd thought, it was her bedchamber as well now, and she had better become accustomed to it.

She had looked around the tidy room for the first time then, taking notice of the large fireplace with a fire crackling merrily in it. The next thing she noticed was that the blankets and furs on the large bed were already turned aside neatly by servants. And though that should not have been surprising or startling, startled she was, and she went and sat down quickly before the mirror that someone had also brought here. It is hers too.

At least there she only has to look at her reflection and not this… man's room around her, devoid of the man.

It does not seem like an auspicious beginning for a wedding night.

A feeling of dread in her stomach after her second time looking around the room, Lothíriel sits back down at the mirror and starts undoing her complicated hairstyle herself. She doesn't know what is taking her maid so long, if Éomer indeed did go to fetch her and not do something else.

Does he regret marrying you? an insidious voice in her head asks. Already?

She looks into her own eyes in the mirror and tells herself sternly to not think such foolish thoughts. Éomer appeared to be in a good mood all day, showing no sign of reluctance or regret when he said his vow to her, and many times she thought she caught him looking at her with something more intense in his eyes than respect or friendly interest.

She must be patient. Picking hairpins out of her hair helps her not to think too much, so she does that. A hairstyle like this, with braids and curls and pins and pearls, isn't meant for a woman to disassemble herself, and trying to do it takes concentration and rather more dexterity than she possesses.

She'd been expecting Éomer to take it all out of her hair.

Perhaps she had been looking forward to it: feeling his fingers running through her hair, on the back of her neck, his body close behind hers –

Lothíriel startles as the door opens, and turns at once towards it.

'The king said you needed help', says her new Rohirrim maid Guthild in her heavily accented Westron.

Guthild has rather too much of an expression on her face and as Lothíriel turns back to the mirror again she says briskly, 'Yes, with my hair. Come help me with these twisted braids.'

Guthild chatters the entire time she works Lothíriel's hair free of adornments, undeterred by the meagre responses she receives.

She talks about how splendid the wedding was, how good the food – even the stranger, Gondorian-style dishes – and how handsome the king looked, and the visiting lords of Rohan and Gondor, and how beautiful and finely dressed was the queen Arwen Evenstar of Gondor! What times they lived in, having elves visit every year…

Lothíriel hardly hears it. She looks at herself in the mirror. She looks pale and young. The day has been long which explains the paleness, and she is young. She has often told her family that she is not as young as they seem to think she is, but right now, she feels young and alone. Guthild is little consolation; Lothíriel met her six days ago.

She wishes her own maid from Dol Amroth was here, but Hemmoril didn't want to come to Rohan. She has a sweetheart, a vintner in the city, who she is going to marry soon. Lothíriel gifted her a diamond brooch for her to have as a dowry.

Lothíriel sits up straighter. Hemmoril would tell her, gently but firmly, to not be silly.

It is just that – for everything else that she has done here in Rohan so far, she has felt prepared for and capable of. Meeting scores of new people, learning their titles and their families and their relevant peculiarities, and already giving her opinion on a great many things concerning the household, and the ceremonies of a Rohirrim marriage: she has felt equal to all these tasks.

For this, for waiting for her husband to come to her and take her virginity, she feels utterly unprepared for in a way that she hadn't anticipated. What exactly is expected of her in this matter?

And Guthild finishes brushing out her hair, and Éomer is still not here.

'I wear my hair in a braid at night', Lothíriel reminds Guthild when the maid puts down the brush and steps away. She might as well get as ready for bed as she can, Lothíriel supposes.

Guthild purses her mouth. 'It is not my place to say, I think, but I will say it, my lady: the king will like it better unbound.'

'Indeed it is not your place to tell me how to wear my hair', Lothíriel snaps and instantly regrets it. She turns to her maid. 'Do you believe so?' she asks her. Guthild is about ten years older than her.

Guthild nods. 'Men like touching women's hair. And your hair especially, my lady…' she takes a lock of it and lets it go, looking at it as it falls, as if to demonstrate something. 'It is like black silk.'

Lothíriel takes a deep breath, trying to cling on to the shreds of her dignity, and decides not to ask how her unmarried maid knows what men like. 'Very well. The rest of the jewellery, then.'

Guthild takes off Lothíriel's pearl and diamond necklace and brooch (which she will get to keep, happily) while Lothíriel removes her bracelets and her rings other than the golden band Éomer gave her. She feels fairly certain that that she should wear to bed.

It is nice to be certain of one thing at least.

'Such fine jewellery', Guthild says, admiring, as she locks them all in Lothíriel jewellery chest. 'Similar to what queen Arwen wears, but she wears no pearls.'

'I am from the sea-shore', Lothíriel says, thoughts elsewhere, as she stands up from the stool. 'Pearls, the treasure of the sea, are traditional for the ladies of Belfalas.'

She takes off her belt. There is a heavy set of keys on it, pulling the slender silver girdle slightly askew. As part of the wedding ceremony, Éomer gave her all the keys of the household.

She sets the girdle on the dressing table, and the ring of keys on top of the chest of jewellery, and takes off her own overdress without waiting for Guthild's help or her opinions on whether she should wait for Éomer to undress her.

Lothíriel knows that she is being prickly but she's feeling too vulnerable to be anything else.

She turns her back to her maid and says, 'Petticoats next, would you help me with them.'

Lothíriel is very grateful when Guthild unties the three petticoats without commenting. Together they take off her stockings, and Lothíriel is left in only her stays and her shift. The wooden floor isn't cold under her feet like the marble in her room in the citadel of Dol Amroth.

'The stays, please, Guthild.' Lothíriel turns her back to her maid again.

The women of Rohan don't wear stays. Guthild has been learning how to lace and unlace Lothíriel's back-lacing stays for six days now, and has become quite adept at it. She has quick fingers and wit and tongue, and Lothíriel is on the whole rather satisfied with her. That is a relief for it would not be a good beginning to have to dismiss a servant chosen for her by the stern woman who has been keeping the king's household.

It is enough that there are dozens of traditions and customs that Lothíriel has to decide to embrace or to reject in favour of the way she is used to doing things. Wearing or not wearing stays is one such thing.

Guthild has only unlaced her halfway when the door opens and Éomer enters, and closes the door but stays there at the door.

He looks at Lothíriel and she looks at him. His hair gleams golden in the light of candles and the fire, and the plate and mail of his armour catch the light too, and she is in her underwear.

Guthild's hands have stilled as she waits to be told what to do.

After a few heartbeats Lothíriel gathers her courage, clears her throat, and says, 'Thank you, Guthild, you are dismissed for the night.'

Guthild doesn't move. 'My lady, the laces –'

'I can do it.' Éomer comes closer. There is something glinting in his eyes.

Guthild curtsies, leaves and closes the door behind her.

Éomer locks it, and then comes to Lothíriel. She looks at his face, her heart in her throat for several reasons.

The first thing he does is touch her hair that is all hanging beside her face to be out of the way, and then he moves behind her.

It is a relief not to have him right in front of her barely-covered breasts. How is she supposed to hold on to her dignity and pride when he can see her nipples through the sheer silk?

'Hmm', Éomer says. 'I may have overestimated my ability to undress you. I am not familiar with… this.'

'I'll guide you.' Lothíriel reaches behind her back to show him. 'Pull here, and hold on here.'

But instead of doing as she says, he puts her hands around her waist where the stays are still rather tight and says, 'You have a wonderful figure.'

Her voice wavering, she tells him, 'The stays flatter my figure. Wait till you see me without them to give compliments, my lord.'

She thinks she hears him muttering, 'Oh, I can't wait', and clearer he says, 'Don't call me your lord when we're alone. I am Éomer now.'

He begins unlacing her and in no time at all, the stays fall free. Lothíriel catches them and the cord that Éomer hands her and puts them on top of a chest, and then she turns back to him clad only in her low-cut, nearly see-through shift. He is still wearing all his clothes and armour.

Oh, how she hates feeling so vulnerable and unprepared. Her mother talked to her about the wedding night, of course, and then a day later her aunt Ivriniel came to her and said she wanted to have that talk too because, as she said, 'Your mother is a good woman but she is a prude'.

Lothíriel knows the… basics, and thanks to Ivriniel some other things that might happen, but she doesn't know what exactly Éomer wants of her, or how she will feel. And here before her tall, strong, eight-years-older, foreign husband, she feels young and stupidly inexperienced. He must have lain with many women, as handsome as he is, and a lord since birth.

She lifts her eyes back to his face to find him studying her; and not her chest, but her face.

'Are you well, Lothíriel?' he asks.

'I am – nervous', she says.

'That is natural, I think.' His hands wind about her waist again. 'You are quite unexperienced with men, are you not?'

There is no pity or anything like that in his voice, and that helps. Lothíriel replies, 'I have – I once kissed a boy. That is all.'

She surprises herself by putting her own hands on his upper arms, as if to steady herself perhaps, and then by starting babbling. 'It was my cousin Amdirgan years ago. I was fourteen, I think. He's three years older.' Horrified by her loss of control of her tongue, she keeps explaining nonetheless. 'He always called me pretty and didn't tease me like my other cousins so I thought it might be nice, but it was only strange and awkward for both of us. I suppose that he was too much like my brothers after all.'

Éomer grimaces. 'I met your cousin Amdirgan today. I would have preferred not to know that about him.'

'I… I am sorry?'

'No matter. We'll forget about him now. It will be all right, Lothíriel, this wedding night of ours. I don't mind your virginity. I expected it.'

'I never thought much about it before now', Lothíriel says. 'I never fell in love with anyone or anything like that that would have made it – difficult. Virginity was just one duty of my station among others.'

'And you are a dutiful sort of girl.' One of his hands rubs circles on her back. Even through her a layer of fabric, it makes her shiver. 'But would you prefer to wait a little, drink some mead perhaps, or sit and talk?' he asks.

Her pride could not bear making him wait. 'I don't want to wait, my l– Éomer', she says, lifting her chin, and then blushes at her own words. She said it because waiting would not make it any easier. But perhaps she also wants to see if his shoulders really are as broad as they look under his clothes, and she wants to find out what he wants to do to her – if it includes any of the things that aunt Ivriniel talked about that made Lothíriel blush scarlet.

'Just – please don't laugh at me if I do something wrong', she finds herself begging of him, ashamed of doing so even as she speaks the words.

Éomer frowns. 'I am not going to laugh at you.'

She can't look him in the eye. 'I do not know how I should do things, and you must know, you must have so much more experience –'

'I do', Éomer interrupts her rambling, and his words hardly make her feel better. Then he adds, 'But this is new to me too. I've never lain with my wife before.'

She buries her face in his chest, her need to hide greater than her reluctance to take such intimacies. He wears a chest plate of steel, and it is cold. But he puts his armoured arms tight around her and says, 'Lothíriel, I promise you that I will do my utmost to not hurt you, and to give you as much pleasure as I can. More pleasure than pain, though it is your first time.'

If he is a good husband, her aunt Ivriniel had said, he will give you pleasure of a kind you've never known before.

She draws back and he lets her, though he keeps his hands splayed on her back still.

'Thank you', she says. 'Thank you. I will stop – being stupidly nervous now.'

'That is hardly something you can decide, is it? Though you have determination enough to try, I know.' A small smile plays on his lips and in his sky-blue eyes. One of his hands comes to cup her cheek and then, his fingers following the arch of her cheekbone and the curve of her jaw and the line of her neck, he says, 'The people of your country say that there is elven-blood in the lords and ladies of Dol Amroth, much more than in others of Westernesse blood.'

His fingers are on her collarbone now. 'According to the tradition of our house the mother of the first prince of Dol Amroth was Mithrellas, an elf-maiden from Lothlórien', Lothíriel says, half-breathless.

Éomer hand drops lower, caressing her arm and side before dropping down to her waist again. His hands are warm and large and somehow reassuring though he touches her like no man ever has.

'It is easy to believe', he says. 'You have an elven-fairness about you.'

Flattery is only to be expected on a wedding night, Lothíriel decides, so that she will not fluster too much.

Yet fluster she does when Éomer bends his head the little that is needed and kisses her. His lips are softer than she expected and he tastes of the honey-mead beloved by his people, and it is easier than she thought it would be to lean into the kiss and to learn how to kiss him back.

It feels nothing like she remembers the kiss with cousin Amdirgan feeling even though she doesn't love this man either.

He is her husband, though, and Lothíriel is determined to do her best with him in all things and all ways. She raises her hands to his shoulders, touching his fair hair at last. Unlike his lips it is less soft than it looks.

But she forgets all about comparing textures when his tongue coaxes her to part her lips, and they kiss in a new way. It is still soft and sweet but much deeper, and for all its strangeness it makes her lose much of her self-awareness and to cling to him tighter.

He tangles a hand in her hair and bends her back a little, supporting much of her weight on his hands.

The only thing she can think of as they keep kissing for a long moment is that she wishes that he wasn't wearing so much armour and clothes. Her own thin shift doesn't protect her from the coldness of metal against her. How much nicer it would surely be to feel his bare skin close to hers.

It turns out that Éomer's thoughts have been on the same thing for when they part to breathe, he says, 'I am wearing far too much.'

He touches her cheek and then starts on the clasps of his cloak, taking two steps away from her to get some space to undress. As he steps back, he bumps into one her clothes trunks.

He looks around. 'There are too many things in this room', he says, as if noticing it only now. Sounding a little out of breath, he decides, 'We'll have much of it moved elsewhere. There's an empty room next to this one. It has been used by the queens of Mark, and most recently by Éowyn. It is yours now.'

'Your housekeeper showed it to me yesterday', Lothíriel says, a little dazed herself. She raises a hand to her lips and finds them sensitive.

Éomer's lips are red, too. 'I should have asked my squire to help with this', he says, irritated, as he tosses his cloak aside and starts on his armour.

'I can do it.' Relieved that there is something she does know how to do, Lothíriel explains, 'I have helped my brothers and father sometimes. Just the armour, though, of course. Not the – clothes.'

'But I will gladly accept your help with both.' His eyes sparkling again, Éomer stands still without her having to ask when Lothíriel comes to him and works out how to take off all of his armour that has been polished to a high sheen for his wedding day. It is a little different from what she is used to but not too much, and she is confident she does it faster than he would have himself.

Piece by piece Lothíriel takes it all off and puts it to where Éomer tells her to, and the clothes under the armour too until eventually he is left in only his undertunic, and something on his lower body that Lothíriel doesn't dare to look closely at.

'You make a good squire', Éomer says as he steps close to her again. 'And you're much prettier than Garwine.'

She smiles at him. 'Yet I'll let your squire have his work, and I will be content to be your queen.'

Éomer's light smile fades as he cups her cheek, a more intense and intent look taking its place. 'I am glad', he says, and then he is kissing her again, rougher this time, with a little less care.

Lothíriel doesn't mind. She likes the strength in him: she can feel it in his arms, and the muscles of his back that she can now touch through his tunic. She explores them, and his arms, and finds that she likes the corded muscles of his forearms in particular. She raises her hands to his face and is fascinated by his beard, the conflicting roughness-softness of it. It scratches her face a little as they kiss, making her skin tingle.

His hands are, as he keeps kissing her, no longer soft and sweet but rather hurried and… passionate. Less careful, too. They explore her back lower, below where her hair ends at her hips; he caresses her bottom and she jumps in his arms a little, making their teeth clack together very uncomfortably. But he soothes her by kissing her cheek and asks, 'Did you find that unpleasant?'

'No', Lothíriel says, no doubt blushing again, if she has stopped at all. 'I was only surprised.'

'Good.' He puts his lips back to hers and his hand to her bottom, cupping it and kneading a little, and isn't it strange how nice that feels, Lothíriel thinks in some distant part of her brain where she is still analysing everything.

She finds her own hands at his waist, bunching up his tunic to find bare skin.

Éomer breaks their kiss to tell her, 'Pull it up. My shirt.'

Lothíriel does. Pale skin and light brown hair and several scars cover the muscled expanses of his chest and stomach, and his shoulders are as delightfully broad and strong as she has imagined. She puts her hands on them and, encouraged by Éomer, explores downwards. By now she has gained some instinct for what would be good to do: for what she would like, and he too.

And he does seem to like her touch. Though when her fingers flutter on his stomach, close to the fabric that covers him below that, he grasps her wrist and pulls her close and says, low, 'Not yet', and he kisses her so hard that she cannot keep up.

He nibbles on her lips and then kisses her jaw, and her neck, and at the same time his hand, more gentle than his lips, caresses her side and stomach. She doesn't startle at it anymore, and she doesn't startle when his gentle hand moves up and cups her breast through thin silk.

It feels even better than when he did it to her bottom. She inhales sharply, and Éomer's lips return to hers, and as they kiss again, that exploring hand caresses and kneads and altogether begins driving Lothíriel crazy. She can't concentrate on the kissing so she pulls her lips from his and lays her head on his shoulder and gasps while in the small space between their bodies he continues lighting her body on fire.

After a moment – half a minute, a minute, or half an hour, Lothíriel could not tell – Éomer drops his hands, and drops quick kisses on the part of her chest that her shift leaves bare, and then she feels his hand on her thigh, drawing the hem of her shift upwards.

She raises her arms and lets him pull it up. He drops it on the floor and she doesn't even mind, even though it is silk and very expensive and she made it especially for today.

She doesn't mind it because he didn't take his eyes off of her for even a second as he undressed her, and she likes that, prefers it to careful handling of her clothes.

'Elven-beautiful but not otherworldly or unattainable – you're all mine to keep', he says after a moment of looking at her. His voice is low and sends delightful little shivers down Lothíriel's spine. Pinned by his gaze, she does believe that he finds her beautiful.

He is beautiful, too, in a masculine, dangerous way, his body built to perfection by years of practising the skills of war and then scarred by war.

'I want you to touch me again', she tells him, finally bold.

He laughs, delighted, and his golden hair catches the light again. 'I am glad, and will gladly do it', he says, and he grabs her and carries her to the big bed, pinning her down with his body as well as his gaze.

It is a good thing that thoughtful servants had set the covers aside earlier because Éomer wastes no time in exploring her body anew, now without even the shift in the way of his hands and lips.

He keeps both halves of his promise, making sure that she is so ready that he causes her very little pain that passes soon in the onslaught of sweet, overwhelming pleasure, making Lothíriel lose control of herself in the best way ever.

A/N: I would like to note that Lothíriel's stays are not the same as what we usually think of when we think of a corset. Stays predate tight-lacing corsets, which were a Victorian thing. Lothíriel's stays have shoulder straps and they are not laced tight and aren't very restrictive. Something like this. Her shift is like this but made of sheer silk.

It was probably clear in the previous fic already that I don't employ modern gender roles in my fics about Éomer and Lothíriel so I hope that you will not judge them by those. I try to write them close to how I imagine Tolkien intended their attitudes, experiences and expectations to be.

Housekeeper feels too modern a word for Rohan but I couldn't think of another one for a female head servant.

On our wedding night my husband had to take 49 hairpins out of my hair and he hated it. It wasn't a sexy activity like Lothíriel imagines, lol.

There'll be a shorter second chapter about the morning after.

#tolkien fanfiction #lord of the rings fanfiction #lotr fanfiction #eomer #lothiriel #éomer #lothíriel #eothiriel #éothíriel #midyears' night #my éomer/lothíriel fics #<--- my series tag #my fics #elesianne's fics

10 notes · View notes

sapphalon · 5 years

Text

Playing Fair

No one told me writing smut was fun, but ever since I finished ‘Pull My Devil Trigger’ I’ve kept thinking of how Catra would get her revenge and with some inspiration from my favorite degenerates this thing came into being

Warning this one is considerably spicier than the original:

Adora was quite satisfied with her day. She got to clean the house, did some workouts and messed with Catra in the best way possible. Now she just wanted to get some sleep and end the day in a high note.

She yawned as she entered her darkened bedroom and reached for the light switch, just to have her arm stopped by a familiar hand. “Catra? What are you do-” The feeling of Catra’s breath against the back of her neck was enough to shut her up.

“Hey, Adora” Catra had many ‘hey, adora’s, but this was a very specific one. This was her secret weapon, one that always managed to get some undignified noises out of Adora “I think we have unfinished business”

Oh so that is what this was about. Adora had no objections. Catra usually couldn’t even budge Adora if she didn’t want to move, but right now just a light touch was enough to push her onto their bed. Sleep now completely forgotten as she had far more pressing matters to attend to.

Speaking of pressing that is exactly what Catra was doing right now. Using her weight to pin Adora. Catra knew Adora could still lift her up with little issue, but she knew plenty of other ways to keep her down. She was a Rogue for a reason after all.

First you need to roll some Charisma “I have you at my mercy, princess” She traced the line of Adora’s jaw for that extra bit of emphasis “Now what should I do with you?”

Adora found this entire situation to be completely unfair. Adora always tried to be the epitome of Lawful Good, but when Catra did things like that, when Catra was all hot and evil, it made her very very tempted to just give in to the dark side “Hmm, I think I have some ideas” You know what? Maybe Adora could have some fun with the dark side for one night and go back to being her Lawful Good self tomorrow. That didn’t count as giving in, right?

Charisma check passed and her guard was all the way down. Now it was time for a little ‘attack of opportunity’ her left hand continued to draw lines on Adora’s neck, while her right slowly traveled through all the dents in the armor that she knew so well.

There were way too many things happening to Adora right now and the fact that Catra hadn’t stopped talking wasn’t helping her at all. Adora couldn’t even focus on what exactly she was saying, it was probably evil and hot and Adora would love to hear all of it, but she had more important things to focus on.

And for the finishing touch it was time to show what high dexterity could do. After beating hard fights in any game Catra liked to joke about how good she was with her hands and Adora was always happy to remind her that that was not how things worked, that is until she was proven wrong and Catra loved reminding Adora of how wrong she was about this.

Between the constant scrapping against the back of her neck, Catra’s evil monologue and the Critical Hit currently happening downstairs, Adora never stood a chance and now she was left staring at a gloating Catra, standing above her with a wicked smile “I told you I would get my revenge”

Adora did her best to suppress a giggle “Oh no, you gave me an orgasm. What am I do to?” and just like that the great villain Catra faded away, replaced by her very indignant girlfriend. Her expression causing Adora to let out a soft laugh.

She was unfortunately unprepared for the pillow that hit her on the face “Bad Adora, bad bad bad” Catra’s continued pillow assault only causing Adora to laugh louder “No more evil queen acts for you”

She dropped her pillow and started stomping towards the bathroom, but Adora grabbed her wrist and pulled her back into a hug. “I’m sorry, ok? I promise I’ll respect my evil queen next time” Catra just looked away, embarrassed at the exaggerated nickname.

“Yeah, whatever. Just let me wash my hands” Adora gave her a quick kiss and let her go. She smiled at herself, before falling back on the bed. She liked reminding Catra that rogues weren’t the only ones that didn’t play fair.

#catradora #smut #smut 2 the smutening #catra #adora #I'm no longer sorry

40 notes · View notes

theloniousbach · 4 years

Text

50 YEARS OF GOING TO SHOWS, Pt. 6: BECOMING A JAZZ FAN IN KANSAS CITY

As I often do, let me start this reminiscence with a guitar player or three. My brief here is to recall the formative jazz experiences that have been part of being in the thrall of live music just as often as I can.

So, even though this is jazz and the piano is the most versatile and enthralling instrument at the center of the music for me, I do come to this iteration of musical virtuosity, intelligence, and intricacy from '60s rock--blues and psychedlia. Fusion, jazz-rock was created for the likes of me and Miles's "Bitches Brew" with John McLaughlin was the first jazz album of my teen years. So we start with seeing the Mahavishnu Orchestra at the University of Kansas. I remember being in the balcony and so leaning forward physically while metaphorically being blown back into my seat. They were loud, both actually and filling every aural space with rapid fire notes in intricate array, mostly from McLaughlin's still just a single neck guitar but also Jerry Goodman and Jan Hammer. But it was equally Billy Cobham's drums that just pulsed in astoundingly complex rhythms. Later when I got to know Balkan music, I wondered if those rhythms were head trips, intellectual exercises, or tied to Eastern European dance rhythms (Hammer is Czech, after all). Pure invention. It was amazing.

In the same hall, I saw the beloved Jerry Hahn, with Brotherhood brothers, but playing a straight ahead jazz show. He warmed up for this just emerging band with some local appeal, Kansas. They too were loud and already pretentious. We left wrapped in our own pretension of jazz snobbery.

One last guitarist, Pat Matheny, a local hero just a year older than us. The drummer in Fast Eddie and the Juicers, the garage/basement band I hung out with with some very good friends, had played in a middle school jazz band with him. He was 16, maybe 17, when he played numerous sets at the all day Kansas City Jazz Festival in Municipal Auditorium. It was a mostly Buddy Rich, Clark Terry, Marilyn Maye (who was then just the jazz singer in town), Gene Harris and the Three Sounds kind of show. But Matheny played his own set in late afternoon and then kept being asked to sit in. He later did two or three Xmas season shows often at UMKC (my alma mater, my Dad's employer) with his original quartet with Lyle Mays with "Phase Dance" to open and "San Lorenzo" to close gloriously.

But, particularly now, I don't seek jazz guitar and appreciate more than enjoy such luminaries as John Scofield (though I have seen him with Joe Lovano and also in Jack DeJohnette's Hudson and do like to see him in rockish setting with Phil Lesh and Warren Haynes) and Bill Friesell. No, it's the piano, best with just bass and drums, that defines the music for me.

I had a singular formative experience--seeing Oscar Peterson with Ray Brown and Ed Thigpen open ($#%Q%#) for the New Christy Minstrels at UMKC in about 1964. I was 8 or 9 and felt at home where Dad worked, so I just was drawn into the music and sat on stage behind the speaker column. They were playing selections from the "Canadiana Suite," so that was an album I got my parents to buy for "us." But they were magical, so fluid and telepathic and powerful. I treasure the drum sticks Ed Thigpen gave me. I got to see him here at a conference on Miles Davis with Sam in tow when he was about the age I was then and told him how meaningful that was.

I saw Count Basie (and possibly Duke Ellington) at a free concert but that made little impression except that Basie was bluesy and from Kansas City. I saw him, once again in Lawrence, probably in that same auditorium, in the 1970s. By then I had absorbed the Basie aesthetic. Even if big bands were more than a little corny, this one swung hard, Basie was eloquently powerful with his little right hand lines, Freddie Green was unflappable, and the horns played the charts well with Jimmy Forrest being the tenor star.

Since I've already talked about Herbie Hancock with both his Mwandishi band and the Headhunters as well as Chick Core with Return to Forever and even Weather Report, I will proceed into a remarkable series of largely free jazz in the park concerts, mostly in Kanas City.

A glorious exception was seeing Charles Mingus with the Changes line up (George Adams, Don Pulled, Dannie Richmond, not necessarily but possibly Jack Waltrath) in Bryant Park, for a noon time set while we were in New York City. That same band did a concert in the park in Kansas City. I remember no juicy details--particular tunes from the deep Mingus canon, only Mingus in black fully unprepared to suffer fools.

The Kansas City Parks had a great series with Gary Burton a couple of times (I was also a hanger on at a master class on vibraphone at a music store the next afternoon and saw something about how to use two mallets in each hand) and San Getz with Richie Beirach, maybe George Mraz. It might have been that I saw Mraz with Roland Hanna and homeowner Richie Pratt on drums in another open air setting. I was probably just another punter in the crowd; I think anymore I would be annoyed at people there for atmosphere and the party.

I saw the Modern Jazz Quartet with the Kansas City Symphony with the orchestra contributing to some suite, almost certainly John Lewis's, before a few tunes by the MJQ itself. I was bouncing in my seat a bit too enthusiastically for the regular Symphony goers around me. Sigh.

Dizzy Gillespie played KC a couple of times. I saw him out of reverence but wished I could have brought more to the table, more lore. He wasn't Miles but he was playing probably with James Moody and solid jazz guys on Rhodes and electric bass. I should have gotten more out of that experience than to say, yeah, I saw Dizzy's cheeks and schtick (certainly a subtle Latin rhythm). I lived in Chicago and had a friend with great jazz ears. He introduced me to Arthur Blythe and some South African players among many others. I was part of a gang that went a couple of times to the Jazz Showcase, including once to the original near North Side location, once to the one in a Loop hotel, to see Dexter Gordon in the post-Homecoming days. Again I wish I could savor more details than the impression of his tall elegance, liquid lines, and deep deep repertoire. That's as much a reconstruction from the albums and the legend but, details aside, I have a strong image of Dexter Gordon and he was the most formidable tenor player I ever saw. Now, I did see Sonny Rollins in his late 70s and that was remarkable (more in a follow up to this on my jazz revival) but Gordon was in significant command of his craft then and was doing vital music.

Finally, the Chicago Jazz Festival was a relatively new thing when I was there in the late 1970s/early 1980s. I'm sure I saw as much as I could. My sole memory--and it is a grand one--is sticking out a rain shower to see Jack DeJohnette's Special Edition to play to a too small crowd, including the absolutely stunning "Pastel Rhapsody" with DeJohnette starting on piano. It's a glorious tune and DeJohnette's piano is both strong and revelatory. I learned so much about him as a drummer from that tune.

My rediscovery of jazz over the past four years or so is based on this foundation. It is also been the basis of so much of this ongoing writing exercise.

These are powerful memories.

#2019 #jazz #mahavishnu orchestra #dexter gordon #dizzy gillespie #charles mingus #pat matheny #count basie #oscar peterson

1 note · View note

what-if-rpg · 5 years

Photo

Welcome to the family, DEXTER! Your application to JESSE ST. JAMES was accepted. I am really happy to have you around! Make sure to read the beginners checklist, and remember, have fun! I can’t wait to roleplay with you! Have fun!

IN CHARACTER

CHARACTER NAME: Jesse St. James CHARACTER AGE & DATE OF BIRTH: June 1st 1990, 29 OCCUPATION: Broadway Actor & Director FACE CLAIM: Jonathan Groff HOMETOWN & CITY WHERE LIVES NOW: Born in Lima, Ohio. Currently lives in New York, New York. SEXUAL ORIENTATION & GENDER: Bisexual Cis-Male. RELATIONSHIP STATUS: In a relationship with Cooper Anderson. POSITIVE TRAITS: + dedicated, + expressive, + imaginative NEGATIVE TRAITS: - arrogant, - bossy, - harsh CHARACTER QUOTE/LYRIC: “I need space. And fresh air, Let ‘em laugh in my face. I don’t care, Save my place- I’ll be there.” ANYTHING ELSE?: I have a HC that Jesse has two gay dad’s and a younger brother. SECONDARY CHARACTER CHOICE: Blaine Anderson

HEADCANONS

Jesse tries to be a good dad. However, he gets too caught up in his work. He is largely absent from his child’s life, but he cares about the child more than anything. He will always make their Birthday, always send them a card during Hanukkah and tries to remember whatever they’re currently into. He wants her to go on and be a Broadway star and Jesse can sometimes be a bit pushy towards that.

During their marriage, Jesse fell for a charming nitwit on Broadway, Cooper Anderson. The two were in a show together and it was celebrating their cast party that they kissed, and Jesse realised he had feelings for men as well as women. He started dating Cooper in secret, he saw it more of a showmance rather than a legit relationship so technically he wasn’t cheating, it was just theatre baby. After their marriage ended, Jesse had pushed to start dating Cooper, but they didn’t become official until their theatre fans noticed flirty chemistry and made it official.

He never knew his real father and his mother never spoke of him. From what he can remember, his relationship with his mom was rough. She was always working and whenever he got to see her, she would be sleeping. Leaving him to find ways to entertain himself. The main escape he had, was to watch Disney. He adored Disney as a child. He loved pretending to be Tarzan, Hercules and Captain Hook. Sure, Hook was a villain, but he was a damn fun villain. And, what? Was he going to be Simba? No thanks, way too much fur.

Complications happened with his birth mother and when Jesse was four years old, he was placed in a Foster Home. It took a year before he would come to learn he would not be seeing his birth mother again and was placed with the St. James family. They were wealthy and always encouraged Jesse to pursue what made him happy.

His love for acting formed from the movies he loved to watch. Originally, he wanted to play Captain Hook at Disneyland. This was before he learnt he was talented and had a decent chance of making it within the theatre world.

Jesse and Cooper became a Broadway tag team, the two seemed to always end up in the same shows and rumours began that the two were dating. He wasn’t sure how or why, but the people loved the idea of him and Cooper being a thing. While the two never really saw themselves as a couple in real life, they soon realised it was better for their careers to feed into this fantasy.

CONNECTIONS

PARENTS: Francesca and Gordon St. James: The two fostered Jesse when he was five years old. They have always supported their son in everything he has ever done. He is definitely closer to Fran as he always enjoyed cuddling up with her and watching Disney, even when he was probably too old to be having Disney marathons with his mom. BROTHER: Jasper St. James: His younger brother was also a sibling and grew up idolising his older brother. Jesse loved the attention but definitely didn’t always pay him enough attention as maybe he should have. He learnt when he was seventeen that his brother had an addition habit. Jesse started to try to take a more active part in his brother’s life, but found he was often pushed away or wasn’t prepared to handle the effects of a sibling with a drug problem. SISTER: Chelsea St. James: Chelsea has always closer to Jesse than their brother Jasper. He adored having a younger sister and would often help her with her career. He worries about the relationship with his child and boyfriend. BOYFRIEND: Cooper Anderson: The two have always had an interesting relationship, one that seemed to be mainly for the fans and was generated the same way celebrities get shipped together (see Chris Evans & Sebastian Stan). The two played into it as it was good for business but eventually, Jesse found himself having feelings for Cooper. When the divorce happened, Jesse tried to ‘get over’ his ex-wife by becoming more invested in his relationship with Cooper. The two can bicker and get on each other’s nerves but deep down…. DEEP down… Jesse does love Cooper. EX-WIFE: Rachel Berry: Jesse and Rachel lived a very beautiful love story. After being high school sweethearts during a couple of months, Rachel and Jesse met again and decided it was time to really get together again, and maybe try to live their Romeo and Juliette love story. But like those star crossed lovers, Jesse and Rachel’s happily ever after was not to be and their marriage came to an end after Rachel confessed her feelings for (an affair with) Quinn and ironically, Jesse came clean about his affair with Cooper. The two are currently working together for the sake of their daughter, Moriah. DAUGHTER: Moriah James Berry: Jesse wasn’t ready for fatherhood. He thought he was but when Moriah was born, he couldn’t help but feel vulnerable, unprepared and a failure. He loves her with all of his heart and would do anything to make her happy, but he has a tendency to put his work before anything else. Jesse wants to be a better father for her, but he has a lot to work on with himself first. He has never been one to try and fix other people, he just prays he will never have to try and fix Moriah.

#Jesse St. James #Accepted #Glee RP #Glee RPG #RP

2 notes · View notes

and-all-that-palaver · 6 years

Text

A Theory on Ciel’s Real Name

A question we've all been pondering ever since Yana revealed Ciel wasn't actually Ciel.

I've had this theory in mind for a while but after a few of the recent chapters I decided this theory might be very possible.

What if Ciel's real name is Finnian?

First off on the cover page of Chapter 132 we can see Vincent reading this book called 'Fenian Cycle' to the twins.

The Fenian cycle is a collection of short stories centering around this character called Fionn mac Cumhaill (his name is translated to Fionn in modern Irish but was also known as Find and Finn in old Irish) and his warriors the Fianna. Basically, Fionn is the son of the the late Cumhaill (the former leader of the Fianna) and was always on the run and in hiding as a child from the men who slain his father. The current leader of the Fianna did not want Fionn to take his rightful ownership as the leader of the Fianna. This can parellel with how Vincent was slaughtered and how Our Ciel was always seen as the weaker and timid child compared to Real Ciel who was depicted as the braver and stronger of the two. Not to mention Real Ciel is the rightful heir to the Watchdog title and the Earl of Phantomhive, not Our Ciel. It is also worth noting that in the recent chapters where Real Ciel has mysteriously and grandiosely reappeared he seems to have this underlying vendetta to get his title back. To make things simpler, it's as if Real Ciel is trying to 'steal' Our Ciel's 'title' as the Queen's Watchdog and although he is the rightful heir, Yana has made us all read through and experience Our Ciel carrying out the Watchdog duty so in a way, we are able to empathise with him as being the 'rightful' person to do this job and that this duty 'rightfully' belongs to him.

What follows from the story is that Fionn showcases how great and omnipotent he really is and eventually regains his leadership of the Fianna and spends the rest of the story roaming Ireland, carrying out the duties of the Fianna. This parallels greatly with Kuroshitsuji as Our Ciel proves he is capable of the Watchdog title and being an earl. He is calculating, dexterous, and vigilant. And we as readers watch as he masterfully carries out the Watchdog duties throughout each arc.

What I'd like to point out next is this:

Notice that look of surprise on Our Ciel's face in the left hand corner panel when he sees Finny. I interpreted this as Our Ciel seeing a reflection of himself (or his past self) in Finny somehow. Both of them were kidnapped and locked up and used as 'lab rats' for heinous, nefarious reasons.

I think Our Ciel also recognised the distant, faraway look in Finny's eyes as somebody who has gone through an equally heartwrenching, dark experience as he has.

Granted, they both also watched as their loved ones/close friends were brutally murdered right before their very eyes.

This was Finny when he watched a doctor gun down two of his fellow inmates:

And this is Our Ciel watching his twin brother, Real Ciel (whom he seems to have a very close relationship with based on the flashback chapters) getting stabbed right before him:

I found it really interesting how similar Yana drew both of these panels when showing how both these characters witness the murdering of their loved ones/close friends (especially the eye panels where she highlighted the pure shock in them).

There are other interesting parallels that could possibly hint that Our Ciel’s name is actually Finnian. Both Finny and Our Ciel were branded (one with a slave mark and the other with a tattoo) to indicate whom they belonged to.

And in this sense, it shows how both were being treated as mere objects instead of actual human beings.

Moreover, one compelling fact is that both Our Ciel and Finny were the only ones to survive their horrendous ordeal (I'm not taking Real Ciel into account because as of now we are unsure as to whether he actually survived or was revived or is some form of developed Bizarre Doll, although I would place my bet on the latter as there is no possible indication whatsoever that he could've survived). In addition to this, in order to escape from their cruel captors they both sought to killing them.

This was the doctor that shot Finny's fellow inmates:

And I think this panel speaks for itself:

So I assume this was one of the reasons why Our Ciel spared Finny's life on that day and hired him as a Phantomhive servant. Finny reminded Our Ciel of himself (or again, his past self) in terms of how they were both victims of human greed and savagery.

I found other interesting links that could possibly hint at Our Ciel's name being Finnian. One of them is how both Our Ciel and Finny are caring, selfless individuals who tend to think about the people around them first rather than themselves (in Our Ciel's case, I suppose this trait was more dominant before the kidnapping and the whole cult event that ensued).

Also, Our Ciel was depicted as a naïve, wide-eyed innocent child which is basically Finny in a nutshell.

And here's a bonus picture of a̶ ̶c̶u̶t̶i̶e̶ Our Ciel getting really mad because Real Ciel told him that it was silly to believe in something he hadn't seen before (and if you do believe in Santa then by all means you do you).

What really striked me is how similar Finny is compared to the younger version of Our Ciel. I've already cited the evidence as shown above but this revelation only further strengthens my belief that Ciel's possible name could be Finnian.

I think it's also worth mentioning that out of all the servants Finny seems to be the closest to Our Ciel and remember, Finny was the only one who saw through Real Ciel when he first entered the manor.

I also find it interesting how Finny was the only one that Our Ciel allowed to be near him and to tend to him during the Emerald Witch Arc.

During this time Our Ciel had broken down completely and reverted into the part of himself whom he vowed he'd never be anymore. So why was Finny the only person who was allowed to be near Our Ciel during his extreme mental breakdown? Even Sebastian whom Our Ciel seems to 'trust' the most was rejected and thrown aside. Well, I'd like to think that was because Our Ciel could relate to Finny in some way. Since I've mentioned how similar younger version of Our Ciel and Finny actually are, considering how Our Ciel has relapsed into his 'old' self, 'the one who died on the altar', I'd assume he found comfort in Finny because Finny represented him. He allowed Finny to stay because Finny could understand and empathise with him. Kind, innocent, selfless, and caring. These were all prevalent traits Our Ciel possessed before he was tortured by the cult. And these are all the traits that Finny possesses after he was rescued from the lab (granted, I'm sure Finny had kindness and a sense of closeness with his fellow inmates but these characteristics did not have the opportunity to grow or nurture until he was rescued by Our Ciel). What's also interesting is how Yana illustrates Our Ciel and Finny's relationship being far more prominent than with the other Phantomhive servants.

With the way this is worded, I can only assume it was Our Ciel who actually invited Finny and not vice versa so this shows that he feels comfortable in Finny's presence. Again we are presented with parallels between these two characters and I'd like to think that it's not all just a coincidence.

Bonus indications that Our Ciel is actually a Finnian/Finny:

1) I'm probably being a little too far-fetched here but both Our Ciel and Finny had injections during their time in captivity.

I know it's kind of a "So what?" point but knowing how Yana loves to add in obviously ridiculous and ridiculously obvious hints I thought this was worth taking note.

2) Take a look at this panel.

Judging by how Our Ciel says "Um..." before stating his name I assume he hasn't prepared himself for a situation like the one unfolding before him to occur. Also, he was unprepared for the first test that he had to pass through in order to become recruited as one of the circus members. He had no idea as to how or when Sebastian would help him until his darts were surprisingly hitting the target after every single throw. This means that Ciel was utterly and completely unaware of how things would play out when he arrived. So, back to my original statement, the fact that he paused and THEN claimed his name was Finnian could be an instinctive and reflex statement as again, he was caught off guard and responded with the first thing that came to his mind. Why Finnian? Perhaps because that was his name?

Then we have Joker responding with, "That's a grand name," and we know for a fact that Vincent mentioned this:

The fact that Joker says 'grand', not 'beautiful' or 'nice', could indicate that even he himself has not heard of the name often (if ever) and is amazed by how a mere 'pageboy' could possess such a name. Moreover, the word 'grand' itself has royal connotations to it, giving one the impression of something majestic and glorious just like how the Phantomhives are perceived as.

So there you have it! Of course, this is all mere speculation and nothing is confirmed, some of the points made could also be bias on my part so you may take this with a grain of salt. As always, you are free to tell me your own opinions on this if you want! Thanks for reading~

504 notes · View notes

patroklides-archive · 2 years

Text

there was not much kasimir could do to cut away at the rightful distance between them but wait. yet, at the first sign that hubert's icy indifference had been thawing away, he could not help but take the cue. it was a season for gifts, and what better way there was the show appreciation but through them?

surely, the handmade wooly gloves contained within the small box he sets upon the minister's office desk would serve as such display. they are all black, a stark contrast to his usual white ones, but he doubts they will see use outside travels to the north.

—if, of course, they see use at all and the mage does not find the gift petulant as it is.

no matter, he leaves the box with a small letter attached:

adrestia's weather will hardly bother you enough for these but i hope you keep them; i would have made a matching scarf, had i not known it would be excessive. even so, may no winter find you unprepared.

— kasimir.

IT ISN’T TERRIBLY UNUSUAL for the minister of the imperial household to receive packages delivered to his office, and at first, hubert suspects that perhaps his monthly supply of coffee has simply arrived early. ( it is not due until next week, after all. ) he starts to set it aside — he has more important things to worry with this morning — when the attached note catches his eye. the letter itself is rather nondescript, but the neat, clean script on the outside is strikingly familiar.

he pauses, curious, before sliding the letter from beneath the ribbon and slicing it open with a letter opener, then easing it out of the envelope. green eyes scan the letter, an eyebrow creeping high on his forehead at the letter. then, gingerly, he sets the letter aside on his desk, before opening the box itself.

fingers trail along the thick, woolen material of the gloves; they would hardly afford the level of dexterity needed for intricate spellwork, but they feel … soft. warm. he remembers the harsh faerghan winters, when last his work took him to fhirdiad; it would have been … nice, perhaps, to have something like this at the time.

he glances up at the door — closed, latched — and hesitates for a moment; most would knock before entering, but a certain prime minister has a habit of barging in unannounced. still, at this hour, no one should bother him. slowly, carefully, he tugs the white leather glove from his right hand, setting it aside on the desk, revealing skin marred and discolored from years of dark magic. [ far more noticeable than they had been when he was a teenager, yet hardly new, either. ] once bared, he slips the glove onto his hand, flexing his fingers against the fabric, testing the weight and give of the fabric. they’re surprisingly flexible despite the thickness of the fabric; soft; snug, but not uncomfortably so. the handmade nature of them is quite evident; even had it not been suggested in the note, there is a slight variation to the size of the stitches that speaks to the amateur craftsmanship.

content, he slides the glove back off and lays it back inside the box before setting them aside, the faint shadow of a smile on his lips. he pulls the other glove back onto his hand before taking a seat at his desk, a finger trailing over the edge of the letter. he considers it for a moment, then pulls a piece of card-stock from his desk — from a stationery set her majesty had given him for his birthday, of all things — and begins the return note with sharp, scratching strokes of a quill.

when finished, he tucks the note inside of an envelope and summons a member of his staff to deliver it to its intended recipient before returning to work.

~*~

Kasimir —

A scarf would, perhaps, have been a touch excessive, but the gloves are appreciated. I’m certain they’ll prove useful on my next visit to the Kingdom.

Yours, HvV

ANSWERED. unprompted; @hamartio.

#hamartio #hamartio (kasimir)#( ic. ) — hubert.#( v: hubert / crimson flower. ) — your peace has always depended on all the ashes in your wake.#[ hubert PLEASE...#no icons bc i gave up on finding one that fit this alskdfjasdf ]

1 note · View note

everyonesomething · 7 years

Text

“For Everyone - Something” The Rise and Fall of Big Hex pt 6

”Wait’ll you hear what WE’VE been up to.”

Players:

@rincewitch : Edith (human nerd)

@heliacide : Malkas (tiefling nerd)

Grim raises her cup to and takes a swig, then looks sidelong at all the stalls left in disarray

Grim: "Hey Pep, y'recall th'law of finders keepers don't you?"

Pepper: "Souvenirs. SOUVENIRS." She spills beer everywhere using her cup to point at the stalls.

"Syd you can get the BIG PRIZE."

Grim: "Go get 'em, kids, you earned it."

Grim is happy to loot the beer

Sydney Gaydos: " ..!!!"

Sydney Gaydos DOES WANT THE BIG PRIZE. "This isn't stealing, it's, Finders Keepers... " she's beginning to edge away. "... and this stuff would be disposed of most likely and--" she's off.

E B.: Syd bolts past the blue ribbon sheep which has somehow made its way out of its pen to the base of the ferris wheel. It fixes Grim with a woolly gaze.

It nods once, then shrugs its ribbon onto the ground before trotting away.

Grim nods back to the sheep and raises her cup to it

Grim stoops to pocket the ribbon

Grim has to roll a dexterity check because the DM said: rolling 1d20+4

(10)+4= 14

The sheep does likewise, it's a very agile sheep: rolling 1d20 + 6

(10)+6= 16

Like a bolt of lightning the sheep reappears, snags Grim's cup of beer, and runs off.

It bleats merrily.

Grim has never hated a sheep more in her life

E B.: The farmer woman chases after it. "Come back! You've been sober for months!"

Grim watches it leave, experiencing both Hate and grudging respect. Be free, you fucking turd sheep.

Grim has no idea how much of this is even real any more. The beer is definitely Better Than Bog Water one way or another

Sydney Gaydos comes RUNNING back carrying a large, gaudy stuffed sheep that's nearly as big as she is.

E B.: Far in the distance, you can just make out the sound of a siren. Pepper looks from Syd to Grim. "C'n we get away with jus' leavin' a note? 'm not sure I wanna put what happened into words, here."

Grim looks at Pepper and nods

Pepper recoils a bit at the sight of giant stuffed sheep.

Grim: "Let's get the fuck outta here, like hell I'm cleanin' up."

Grim will claim the bounties later, or never depending on how the authorities interpret this

Pepper takes a complimentary tote bag from the Quit Horsin Around booth and crams as much midway shit into it as she can while she heads for the entrance.

Grim takes a beer for the road since that sheep stole her last one

Sydney Gaydos looks between the both of them. " ... yes. You both are in no state to do much of anything." She follows quickly after.

Grim and a second since she has two hands

Pepper is drunk as sailor on shore leave and has a black eye to match.

Grim is having a good day leave her alone SYD

Grim can hold her liquor, but, she has had, quite a lot at this point

Grim more or less pours herself into the back seat of the car and rests one elbow over the side, hanging out like an excitable dog to survey the ruins of the fair as they depart

Pepper trips face-first into the front seat.

Sydney Gaydos carefully loads up her Big Prize in the trunk before heading to the drivers-- well, first helping Pepper sit up properly in the seat then go to the driver's side.

E B.: You pull out of the fairgrounds, heading back to the diner. You pass a single patrol car and with a sympathetic glance you know already the cadet driving is woefully unprepared for The Fair.

Grim actually sits up on top of the seat back for best vantage and beans the fairground sign with an empty cup as they pass before lighting a cigarette

Grim ignores the cops, fight me

E B.: It's a much shorter drive back to the diner, but that's always the way when you're leaving somewhere full of so many memories.

And when you're butting up against the limits of how a 6 seater station wagon convertible handles country back roads.

Pepper is fucking wasted passed out in the front seat as we pull in.

Malkas is outside having a smoke.

Sydney Gaydos waves! after she pulls into the spot where the camper was left.

Grim looks down at Mal from her lofty and incredibly unsafe seat and nods to him as she finishes her cigarette and flicks it over the door

Grim: "Malkas, y'all present 'n correct back here?"

Malkas: "Yeah. I mean, as ever. Where'd you guys get to?"

Grim usually speaks with a pretty heavy drawl, but it's even less articulate than usual

Grim: "These jackasses took me on a li'l involun'try day trip."

Grim still has half a beer in hand, she's the picture of rural class

Sydney Gaydos: "Grim was sleeping in the back when Pepper and Gaydos went to the County Fair."

Malkas: "Did you have fun?"

Grim: "Have fun? We made some fun."

Edith Runekill emerges, squinting into the sunlight.

Grim slips down into the back seat and pushes her hat up as it flops over her eyes

Edith Runekill takes in the scene she's suddenly confronted with.

Edith Runekill: "Um."

Sydney Gaydos waves to Edith too. Then stops... unsure of how to answer. "What Grim said, fun was made!"

Pepper rolls over and swears a bit in Elvish as she butts her black eye against the seat.

Grim raises her cup to Edith

Grim: "Runekill."

Malkas nudges Edith, "Well, we made our own fun too."

Grim: "Bet my ass you did." She gives Edith a piercing look for a moment. Pepper paid for the knock but Edith has accounts outstanding.

Malkas: "We made some real progress on our theory on who the secret lords of Waterdeep were. I think we might have enough to write a paper."

Grim might as well not have heard any of that for all the sense it made to her

Sydney Gaydos: "You'll have to tell Gaydos all about it later." She says this like she understands it, she doesn't.

Edith Runekill: "You know what they say, 'Publish or Perish'."

"And we'll have something to publish if we don't literally perish."

Grim wonders who the hell says that, and what it even means. But not for long, because she's not that interested.

Edith Runekill: "You, uh, doing okay, Grim...?"

Grim: "Sounds real great."

"Hm? Oh yeah, yeah, sure." Grim smirks under her hat and pats herself down for her cigarettes

"Havin' myself one hell of a day."

Sydney Gaydos: "Grim's had some to drink, all part of the fun we created."

Grim: "Better'n Bog Water," she supplies, cryptically

Edith Runekill: "Imagine most things you can drink that won't kill you outright are."

Grim lights her cigarette after some trial and error, and then leans over to check on Pepper

Grim: "Shit, the elf ain't dead'r nothin' is she?"

Pepper: A drunken mage hand appears and points from Grim's cigarette down to Pepper and up again. Then makes the "gimme" motion.

Grim removes the cigarette from her mouth and exhales, passing it down to Pepper

Grim: "Guess not."

Edith Runekill: "Didn't know you smoked, Pepper."

Pepper says nothing, takes two puffs, then passes it back, otherwise dead to the world.

Grim takes it, still leaning over the seat back

Edith Runekill looks at Pepper, and, without a word, unzips her purse to let Millicent out.

Grim watches Edith with vague amusement

Grim: "Quit yer fussin', Runekill, she ain't hurt."

"Much."

"Well, she mighta swallowed a couple teeth or so, but she ain't taken no knocks worth considerin'."

Edith Runekill cocks her head to the side. "I think a knock so bad you swallow your teeth kinda is worth considering."

Grim: "Shit, we ain't even so sure they're hers." Grim looks at Syd and nods to Pepper. "Reckon you wanna check while she's out?"

Sydney Gaydos: " ! Of course!" She leans over to carefully open Pepper's mouth to check out the state of her teeth.

Pepper is not so drunk as to allow this.

Edith Runekill: "Does Millicent know dentistry?"

Sydney Gaydos: "Don't fidget Pepper, let Gaydos check!"

Pepper rolls facedown onto the seat, black eye be damned.

Grim cackles and sits back to finish her beer and smoke, one leg propped up on the seat in front of her

Grim: "Kid's gettin' a taste've the road, s'good for her."

Sydney Gaydos huffs. "Please Pepper?"

Pepper muffled into the upholstery, "no"

Edith Runekill looks at Pepper, at Syndey, and at Grim

Edith Runekill: "So..."

"What, exactly, happened?"

Grim considers this, finishing her cigarette and then her beer, depositing the end of the former into the dregs of the cup

Pepper catches sight of the county fair flyer on the floorboard and smudges both sides with dirt using Prestidigitation.

Grim: "Played a couple cheat-ass games, shot up a giant, made a couple arrests..."

Grim is having trouble remembering with much specificity for Some Reason

Malkas: ".... A giant?"

Sydney Gaydos frowns, but gives a gentle pap to Pep.

Sydney Gaydos: "Big Hex to be exact."

Grim: "Ugly motherfucker kept on screamin'."

Pepper: "Shush. He's free, now."

Grim: "Free as dead gets, I guess."

Malkas: "What in Toril is Big Hex?"

Sydney Gaydos shudders at the memory...

Pepper: "He's in a better place. A hundred million better places."

Grim: "Ain't nothin' no more."

Sydney Gaydos pulls the flyer she had before this adventure started to show Mal. "The picture drawn here doesn't do him justice but it's all that's left."

Malkas: "... Huh."

Pepper: "Ashes to ashes. To ashes to ashes. To ashes." She loses her train of thought as the world dips and spins around her head.

Grim: "Shut the hell up, Pep."

Pepper: "S'rry."

Edith Runekill: "Big... Hex...?" It rings a faint bell. But it doesn't connect with anything.

"Odd name for a giant."

Grim: "Giant gnome, pretty odd itself, y'ask me."

Edith Runekill peers at the flyer Sydney is holding.

Edith Runekill: "Wait."

"Did you three get drunk and shoot up a county fair mascot?"

Grim: "Shit no, hell d'you take us for, Runekill."

"Syd's sober as a saint."

Sydney Gaydos: "What Grim said! And we had to destroy him, he was in so much pain... Gaydos can still hear the screams..."

Edith Runekill frowns. "Screams...?"

Grim: "Real gut turnin' sound, screams like an animal that just don't know how to die."

Grim says this casually, like it's conversational and not horrifying

Sydney Gaydos: "It was awful... Pepper mentioned something such as.. Reanimation? Animate Item? That sort of spell."

Grim mimes her rifle at edith

Grim: "Got him 'tween the eyes real good 'fore that though."

Edith Runekill: "Oh. It's a statue that was animated."

"All right, that makes sense, then."

"Sorry, sorry."

"I was picturing something more... immobile."

Grim: "Oh he was immobile as all hell."

"Just screamin' an' such."

Malkas: "This place sounds weird."

Pepper into the upholstery again. "I think that was maybe part of his problem."

Malkas: "Edith, I think you were right about carnivals."

Sydney Gaydos: "It wasn't meant to be an attraction. Magic happened and we had to kill poor Big Hex."

Grim: "Right about what about carnivals?"

Malkas: "Mostly farm animals and food that'll make you sick."

"Though, I guess she mixed rampaging, shootable giants."

Pepper uses prestidigitation to make the sound of a sheep bleating.

Grim: "Food was the least've-" she stops and Looks at the sound of the sheep

Grim hates that sheep

Malkas looks around for Capridi.

Sydney Gaydos makes an O:! face "This reminders her!" She gets out of the car, rounds the back to the trunk, to pull out guess what ~ ?

Malkas: "The fuck."

Grim: "Law've finders keepers, Malkas. Ain't so much t'be findin' or keepin' at a county fair, though."

Grim has slid down to be almost lying down across the back seat, legs crossed

Malkas: "Except giants to put bullets in."

"You found that."

Grim: "Din't damn well keep it."

Malkas: "Where would we keep it?"

Grim: "Six feet under's my pick."

Pepper: "Big Hex will always be with us," she rolls over, throwing her arms up to the sky.

Edith Runekill peers into the trunk.

Edith Runekill: "Excuse me??????"

Pepper: "[Elvish] 'What did you get up to this week, Addi' 'oh gosh pops nothing much except Big Hex'." She starts laughing, very careful to cover up her mouth.

Sydney Gaydos frowns. "The Big Prize fits fine in the trunk. If not the camper."

Edith Runekill: "Seems like it might get a bit crowded back there..."

Grim climbs over to sit in the front now that Syd's vacated some space

Sydney Gaydos: "Nonsense, it fits perfectly."

Grim surveys the steering wheel and dashboard skeptically from her new position

Grim: "How in th'hell d'y'all trust in this thing long enough to figure on how to use it?"

Grim squints at the tiny dials on the dashboard suspiciously

Malkas: "We don't trust it, Grim, we have to fight it because it wants to kill us."

Pepper: "The. Car?"

Malkas: "All cars."

Pepper: "This got real philosph. Phil. Philllo." She frowns. "Thinky."

Grim: "Fight it?" Grim is totally perplexed. She has never seen any of you fight a car.

Sydney Gaydos goes to find the PERFECT SPOT the camper to put The Big Prize in, bye.

Pepper: "Pfffffffffffft. Pfft. Ignore 'im, his dad prob'ly just scared the hell outta him teachin' him how to drive the fam'ly car."

Grim grunts, still studying the dashboard

Pepper thinks a second. "Or his mom. Wha'ever."

Grim: "Din't care f'r that fella."

Pepper: "Mal's'like. Right there." She's taking a leap of faith on this, she doesn't dare sit up to look, her head wouldn't take it.

Malkas: "Ferg taught me to drive."

Grim: "I ain't a liar, no reflectin' on Mal."

Grim raises a hand as if to acknowledge Mal and confirm that, no, she did not like his dad

Malkas doesn't comment on that.

Edith Runekill: "Peter's all right."

Edith Runekill is all like :|

Grim: "Ain't doubtin' that. All kinds've decent folk in th'world I ain't one for."

"Hell, I weren't no kinda fond've Pepper 'til most recently."

Pepper: "Tha's righ' Grim's fond of me," she says, pointing nowhere in particular in emphasis.

Grim reaches over and ruffles Pepper's hair annoyingly

Pepper has one hell of a knot on her scalp.

Grim: "Y'all're growin' on me like a rash of warts, what c'n I say?"

Pepper: "It's th'power of road trip. Mal what other kindsa tourist traps y'think they got aroun' here? We need t'bring you 'n Edith 'n Cap to th' next one."

Malkas: "I don't really much want to see you guys destroy Faerun's largest wheel of cheese."

Pepper gets stars in her eyes. She would like that very much.

Grim: "Long as it don't set to screamin'."

Pepper sits bolt upright and fixes Grim with a stare. "But what if it's a mozza-yella?"

Pepper holds it together for about a half second longer before collapsing onto Grim in a fit of laughter.

Grim stares at Pepper, uncomprehending, but catches her and pats her shoulder in perplexity

Grim: "Th'hell's a motzer-yeller?"

Pepper is in no condition to help explain.

Malkas: "Mozzerella is a cheese."

Grim looks at Mal, just as perplexed. Then she slowly pieces it together and understanding dawns.

Grim: "Oh."

"Dang it, Pepper."

Pepper can't hear anything for her wheezing laughter.

Edith Runekill: "What a cheesy pun."

Grim looks at Edith like she just kicked a puppy

Grim: "Y'all are killin' me."

Edith Runekill: "Sorry."

Grim: "You ain't." She snorts and digs out another cigarette, amused despite herself.

Edith Runekill: "I'm really not." She grins.

Grim climbs out of the car and heads for the rest stop, setting her hat on Edith's head as she passes

Grim: "I gotta take a leak, don't y'all go leavin' without me."

Pepper sprawls fully out in the front seat. Everything about her is a mess from her hair to her bruised face to the blood on her disheveled clothes.

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6

#grim #sydney #pepper #mal #edith #big hex #dm's asleep #dm's awake #forbidden one-shot #where are your parents #neverwinter 1933

7 notes · View notes