#but damn I was expecting a more gradual taper

[foreveranevilregal]

Hey even if they're old prompts at least one or two ppl will read them

Will they? I have no way of knowing if people don’t show that they’re reading in any way. Which, most people don’t. Tumblr has no hit counter, so all I have to go on is my notes, which have decreased drastically since the fandom heyday. And the old prompts I still have left are ones that are more difficult to write, so I’m not sure if it’s worth the effort of several hours of writing to maybe have one or two people read them. Writing has gotten very discouraging, not gonna lie.

#asks #anonymous #maybe this sounds bitchy or ungrateful #but writing takes a while #and unless I’m writing a piece specifically for someone #or for a friend #I’m not sure it’s worth it to spend the time just to maybe have a couple people read it #and not give me any indication that they’ve read it of course #lurking culture is killing tumblr #I knew the drop was coming #but damn I was expecting a more gradual taper #not 60 to 0 in a week #I got too used to having more attention #it felt nice #after years of writing for maybe 20 notes it felt nice to get like 80 on pieces #and now we’re dying down #maybe I’ll just crawl into a hole and die

[astropithecus]

Like a lot of people that have ADHD and like to draw, it's a passion I discovered while held against my will in an elementary school classroom. I drew a lot up until the time I started working, then it gradually tapered off, and I didn't draw much of anything for a decade or more. I expected - much like my teachers - bosses and coworkers would take doodling as a sign that I wasn't paying attention, and - also like my teachers - would probably be dubious of my assertions that it helps me listen. Consequently I just didn't let myself draw. Once I'd made the decision not to draw while I was supposed to be doing something else, I just sort of stopped drawing altogether (and had a lot more trouble listening).

One of the strategies I've found for overcoming executive dysfunction is "get close to the work." If you can't focus on the work, you get as close to doing it as you can, and sometimes being 'near' it (both physical proximity to where the work is, but also "close to" as in "similar to the actions that would accomplish the thing you're trying to get done") you'll sort of ease into it.

A good example - I couldn't get going on a September layout in my bullet journal. The video in the link is from 2016, I saw it before I was even diagnosed. It made a lot of sense to me - I'd also struggled to maintain any sort of day planner my entire life - you get a new planner, you get it all set up, you get all excited about how it's going to change your life, then you never use it again. The bullet journal clicked, though - this time the planner really did change my life - and I've kept doing it regularly for 7 years now.

Executive dysfunction around my bullet journal is bad news, though. It starts a cascade of things being forgotten, the more things that are forgotten there more "undoing" (fees, fines, apologies, rescheduling, catching up) there is to do, and the more overwhelming ever getting back on track seems. When I was doodling this I was behind on schoolwork, I'd done almost nothing on a major annual work project despite the deadline being a week away, my vehicle registration was expired, and I hadn't brushed my teeth. My very oldest friend in the world had a birthday on September 3rd and I'd forgotten to tell him happy birthday. The old me would've berated myself - "get your shit together, man, this is for real, why are you always like this? quit fucking around and just do the damn thing, goddamn" - instead I decided I'd get close to the work instead.

"Close to the work" in this case looked like "get out the bullet journal and your trusty 0.5mm Uni Kuru Toga, and open it to a blank page, you can do that much."

I only ever feel like drawing when I'm supposed to be doing something else. I decided drawing in my bullet journal was being close to the work - it's open, the pencil is in my hand, I'm marking on the paper - that's very close to the work.

As you might suspect from the elaborate shading, it did not work quickly. But it did work. Eventually I felt like I could draw day numbers as long as I didn't have to put them on the right lines and could start with 13. I didn't feel like I had the brainspace to decide what tasks go on what days, so I just migrated everything from August to the month log. On Monday the 10th I noticed I forgot to box off the weekends like I normally do, so I did.

It's ultimately not a very useful, efficient monthly log. It's more doodle than day planner, and it's only got the barest-minimum-please-god-do-these-things-sometime-this-month stuff on it. But without getting close to the work and then indulging my inclination to draw when I'm supposed to be doing something else, I don't think it would've happened at all. My current struggle is I still can't exactly feel proud of myself for doing it. I can recognize that I used self-awareness and healthy coping mechanisms to overcome a challenge, and that from a rational standpoint that's a thing I should be proud of, but instead I just sort of feel silly that I had to basically trick myself into being able to write a to-do list in a notebook. In other words,

self-portrait by the author

Weirdly, what I can feel proud of is the doodles. You know, the thing I was doing while I was supposed to be doing something else.

These curly banner things are Sailor Jerry/traditional tattoo flash inspired. This one's sort of a joke, the dagger is normally through the heart, here we haven't gotten around to it yet.

Executive Dysfunction is his superhero name. He's a Clark Kent type, everyone sees him as a competent, consummately professional business executive, but his secret identity is a guy with no pants whose life is falling apart. Can you spot both of his shoes?

This is Executive Dysfunction's equivalent of a utility belt. It's a briefcase full of sugar.

This is a neat trick if you can't remember that "30 days hath September" stuff. If I'm working on a monthly layout and I stop to go look at a calendar and see how many days are in the month, I will often get distracted and not finish. So I needed a way to remember on my own, I've used this 'knuckles' method for years.

Starting from your pinky knuckle (on either hand, but I usually start with my right since it's the one holding the pencil) count one month for each knuckle, and each space between knuckles. So January is your pinky, February is the space between your pinky and ring knuckles, March is your ring knuckle, etc. Months on a knuckle (January, March, May, July, August, October, and December) have 31 days, months between knuckles have fewer (30, except February).

Since the U.S. has Presidential elections on leap years, I can remember if it's a leap year or not based on whether or not we're voting for a President this year, so with just my knuckles and the smallest amount of political awareness, I can know how many days each month has without having to put down the bullet journal and pick up a phone or a computer.

If you think that was exciting you should hear how I mentally convert hex to decimal.

#art #doodlings #my bujo #illustrators on tumblr #actually adhd #executive dysfunction

[cryptiql]

smoke signals

pairing: dabi/m!reader

warnings: smoking, mentions of anxiety and abuse, but otherwise okay. please do not read forward if any of the listed warnings might trigger you in any way, and stay safe <3

words: 6.5k

a/n: this is my first ever mha fic and the fact that i decided to do dabi first shows i have some massive balls but i'm giving it a try! if he seems ooc at all or i get some facts wrong, please lmk and i'll fix them. (heavily inspired by smoke signals by phoebe bridgers—would recommend listening to it or any of her other songs while reading)

dabi found the meaning of life in a simple strum of chords; a melody twisted by melancholy tunes that resonated deep within the gates of his mind. they haunt him—either by breaking his conscious from a much needed rest to bring him tossing and turning in the damp air of the loft, or making sure that he stayed wide awake during the late hours of the night and well into the creeping day. the lyrics are so surreal that he has to sit down and contemplate their meaning like an english teacher would to the color red, but they're painted saccharine and drip with honey flowing from the mouth that sings them and he hates it. he hates that he's wasted moments better spent wrecking havoc just to understand that stupid little ditty that clings to his heart like a leech. but this song did not come from his own craft—no.

dabi had known the putrid stench of sweat and vermillion blood when the flames licked at his skin, breaching the coarse flesh of his palms to rain hellfire upon all those who dared oppress him. he could weave lies with knots that would take years to unravel, and set whole cities ablaze with a mere finger. clawing oneself from a well built to drown them in their trauma does tend to leave scars on ones hands, and dabi's body was practically a canvas for mutilation, so he could consider himself an expert on the matter. he could attempt to make such a song by strapping in with his many hours of free time and diligent persona, but his hands were not made for music; neither delicate, sonorous tunes or dark, grating strains. they were made for war.

so if anyone had asks, "no" is his answer. "i don't play." and yes, it is while he's drumming a rhythmic beat that he claims this to be true, but the last thing he thinks about is donning a set of drums during his free time. he's far too distracted by the image of your taper fingers curled around the neck of your guitar to consider anything else.

the gentle but keen plucking of chords startles him from yet another ridiculously long-winded spiel by shigaraki, and dabi swallows a strangled groan behind his grinding teeth. it's in his head, now, and so far the only thing that has succeeded in reaping it from his memory—if only for a few minutes—is the blood stained battlefield that he's found himself fighting on far too many times this month alone.

what's he complaining about, though? it's not as though he minds getting down in the dirt. in fact, he's ecstatic to dig his claws into any gruesome ordeal so long as it benefits him in some way, so why is he so invested in this little to and fro game of twenty questions with the likes of you; someone as significant in the world as a paperclip without paper to hold? why come back, despite there being nothing in it for him besides a series of migraines?

not from you, a voice answers from inside. you're an absolute pleasure.

dabi nearly snarls at the confirmation that his own mind is turning against him, and as he does this, a plume of smoke erupts from his lips, billowing and curving to create intricate patters before dissipating into the atmosphere. a second time. a third. a fourth drag from the cigarette has completely obscured his face from anyone's view, and he relishes in the instant of privacy it gives him. however, it has also blocked him from seeing everyone else in the room, and while he normally would have considered that a blessing, it appears tomura has had enough of it.

you get headaches because you smoke too much, comes a second voice; yours, scolding in a way he'd only expect from a worried mother. dabi only has a split second to register it before shigaraki's head pokes through the fumes, red eyes alight with rage and lips pulled back into a snarl.

"would you quit doing that inside? it's fogging up my brain and i can't think straight." he grates.

"strange—i assumed there wasn't a brain in there to fog up in the first place." tomura's nostrils flare and dabi's pride spikes.

"besides, you came in here and looked directly at me as i was smoking—why didn't you ask me to stop then?"

"i was telling you with my eyes, idiot. you should know when it's time to either take it outside or put the damn thing out. there are ashtrays for a reason, and not everyone here wants to inhale that shit." he interrupts their intense staring contest only to wave his hand to clear the smog. now he can see the rest of the league clearly (oh joy, he thinks) and gives an indignant grunt when spotting toga at the bar table, covering her mouth and nose as a pitiful aim to block her lungs from the smoke. twice, who had unfortunately used up the last pack of his own cigarettes that morning, leans forward to take a whiff, exhaling soon after with satisfaction.

kurogiri stands at his usual spot behind the bar, seemingly unaffected as he idly scrubs away at grime infested glasses, while sako lounges at the opposite end of the room. his mask is on, leaving dabi to wonder if it's been like that all day, or if he just recently put it on to better fend off the fumes. he doesn't really care, whatever the case.

after a beat of silence, dabi wets his lips to respond, a lopsided smirk growing on his features.

"oh, i'm sorry your frail body hasn't adapted to a bit of vapor in the air. and with that flakey skin of yours, it's no wonder you're extra sensitive—"

shigaraki's hands come flying through the next waft to slam against the tabletop where dabi's feet lie, causing it to wobble and creak in protest. the ravenette doesn't even flinch as the harsh, raspy words are spat in his face.

"if you're not going to pay attention, then leave. actually, i'd prefer you do that either way."

and dabi would have happily disregarded his request if not for the faint ringing in his ears, rising higher and higher before receding back into his skull like the tide. a scowl morphs its way onto his once vacant expression as he puts pressure on his temple, rubbing softly where his eyebrows knit together. just for today, he'll indulge his so-called boss's whims. the piercing screech that emits from below when he pushes his chair back does nothing to help with the ever-growing headache, but it hardly matters now that he's headed out the exit. he's able to catch the last fragments of shigaraki's raving before the door closes, leaving him to stand amid the tumult of the city in all of its glory.

the alleyway is dark with looming shadows, but people are still milling about, so dabi considers himself lucky for already being dressed in his disguise. he flips his hood up, pulls the surgical mask over his nose and quickly slides on his sunglasses for good measure before slipping out into the traffic, sometimes going with the flow and then weaving past those moving too slow for his liking.

right now, his patience is a mere thread; hair thin and on the edge of snapping whenever someone bumps his shoulder. their negligence is infuriating, and he's tempted to roast them into a charred, mangled mess then and there—the consequences of blowing his cover be damned—but by some miracle, he manages to refrain from doing so. it takes about five minutes for his temper to shorten to the length of a matchstick, and he knows that one more shove will be what strikes it. dabi pauses for a moment to crane his neck, allowing the sea of people to flow around him like a stream to a rock as he searches for an alternative route. it appears as though he'll have to take his chances with the crowd until he hears the repetitive ringing of a bell and a man's voice calling for passengers to board. public transport was risky, what with him being a menace to society, but he can't possibly be the single most shady dressing person on the train, right?

he wouldn't bother answering his own question when daylight was burning, so dabi pushes himself from the swarm and leaps for the streetcar just as it begins pulling away from the stop. there's a shuddering jolt before the passengers settle in for their departure, and as his palms squeeze the metal railing in response, he notices the peeling red paint clinging to the car's exterior and finds himself staring at it for a ludicrous amount of time, not thinking about anything in particular.

the rickety trolley is semi-packed with civilians, none of whom regard his presence with anything more than a noncommittal glance. good—that makes his job ten times easier. to his chagrin, it runs over more than a few opposing train tracks or crudely paved bumps in the road, and this causes the whole cart to jostle before stilling completely, the process repeating itself over and over.

the knowledge that his trip to the outskirts of town is a short one is the only thing that calms his nerves.

when dabi finally arrives at his destination, the sun is gradually descending from its peak in the sky, and the clouds are more like wispy tufts than the luscious, cotton candy lumps they were just hours earlier. overhead, the baby blue hues turn to shades of opal; a forewarning of rain. the feelings of irritation and malice from earlier are still bound to him like chains that threaten to snap him in half when drawn too tight. the crippling weight causes his feet to drag along the gravel path at a sluggish pace, his own hot breaths fanning against his face from behind the mask. if anyone actually lived out here and they were to see him, their first impression would be that a living corpse had just waltzed onto their property. it was just his luck, then, that you were the only person out here, and by extent, the only one not deterred by his appearance.

even so, dabi's mind kicks into gear. was this a good idea? he doesn't even know why he came here—he just needed a place to blow off steam and his body had already made the choice on its own. this isn't any different from all the other times, though, and he can't ignore the fact when it sits in the pit of his stomach like an anchor. you're always the first person he goes to at times like these (dabi subconsciously rules out the man working at the local 7/11 who sells his liquor cheap, though he's still appreciative of the bottle to numb his thoughts). that tells him more than he wants to know.

your house is quaint, like those old country cottages he sometimes sees pictures of, and squats on a large, grassy mound of earth surrounded by heaps of rocks and sand from the neighboring beach. it merges with a towering lighthouse, and dabi notes that there must not be any sailors due to make port yet, otherwise the light would be on. the second thing he takes in are the flowerbeds sitting under your two front windows, and how they look withered and close to death.

"i wanted to add some color, but i can't keep plants alive for shit." you had said, huffing in amusement to yourself as you tended to the weeping alliums. "succulents are the only exception."

a small pot of them sits on the windowsill, but they seem to have gotten to big for it; the rubbery leaves spilling over the cracked rim. he hardly registers how much of a stalker he must look like until he stands on your welcome mat, peering through the dirty glass panes to find you nowhere in sight. the lights aren't on, so he can only see the outlines of furniture when bands of light stream in to reveal them.

sitting back on the balls of his feet, dabi curses under his breath. it's not like he was expecting anything. how was he supposed to know whether or not you were home when you had no way of telling him?

"jesus, patch!" a shout startles him from his brooding, but he doesn't let it show as he looks towards to ocean. you're hauling yourself over a large rock to wave him over, wearing a familiar grin. so that's why he couldn't see you. dabi makes careful work of leaping over jagged stones and threatening to bake any nosy seagulls as he makes his way to where you sit, with your favored instrument slung over your shoulder. the ghost of a smile graces his lips when he recalls how you would have scolded him for being mean to the birds, but that was before last week.

"pesky fucking bastards—they keep shitting on my music sheets!" another seagull waddles into your vicinity, only to squawk in distress as you shoo it away with your foot. "i wonder if this is natures way of telling me to quit while i'm behind. . ."

after breaching the treacherous terrain and nearly scraping himself in the process, dabi squats on the stone beside yours, looking up at you with hooded eyes. you meet his gaze with nothing short of merriment and a shake of your head.

"if someone had seen you, you would have been arrested on the spot for being a peeping tom." you chuckle, combing a hand through your hair with a smirk. "what? you lookin' you catch me in the nude or something?"

dabi scowls, choosing to ignore the question rather than give into the bait. as if i would be satisfied by looking at anyone but you in that state. he swats the air as if it would drive the notion from his mind like a bothersome fly.

"in the middle of fuck-ass nowhere? i'd never get caught."

"aw, don't be like that. if you really wanted a peek you could've just asked." the mocking tone in your voice spurs him to smack your thigh, which earns a hearty laugh in reply.

"ooh, don't treat me so roughly, or i might begin to like it!"

dabi has had more than enough experience with your flirtatious tendencies, and he feels he should have gotten used to it by now, but his heart still clenches every damn time. the worse part? he can't say that he minds. you don't give him a chance to respond, but dabi hasn't a clue what he would have said, so he lets you continue, watching intently as you rifle through your bag to fish out a guitar pick. shifting into a crisscross position, you perch the guitar on your lap and begin tuning the strings, idly talking about how uneventful the past days have been. dabi pretends not to have heard that it was because he wasn't there to visit, and instead gives his attention to the lighthouse in hopes that you won't see the faintest of reds dusting his ears.

five minutes pass before you actually start playing, and even then, it's only a few experimental notes here and there that help you build towards the perfected melody.

it's too sweet for his taste; dabi swears that's why his stomach turns so ferociously and prompts him to lean against the boulder to his right for some sort of stability. he won't even humor the idea that it's because of the way your lips twitch into a near half-smile before melding back into a concentrated frown the moment you strike a wrong cord. an embarrassed flush captures your cheeks as you study the music sheets, briefly pressing down on them when a sudden breeze flutters the pages. the pencil that was once tucked behind your ear now sticks out from one corner of your mouth, a flash of pink and orange melding together when you go to absentmindedly gnaw on the wood.

many more minutes fly by, and you've long since abandoned the new tune just to pick up an old one. dabi's back straightens at the first set of strings you pluck, and he recognizes them as the same ones that have been playing on repeat in his head since the day you met.

dabi's heart hammers in tune with every footfall that slaps against the pavement, tearing through the small pools of water that grow with every second. it hasn't stopped raining since the chase began, and there isn't an inch of him that hasn't been soaked through. still, something good must come from this little dilemma—the burning sensation that clings to his arms has almost settled down. the silhouettes of trees merge with inky blackness when he blinks, and he reaches with trembling hands to wipe the droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes.

a yellow square of what assumes to be light shines in the distance, contrasting wildly adverse to the darkness that sweeps him up from under his feet and pushes him forward. the sound of police sirens has been reduced to a mere memory in the time that was running, but he isn't about to risk going back to the league's base in fear of a stakeout waiting to get the jump on them. besides, why stop there when the possibility of shelter awaits him?

the bottoms of dabi's shoes are slick with mud, and blades of grass have snuck their way under the cuffs of his jeans to scratch at his skin. the sensations paired with the numbing cold are beyond uncomfortable, but he won't have to worry about that once he gets inside—that being if the person inside doesn't put up a fight.

he'd expect them to be mad if they did anything except that, no matter how welcoming the house looked. dabi's instincts tell him that someone out this far from the city doesn't a have a lot of connections, and thus killing them wouldn't cause an uprising if it were needed, but the minute he grips the doorknob, a thought occurs. if they have a quirk, its power could level my own or even surpass it. . . he grits his teeth. but like hell i'm going to let them win.

the hesitation vanishes in an instant as dabi turns the knob and thrusts himself inside, wielding a blue flame in his dominant hand to further illuminate the room. the wind is so fierce that it pulls the door shut for him, and the villain finds himself staring down the unperturbed figure of another man, perhaps around his age, hunched over a stove and glaring at a steaming kettle. they lock gazes, and almost immediately, the kettle gives a high pitched whistle. you look away first, lifting the pot and turning the burner off whilst opening the cupboard overhead to pull out two mugs, both of which adorn ugly christmas-themed patterns that dabi wishes he could forget ever seeing.

his glare hardens when you move to the table in the far corner and begin pouring what he assumes to be tea, taking one cup into your own grasp and leaving the other at his own disposal. your one mistake is grabbing your phone from the counter, but when dabi's flame enlarges, you hold your arms up in defense. then, before he can even formulate a proper threat, you toss the phone to him. he catches it easily and observes the dark screen, masking his astonishment with a more sinister expression.

the only other move you make is to drape yourself across a cushion on the window seat with an acoustic guitar in hand. you look more relaxed by the second despite being cornered by a dangerous criminal, and dabi has to refrain from voicing his shock when you address him with an almost bored tone.

"if the tea isn't to your taste, there's more in the cabinet. shower is down the hall to your left, and there's a spare bedroom upstairs to the right. do whatever the hell you want, just don't burn the place down or touch my freddie mercury records."

dabi is stuck to the spot for one of three reasons, he determines. one, your attitude has surprised him into a stupor that not even hiw own will can break. two, his refusal to believe that you're handling this situation in a calm manner is really just his defense mechanism kicking in, and he won't move until proven that you won't do anything when his back is turned. and three, you're quirk is similar to that of madusa's and you've successfully turned him into a fleshy mannequin.

"if you're worried about me calling the cops, what you're holding is the only working phone here. the power is out due to the storm, so my landline is dead, and the nearest form of help is a crippled old widow five miles west. i'm not going to risk running when i'm up against someone with a quirk."

dabi considers everything said, but never once allows his fire to dim. he took the surrounding area into account while making his escape, and he can see the landline is in fact out of service, so the male's assurances checked out. hell, the light source that guided him here was nothing but an old-timey oil lamp. the fact that you're quirkless does him a great amount of good as well.

with cautious steps, dabi makes a beeline for the bathroom, but he stops halfway to stare at you again. you respond by quirking a brow and kicking your feet up, something akin to mischief in your guise.

"i can take the shower with you since you're so afraid i'll make a break for it." you drawl, and dabi snarls, a fowl cuss bubbling in his throat as heat crawls its way up his neck.

"why, with a blush like that you might not need any drying off~."

dabi decides that he's had enough and storms down the hall, already peeling off his dripping clothes and and silently promising that he'll burn the guy to a crisp if he so much as tries to catch a peek. he can hear you calling out in hilarity even as he slinks into the shower and attempts to drown you out with the static-filled haze that captures his senses.

"the name's, y/n, by the way!"

try as he might, dabi had never been able to keep from coming back. now the reason why has been revealed to him on a silver platter, and he won't even spare it a glance.

your soft singing snaps him from his reminiscing as he stretches his legs, stifling a groan when something pops as not to disturb you. while digging through his pockets for a cigarette, he stops momentarily for fear of forgetting how to breathe when he lays his sights on you. you're in your own little world; everything else—him included— seems to have disappeared as you play from the heart. you need no standing ovation, no adoring fans or fantastic lightshows. you've said it once, that fame and glory mean nothing to you, and that you have all you could ever want or need right here, nestled in the beachside view of what you call home.

"and i have you." a cool breeze ruffles your dirt stained overalls as you reach up to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead. the sun beats down on you, never shining half as bright as your smile, and the shore kisses the boulders with waxing and waning waves of aquamarine; frothy, foamy masses washing up with it to carry lone strands of seaweed. "otherwise i'd go mad without your company."

okay, that was lie. the truth is right there, practically spitting in his face how much of an idiot he is for trying to deny it, and dabi is glaring right back at it. he feels like an impatient kid on christmas eve, sneaking glimpses of gifts under the tree and feeling like he's committed a felony after getting caught. and you do catch him.

"penny for your thoughts, patch?" there it is—that stupid nickname. it's always been laced with mirth when you call him as such, but now it's replaced by genuine curiosity. and is that a hit of concern he hears? you study him with pursed lips and stony features that gradually morphs into that of concern when the silence stretches on. dabi forces himself to sneer at you, and something stirs inside his chest when you don't flinch.

he hates it. he hates you.

dabi nods to the sky, a guarded noise building in the back of his throat as he tugs on his earlobe.

"s'gonna rain." your jaw visibly clenches, but you humor his evasive habits just like you always have, looking to the clouds, which have darkened considerably in the last hour or so. it's around this time that the weather patterns become more unpredictable, but you've noticed the distinct lack of rainfall in spite of the gathering storm brewing overhead. you could sit out here for a while longer without much activity in the sky, and it would take more than a little shower to drive you inside, especially when you finally had the chance to enjoy some quality time with dabi. you notice the way his shoulders droop and the tension from his facial muscles all but disappears when he sits amidst the smell of fresh salt water and unpolluted air—the weight of his past slowly but surely ebbing away. you'd like to hope you have some part in that. oh god, do you ever hope.

you plead to whatever omnipresent being above that he's not just here to hit a blunt without getting reprimanded for it, or that he's making these daily visits out of pity.

"nah. it's been like this for a little while—looks like a storm will hit, but then it passes before it even begins." you sling the guitar back over your shoulder and gather up your music sheets, eyeing dabi from your perch. you're challenging him now, and normally you would never dare force him to speak if he didn't want to, but something about his aura is off. you can sense it in his words; the very air he breathes; and it compels you to hold him close, if only he would let you.

"so, you gonna tell me why you're avoiding the ques—" a deep rumble interrupts you, and dabi lets out a sigh of relief that you're thankfully too distracted to hear. a single drop of water hits your nose, followed by another, and another, and—

"you were saying?"

"oh shut it." you don't get to finish speaking, for a crack of lightning strikes the far end of the beach, scattering sand in every direction. you just barely manage to scoop up your belongings before sliding from the rock, but your footing betrays you and send you stumbling to the ground. dabi is there to catch you, wasting no more time in hauling you to your feet and rushing you as carefully as possible through the jagged maze. he can't refrain from smiling when you splutter a string of profanities pass poorly hidden laughter, an unmistakable "FUCK ME!" spilling into the cold evening when you accidentally stub your toe on a particularly sharp stone. it's pouring within seconds, and no sooner do you reach the doorstep do you both realize how sopping wet you are.

the last thing you think of is your chattering teeth, however, when you see dabi's spiky tufts of hair dripping with residue and his electric blue eyes gazing into yours. what you do think is that for the first time in your painfully ordinary life; your twenty three years of mediocrity and progressive isolation from the world around you; you have found the single person who understands your struggles and has chosen—for some unfathomable reason—not to abandon you. you wish you could say your parents were the same, but you also have scars from a distant childhood that brought you to this place.

this old lighthouse is your home, yes, but dabi is your sanctuary. he might as well be a god by how often you worship him from afar, wondering if ever you'd be so lucky; so eternally blessed; as to call him yours.

you don't register that he's opened the door to let you both inside until a cozy warmth envelopes you. no, wait, that's dabi's fire. it should terrify you that the same man who threatened you with those flames is now at arms length, but you trust him not to hurt you in any way, and so you lean into the gentle licking of heat on your skin, humming in content as your shivering comes to a halt.

dabi's fear of burning you diminishes when you flash him a grateful smile, a whisper of thanks echoing across the walls and pummeling his heart without resistance. he averts his eyes with a curt nod, a feeling like molasses weighing down his tongue and drowning the words he wants to say.

"you're welcome." is all he can muster.

half an hour later, your guitar is drying by the hearth and the two of you are huddled on the window seat, nursing cups of coffee and watching the storm in a comfortable silence. you haven't blinked in a while, meaning you've wandered off the tracks of consciousness as suspected, and pretty soon, you start singing quietly to yourself; the deep crooning used as background noise to your aimless meditation. dabi nudges your calf with his foot and is rewarded with a brief quirk of your lips and a nudge back. he doesn't have the patience nor the brain power to decipher how long this goes on for, but it doesn't matter.

this is fine. the image of red hair and a tall, intimidating figure invades his train of thought, and dabi curls inwards on himself. this is fine.

but it's not.

trembling, he places his mug on the table before retracting back into his seat, clasping his hands together. he tries visualizing the ties of his life coming together to form a rope. the fingers on his left—memories from his past—linking together with those from his right—memories made with you. his palms connect, bringing instant relief with the knowledge that he's here now, practically nestled between your legs, out of harms way. you're both fine.

dabi takes the swelling anxiety and pretends to crush it within his fist; clenching and unclenching it until his peace of mind returns.

"penny for your thoughts, patch?" you ask again, still in somewhat of a trance. this time, dabi answers.

"why do you call me that?"

you're caught of guard, half expecting him to ask why you haven't turned him in to the authorities. you've seen him without his disguise, you know his name, and for the past eight months you've been socializing with him like normal human beings do. that's more than both of you could have said in the past. of all the burning questions, he chose that one? "i've heard 'patchwork' and 'staples' and just about everything in between. why shorten it to patch?"

you gape at him, opening your mouth, then closing it, and so on. the pitter patter of rain against the window has ascended into relentless pelting. it sounds like gunfire to dabi; assaulting his ears in floods; but to you, it's nothing more than a waterfall hindering your view of the ocean. the deep breath you take seems to put more suspense in the atmosphere than needed, and it makes dabi's heartrate quicken for an entirely different reason, yet he makes no sign of stopping you.

"because my first thought whenever i see you is how much you remind me of a doll." oh. what?

you can tell by dabi's reaction that that wasn't what he was expecting, so you gesture for him to wait. he isn't sure he likes the forlorn expression you're wearing.

"typically, when kids first get a doll, they treat it like glass and make sure to tend to it with love. other times, doll owners are reckless and tear them apart just to stitch them back together like nothing happened. you use that camouflaged to blend in with the public, and i'm lucky enough to see what's under it. . .but sometimes i wish you'd keep the mask on so i don't have to see you upset."

upset? a fizzing sound erupts from his palms that he struggles to put out. he's not upset.

"don't try to hide it. you're always scowling when you think i'm not looking, or when you forget i'm even here, and i know it's because someone broke you without the intent of fixing you up."

once more, red clouds dabi's vision, and he moves to stand up.

"you had to clean up after their mistakes because no one else would, but instead of reusing the bits and pieces of your old self, you burned them. you destroyed any and all evidence of who you used to be and now you're patching yourself together with parts that aren't your own, because you don't want to hold onto what happened. though, something tells me you still haven't let go, otherwise you wouldn't be so angry."

"you don't know that!" he snaps, but he knows it's not true.

your hand closes around his wrist, and dabi recoils with such strength that it yanks you from your seat. dabi doesn't want you to let go, no matter how much he thrashes in place, because the sensation of your skin on his grounds him. somehow you know this, and you give a comforting squeeze to his pulse.

"but that's not all i see. because dolls are beautiful, and it's the ones who still love them after they're broken that they need the most. no one's told you they think you're beautiful, have they?"

dabi shakes his head, refusing to meet your gaze even when you cup his cheek with your free hand tilt it towards you. every touch is filled with hesitancy; feather light and more intimate than anything dabi has ever witnessed, let alone experienced personally. with the way you hold him like he's water in your hands, your eyes overflowing with a love he hasn't known in forever, dabi knows he won't find another feeling like it. you're not the embodiment of good—at least not by society's strict standards—but at least you can sit there and say you've committed a crime. you've never bloodied your hands by hurting others, much less gotten a thrill from doing so, and that's why he pulls away. he has to, because dabi is a harbinger of war, and if he holds you any closer it will only be to kill you.

he says something; a snarl mixed with a broken plea that he prays will make you stop; and you do. his silent victory doesn't last for long, though, because then you're using both hands to cradle his face and fuck, the pads of your thumbs grazing his scars feel like heaven. "won't you let me be the first?" how could he say no? how, when the taste of honey and whiskey is so addictive that he's already drooling into the kiss and willing to beg for more; when your mouth slots perfectly with his and dabi begins to wonder if he's stumbled right into the scene of a cliché wattpad story. the idea causes him to huff out a growl, and although neither of you can talk, he can imagine how strongly you must want to poke fun at him for the action. he can feel you smirking—the smug little bastard you are—and dabi ponders how long it will take to reduce that attitude of yours until you're submitting to him.

not yet. he chastises himself, completely unaware that you're currently thinking the same thing. dabi kneads the flesh of your hips through your jeans while you comb your fingers through his hair, gasping sharply between bruising, wet kisses and keening when he leans down to nurse your lips with soft pecks afterword. you're still trying to process the fact that you've coerced this devious criminal into making out with you in the pale glow of your seaside residence, but for the moment, you need not concern yourself with the details. you've forgotten all about dabi's ego and how this whole situation is no doubt feeding its flames. his grip on your waist is making you too delirious to care.

"fuck." dabi's breath is staggering when you finally pull back, an aura of clarity and desire hanging between the two of you.

"y-yeah. . .that was. . ." you can't produce a word, or even a paragraph to describe it. you know you're going to hit yourself later for admitting such a banal phrase in the midst of what could be classified as your very first kiss, but that is neither here nor there, and you would rather suffer an agonizing death than let dabi find out that he stole your first. you're too preoccupied envisioning all the other firsts to come, so you don't notice the way he stares at you like some precious jewel, but his fingertips brushing your bottom lip succeed in snapping you out of it.

"hm?"

dabi goes quiet, contemplating what to say as the thunder moves abroad and the rain comes to an end, leaving the house in a numbing state of tranquility.

"why not call me doll, then? it'd be easier."

you chuckle in response, playing with the hairs at the base of dabi's neck and making sure not to miss the way he melts into the affection. "i thought that'd be moving too fast." and dabi; still drugged from your kiss and what he can only hope is love; rasps out a genuine laugh, cupping your jaw with a tenderness that makes your knees weak.

"you offered to take a shower with me the night we met, and you think a nickname is moving too fast?"

you stick your tongue out at him, and dabi resists the urge to grab it, even if it's just a bluff.

"would you have let me call you that anyways?" you ask, something hopeful ridden in your tone. dabi feigns consideration as he looks to the ceiling, snickering when you smack his chest. eventually, he murmurs what you audibly hear as "brat" before resting his forehead on yours, an impish glint in his gaze.

"no."

you turn your chin up at him, giggling when he nips at the skin. dabi knows just as well that your attempts at escaping him are halfhearted, so he encircles his arms around your waist tighter, delighting in the flush that paints your cheeks.

"then i think i'll settle for my love, or darling, if that's alright with you."

dabi can't fend off the blush for his life, but he's not afraid if you acknowledge it. he can get you back easily, and he plans to. "fine by me, doll."

#⛓.dabi #dabi x male reader #dabi x reader #anime x male reader #mha x male reader #touya todoroki x male reader #my hero x reader #my hero x y/n #boku no hero x reader #x male reader #bnha x you #dabi fluff #dabi angst #dabi imagine

[upthenorthmountain]

Burning Bright

And this is my story for the @frozines zine! It’s set in my Flatmates universe, about three months after the main story. Enjoy!

Burning Bright

“Hello?”

“Kristoff, mate! I have some excellent news.”

“What’s that?” Kristoff said, and mouthed ‘Sven’ to Anna, next to him on the sofa. She nodded and put her head back down on his shoulder.

“Since we now live somewhere with a garden, we have decided to throw a BONFIRE NIGHT PARTY.”

“Yeah?”

“And the fifth is a Friday this year so it’s perfect. You in?”

“Sure, sounds good. I think we’re free.”

“What?” Anna said, sitting up again.

“Bonfire party at Sven and Jess’s. On the fifth.”

“Ooooh! Yes yes yes that sounds amazing.”

“Anna doesn’t think she has anything better to do so we might pop along,” Kristoff said back into his phone.

“Do you need us to bring anything?” Anna said, climbing half onto his lap and leaning so that her mouth was near the phone. “Like any food or anything? Or any fireworks? Or any sparklers -”

Kristoff leant back out of her way. “Well done, mate, you’ve got her all over-excited.”

“We’ll bring sparklers!” Anna said.

“We’ll bring sparklers,” Kristoff said into the phone, deadpan.

“Oh, awesome, I didn’t think about sparklers. Don’t worry about food, we’ll do the food. I’ve got a leaflet here from the fireworks stall at Tesco. Do you think we should get the Alpha Supreme Selection Box, or the Jupiter Mega Box?”

“I think those both sound too big for your handkerchief of a garden.”

“You aren’t invited if you’re going to be a big chicken party-pooper wet blanket. Anna can come, but not you. She knows how to have a good time.”

“Please don’t set fire to my girlfriend.”

“I’m not going to set fire to anyone or anything. Promise.”

-----

Since moving into their new house in the summer, Sven and Jessica had thrown several parties - a housewarming, multiple summer barbecues, and Sven’s birthday party, to name a few - and Kristoff knew what to expect. The firepit was lit in the corner of the garden, and had been dusted with a powder that made the flames change colour. There was a table of food just inside the back door, and coolers of ice and bottles just outside, as well as a steaming pot of mulled cider on the hob in the kitchen. Anna soon flitted off to chat with other people she knew, and Kristoff helped himself to a beer and a chicken drumstick and looked for a place to sit.

“So, when are you going to ask her to marry you?”

Kristoff jumped at the voice right behind him. “Sven, for god’s sake. And we haven’t even been together three months.”

“What? She’d say yes.”

Kristoff glanced over at Anna, sitting on the garden wall chatting to Jessica as she ate some corn on the cob. She looked up and caught his eye, and smiled; when Kristoff looked back at Sven, his friend was looking amused.

“She’d say yes,” Sven repeated. “Do it do it do it.”

“Shut up,” Kristoff said, mildly. “I’ll do it when I’m ready.”

“We’ve got ahead of you, you need to catch up.”

“We do not. The situation is under control.”

“Why wait?”

“Because proposing after three months is a crazy thing to do, it’s way too early -”

“- not if you know it’s what you want and you know it’s what she wants.”

“You guys were together two years before you got engaged.”

“Yes, but I’m lazy.”

Kristoff rolled his eyes.

“Whatever,” Sven said. “I’m going to start writing my Best Man’s speech anyway. And you can’t stop me.”

“Who says you’d be my Best Man?” Kristoff said, but Sven was already walking away to greet some new guests.

-----

“Fireworks time!” Sven announced, once most of the food had been cleared away and drinks had been refilled. “I have put a bucket of sand to put the fireworks in, right over there -” he waved to the bottom of the garden - “And I have already nailed the Catherine Wheel to the trellis post, and I have a taper to light things and a torch to read the labels, so if anyone has anything to say about my safety measures then speak up now or forever hold your peace.” He looked at Kristoff, who said “Do you have a bucket of water?”

“What? Why?”

“In case of fire. And to put sparklers in while they’re still hot.”

“Yes, sparklers,” said Anna, rummaging in her bag and pulling out several packets. “Who wants a sparkler?”

Sven had walked off with a martyred expression; he returned after a couple of minutes with a bucket of water, which he placed at Kristoff’s feet.

“I will take a sparkler, thank you,” he said. “You know,” he added to Kristoff, “You can be a right royal pain in the backside.”

Anna handed Kristoff a sparkler, and lit hers from the firepit, then used it to light Kristoff’s. He lit Sven and Jessica’s while Anna made cheerful hearts and stars in the air.

Sounds like someone doesn’t want to be my Best Man after all, Kristoff so nearly said, before remembering that Anna - among other people - was within earshot. What would Anna say? It was niggling at him now, now that Sven had brought it up. He’d been happy enough just to be with Anna, but now - he wanted to know what she would say, if he did ask. Damn you, Sven, he thought. 

Anna drew a heart around his face with the last bit of her sparkler, dropped it in the bucket of water, and pulled him down by the shoulders so that she could kiss him.

“Stop looking so grumpy,” she said. “It’s a party.”

-----

The box of fireworks contained a selection of Roman Candles in different colours. Sven held each one up and read out the name to cheers from the spectators (“This one is called Meteor! This one is Vesuvius! This one is called Golden Showers, I swear to God that’s what it says, look if you don’t believe me.”). There were also a few rockets, which had to be stuck into the bucket of sand very carefully, and then zoomed off into the sky to explode in a handful of coloured sparks.

Anna had started stamping her feet to keep warm, so Kristoff opened his coat and hugged it round her. “Does my hair smell smoky?” she said, snuggling back against him.

“Little bit. But it’s a nice smell.”

“Mm. A nice autumn-y smell. Ooh! That one was nice - can we go to the display in the park tomorrow?”

“Sure, if you like.”

“Last year they had doughnuts. I went with some people from work. Ooh!”

Kristoff kissed the top of her head. “Elsa not a fireworks person?”

“I know you’ve never met her, but I feel like you should know by now that no, Elsa is not a fireworks person,” Anna said.

“And now!” Sven announced, “The grand finale! The  pièce de résistance - the Catherine Wheel. Behold!” 

He lit the touchpaper carefully, and ran back to the patio by the house. The touchpaper burnt, and lit the whole wheel, which gradually started to turn. Everyone cheered.

But after a moment, the wheel ground to a halt. Flames were still spurting out of the sides, and there was starting to be an unmistakable smell of burning wood.

“Mate,” Kristoff said. “Mate, I really think -” There were now definite flames that were separate from the firework.

“The trellis has caught,” Sven said, “Shit -”

But Anna was already running past them, grabbing the bucket, and hurling the contents at the trellis. The cold water hissed into steam as it put out the fire, but with rather more of a clunking, crashing noise than she had expected.

They all stared at the smouldering trellis for a moment. Sven cleared his throat. 

“Firstly, Anna, thank you,” he said. “Quick thinking there. Secondly…”

Anna looked at the bucket she was still holding. It was not the one Sven had filled with water earlier; it was plastic, and rectangular, and, well, insulated.

“Secondly,” Sven continued, “That’s actually the cooler and you’ve just thrown all the beer halfway down the garden.”

“Woops,” Anna said.

“Good job there’s plenty more in the fridge,” Jessica said briskly. “Thank you, Anna.”

“Thank you, Anna,” Sven said. Then he nudged Kristoff in the ribs. “Looks like we didn’t need your bucket after all.”

#kristanna #zine #flatmates #modern au #fanfic #fanfiction #bonfire night

[hisan-miren]

Redacted File

The First Date Pt 2 

             Raios made attempts at small talk as he led them to a room overlooking the garden.  His attempts were awful though, in her opinion.  It was obvious that he was trying to avoid mentioning what he’d overheard because his speech was unusually rigid and his while body twitched whenever she so much as brushed his hand.  She felt a bit bad, but not really.  He’d sent all that time making himself calm only for her to rile him back up again.  She couldn’t help but be happy about it.

              “Y’know, if you reeeeaaaallly want to change the subject, and succeed, you can tell me what lie you told your parents that got you grounded,” Mina urged.

              “Not happening.”  The answer was out of his mouth almost before she finished the sentence. Mina clicked her tongue again. She was now determined to get the answer out of him before she left today.  He slid open a painted door and led her into a small room with a table and four cushions.  He finished sliding the door open while she took a seat, this time sitting on her legs in a semi-proper seiza. Almost immediately, the door on the inner-side opened and Raios’ mother appeared with a tray of tea and sweets. “Haha-ue, it’s awfully boorish of you to interrupt your son’s alone-time with his girlfriend,” Raios said.

              “I’m so sorry, Mina-chan, that this ungrateful son of mine still seems to have no manners,” Mrs. Minori said, casually deflecting her son’s well-worded judgement.  “I think it’d be far more inconsiderate of me not to offer some tea and snacks when the woman your courting is visiting.”  Raios made a sound in the back of his throat that made it clear he’d lost.  “You still have a long way to go before you can beat any of us,” she added, leaving the tray and standing to leave.  “Mina-chan, is there anything you’d like to eat for lunch?”  Her voice was as soft and sweet as ever, and it only made Raios stare at her dubiously.  His mother was the perfect picture of a kind and demure woman, but underneath she was even more calculating than his father and twice as relentless.  His mother had always adored Mina, and was almost as eager as Raios was to try and make her part of the family.

              “I would gladly accept anything you had to offer me, Minori-sama,” Mina replied, actively using the formal speech she’d completely forgone before.

              “Really, I wonder what Kaya fed you to make you such a good child,” Mrs. Minori sighed.  “Meanwhile mine are belligerent and rude at every opportunity.”  Mina carefully kept her mouth shut.  She’d heard stories of what the Chief was like as a kid.  She was 100% sure that was where Raios and his sister got their rowdiness.  “I’ll be back later with some lunch for you kids then.” And then she finally turned and walked away, ever the elegant chieftain’s wife.

              “… I reeeaaaally hope no one expects me to live up to her.  Your mom is way too capable a woman,” Mina groaned when she was gone.  Raios moved the tea tray over to the table and sat opposite her.

              “If you start acting like my mother, we’re going to have a problem,” he said, pouring the tea.  “I prefer you the way you are, thanks.”  Mina had every mind to try and say something back to tease him about the bold sentence he’d just casually said, but her face was too hot to let her focus.  Suddenly, a sly grin came across his face that had her blushing all the way down her neck.  “Looks like I was able to get you back just fine.”  Mina faceplanted into the table and started slamming her fist into the floor with vigor.

              “That smile is soooo illegal!  That’s super unfair!” she whined.

              “Mina, if you break the tatami, the old hag’ll get pretty pissed.”

              “Then stop provoking me!  But seriously, you’re not allowed to smile in front of anyone else! They’ll definitely fall in love with you immediately.”

              “Mina, that’s impossible.  I’m honestly surprised even you can put up with me,” Raios said flatly.  “Besides, you definitely have your pick.  The only reason no one actually asks you out is because everyone thought we were dating.”

              “And whose fault is it that we weren’t?!” Mina cried.  Raios very quickly turned away, his brow quivering only in that way it did when he was hiding something and didn’t want her to know.  It was one of the few tells he actually had.  “Raios,” she said threateningly.  “Why did everyone think we were dating?”  She could almost see him starting to sweat and made the executive decision to crawl over to him and shove her face directly in his.  “Raios…  Raios Minori, you better answer me,” she growled.  “I invoke my authority as your girlfriend.”  Raios made a reluctant growl in the back of his throat and turned to look the other way, the angry façade quickly slipping away to reveal the nervousness underneath.  She put her hands on his legs and crawled across his lap to stick her pouting face in his field of vision once more.  Backing up wasn’t an option.  He was cornered.  

              “Alright alright!  Fine!  I’ll tell you just get off me!!” he yelled finally.  Mina took a seat in the cushion next to his looking as prim and proper as any fine lady would and looking not at all like she had just climbed all over her boyfriend to interrogate him.  “A couple years ago, the old man started talking about arranging a marriage. I was firmly against it.  There was no way on Earth anyone he set me up with would put up with me or put me in my place like you do.  I’d already pretty much decided I wanted it to be you.”  She wanted to call him out for how cheesy he sounded, but his face and ears were already turning red.  “So he told me he’d stop talks on the condition I did my part and courted you properly.  I agreed.”

              “And then you didn’t.”

              “And then I didn’t,” Raios parroted.  “I realized my behavior had a long way to go in order to be ‘husband material’, so I decided I’d ask you out only after I got my temper under control.  I didn’t want you to get tired of me.”  He glanced over at her only to see that Mina’s eyes were staring up at him with that same gleeful adoration they’d had when he was asking her out, and it pissed him off a little.  “Anyways! Your little stunt got me found out. I’d had them convinced we were dating, so aneki probably spread it across the whole island just to make sure it stuck, but then she heard about the love letter and saw my reaction. Didn’t take long for her to put two and two together and make me have an outburst about it during dinner.”

              “So the fight with your dad-?”

              “Yup.  Was because I lied about asking you out and had them thinking we were getting ready to marry.  Not sure why, but the old man seems to think we’re not gonna waste any time on that,” Raios replied, his words gradually tapering off to a low mumble.”

              “And so the grounding is-”

              “Because I lied to them for two years and made a huge mess that got half the island involved.”  Okay, now Mina was less angry about his punishment.  He deserved it a little.  However-

              “But aren’t they punishing me with this too?! It’s so unfair!  I can’t even have a nice date!”

              “My parents definitely took that into account,” Raios replied.

              “Ugh!”  Mina groaned loudly and flopped backwards onto the floor.

              “Mina, if you keep moving around like that, your yukata is going to get messed up.”

              “I’ll deal with it later,” she pouted.  Raios sighed and moved himself to the opposite side of the table where she’d been sitting originally.  “Why’d you move over there?” Mina asked, lifting only her head off the ground as she questioned him.

              “This is the appropriate distance we should keep,” he replied.

              “I’m about 5 seconds from strangling you.”

              “Try it if you can, but I’ve always been stronger than you,” Raios said, taking a sip of the tea he had originally poured for her (she hadn’t touched it yet, at least as far as he was aware.)  She sat up, now properly angry, and slammed her hands on the table.

              “Come on!  Are you serious?!  We hang out alone together all the time?  What gives?”

              “Mina, we may call this ‘dating’ but, as far as our parents are concerned, this is an engagement.  Two fiancés alone in a room together already doesn’t look very good for your reputation.”

              “Huh?!  Since when do I care about that crap?!  Reputation? What reputation?!   As far as I’m concerned, we’re basically getting married, and eeeevvveryone knows I’m obsessed with you, so whatever people start saying about us doesn’t matter to me at all!”  Mina was now leaning halfway across the table looking like she was about ready to get up and climb over it, obi and yukata be damned.  Raios leaned back, his cheeks a bit darker than they were before and his eyes doing their best to avoid hers.  “If they want something to talk about, I’m more than happy to give them something.  Take me to your room and then they can say whatever they want!”

              “Not happening,” Raios growled, his gaze finally meeting hers again.  “Please think before you speak.”

              “Also not happening,” Mina huffed.  The two had a glaring contest for several moments before Mina appeared to concede… only she hadn’t.  Instead, she took the tea originally meant for him and shuffled around to the cushion next to him.  “As far as I’m concerned, this distance is plenty.  I don’t care about my reputation or what anyone thinks we’re getting up to. I know you, and you won’t do that kind of thing without permission.  As outrageous as you can behave, when it comes down to what matters, you take things very seriously.  It’s one of the parts of you I like best and the side of you that tell me you’ll be an excellent Chieftain.”  She looked up to see that his ears had turned red again.  His face looked like he was sulking, but the color of his ears told her all she needed to know.  That and how hard he was gripping the teacup.  She finally took a sip from her new cup, satisfied with the outcome of this particular argument.  

              Not too much later, Mrs. Minori was back with anther tray, this time with an assortment of lunch foods.  Raios’ sister also peeked her head in to laugh and snicker at them and Raios tried to shoo her away with little to show for it.

              “I take it things are going well in here? My son isn’t behaving too untowardly towards you, is he, Mina-chan?” Mrs. Minori asked.

              “Not at all,” Mina replied gracefully.  “As always, Raios is treating me very well.”

              “Oh that’s such a relief,” Raios’ sister sighed, sounding almost disappointed.  “I mean, my brother’s such a brute, I was worried he’d just suddenly snap.”  Mina could see the glint in her eyes and could feel Raios getting ready to lunge at her.  Mina put a hand gently on his leg, more than happy to try and handle his sister in his place.

              “Oh, there’s really no reason for concern,” Mina replied, bringing a hand to her cheek.  “If anything, I think you’re the ones who should be worrying about me.” Raios’ mother just stared at her, incredulous, while his sister fell over in the hallway, bursting with laughter.

              “Oh man!  She got us good!” she howled.

              “Please try not to provoke her,” Raios sighed, exasperated, directing his scolding at his two family members.  Mrs. Minori gave a small chuckle before standing and leaving the tray in front of the door.

              “I trust you two not to get up to anything you oughtn’t,” she said with a smile, “but I’ll keep what you said in mind, dear.” She reached over to pick Raios’ still laughing sister up off the floor saying “Up you go now, let’s give them their space.”  Raios’ sister complained about the unfairness between abating chuckles, but ultimately followed their mother knowing she wouldn’t win if she tried to fight it.

              “Those two just can’t leave it alone, can they?” Raios muttered as he went to get the tray of food.  This time he closed the sliding door behind him to avoid more interruptions.  “No more dates at my house.  They’ll drive me insane.”

              “I agree, but please let the record state that it’s reluctant,” Mina replied.  “And temporary.”

              “But you just said this is awful,” Raios chided.

              “Well… I don’t mind having another date where I can watch you practice.  And we will eventually be having dates in our rooms, so…”

              “You are so dead set on this…  If I come home from helping the old man one day and you’re sitting in my room, I’m just going to pick you up by your collar and throw you out the window into the garden.”  Now it was Mina’s turn to burst into a fit of laughter.

              “Geez, I’m your girlfriend,” she laughed, trying to work in a teasing tone and failing miserably, “shouldn’t you treat me more delicately?”

              “I guess that just shows how awful your taste in men is,” he replied, grabbing her by the nose with a chuckle of his own. Mina cried out in surprise, and Raios was quick to let go, chuckling to himself.  He stopped though when he felt something bump into his shoulder. Looking over, Mina had leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder.  His ears started to burn and his pulse quickened, and he felt like he had to do something with his hand but didn’t want to accidentally give her the impression that he wanted her to stop.

“I like that nothing has changed,” she said quietly.  His hand finally settled on covering hers and she felt his rough fingers, calloused from his kyuudo practice, work their way in between hers.

“Hasn’t it?  This is pretty different…”  She could tell he was doing his best not to let that irritated tone work its way into his voice.  He was trying to be quiet and soft, which she knew was hard for him, and she loved him for it.

“I don’t really think so,” she replied.  “It’s not really all that different.  It’s just more. It’s just more of the same.”             

 “How?”

“This sort of thing is something we both wanted to do but felt that we couldn’t because of the restriction of ‘friendship’ right? But we always had moments like this. They’re just… stronger.  We’re not as restricted now, so it’s just ‘more’ not ‘different’.”

“… I wanted it to change though…”

“Well I didn’t,” Mina replied matter-of-factly.

“I wanted to be able to treat you more gently…”

“The way you treat me is fine.  I’m not someone who’ll break or get hurt just because you get a bit too rough.”

“I want to cherish you properly…”

“You’re doing an excellent job.”  His hand squeezed hers, his silent way of showing his affection, before quietly separating from her and setting her food in front of her.

“We should eat before it gets cold,” he said quietly, handing her a pair of chopsticks.

“It would be a waste to eat it cold,” she admitted, trying to sneak a glance and see what kind of face he was making, but he kept his head turned so she couldn’t even see his ears.  

““Itadakimasu.””  The two teens gave thanks for their meal and both started to dig in. It wasn’t long though before Mina got a fun idea.

“Hey Raios, we should do that.”

“‘That’?”  He finally turned to look at her, face covered in skepticism.

“Y’know ‘that’,” she replied, a mischievous grin on her face. “The ‘Say ahhhh’ thing.”

“Na-?!” Raios recoiled, nearly choking on the rice that fell into the back of his throat.

“C’mon, it’s a staple of being on a date,” Mina replied happily, grabbing a piece of her tempura and lifting it up.  Once he stopped coughing, he stared at the piece of fried sweet potato like it had personally offended him and his entire family.

“Why do we have to do something that ridiculous?” he growled.

“Because it’s fun,” Mina replied, a sparkle in her eye.  She wasn’t about to give up on this.  She had her heart set on it now, and Raios saw that very clearly. “Come on, it’s not like anyone’s watching.”  Raios continued to stare angrily at the food she was holding in front of his face.  He wasn’t outright rejecting it, but he probably wasn’t really sure how to.  “Just one bite~”  She held it a little closer, trying to tempt him.  He growled in the back of his throat, but ultimately ended up conceding, biting the slice of sweet potato out of her grip and burying his face in the table while he chewed.  “Geez, you could at least try to be cute about it.”

“I haven’t been cute since the day I was born, don’t push your luck.”  His response made Mina laugh, and she returned to eating her food, content with the fruits of her endeavor.  It wasn’t long before Raios regained his composure though because before long, she found a piece of onion tempura in her face.  “If I gotta do something that embarrassing, you have to do it too,” he chuckled darkly.  Clearly he’d thought she’d get embarrassed, but, if anything, she was elated.

“Well, if you insist~” she giggled, opening her mouth. “Ahhhh~”

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Of course I’m doing as you asked,” she replied, keeping her mouth relatively wide open.  “You’re feeding me right?  So ‘ahhhh’.” She watched with delight as he seemed to hesitate, but, knowing he couldn’t back down now and risk the further damage to his pride, he followed through.  Once it was close enough, Mina happily bit down, savoring the sweet taste of the onion (and accidentally/on purpose catching the end of his chopsticks too.)   She quietly watched, pretending not to notice as he held an internal debate over whether it was still okay to eat with them or if he should risk the venture to the kitchen for a new pair.  Eventually he had no choice but to give up and keep using them.  There was no way he’d risk running into his sister right now. He continued eating his food, pretending that he wasn’t at all thinking about how they’d touched her mouth.  Nope.  Not a single bit.  In Mina’s opinion though, the blush on his face completely gave him away.  Well… that was a side of him that she found pretty cute, so it was fine.  She was just going to have to live with that fact that she wasn’t going to get a kiss this time around.

#Redacted File

[lemonietrinket]

I’ll Admit ||| Wonpil x Reader

Summary: "I’ll admit, I didn’t think I would ever do all of this under a bed with a cold pretzel, and yet here we are.” Genre: Fluff, humour? Warning(s): 1x Hell (mild cursing), otherwise none Word Count: 4856 Theme Song: Mixtape #1 - Stray Kids; Best Part - Day6; Stay - Ateez AN: a pushed request from @idontknowapil I have no have no short-fic ideas lately ok. I’m here to fill the apparent void of day6 stuffs :((

~~~

To be absolutely honest with yourself, you were beginning to wonder if you’d offended some ancient deity, whose only remaining power was to cause minor inconveniences for a target chosen upon whim, and that you were said victim. 

Because, truth be told, what had you done to deserve being thrown onto the sofa like a sack of potatoes?

You hadn’t intended to get in their way—you weren’t even aware they were chasing each other round the tiny halls of the flat, and you hadn’t the slightest clue as to why either. 

You’d been helping Sungjin cook dinner in the cramped kitchen, effortlessly working around one another in peace as you jammed to the music over the speaker you’d set up.  Neither of you said much, opening your mouths to merely sing the lyrics together, or ask for the flavouring to be passed from the first kitchen counter to its only companion. 

Listening to the man sing in his gritty and soulful voice never failed to settle you into tranquil, even if the words he was singing weren’t exactly what most would define as deep and meaningful.

“I see that I’m icy~”

You choked back a laugh. You would never have noted him as the type to bop to Itzy—and neither did he, usually—but every now and again he seemed to like a rousing pop song, and since it was only you there he didn’t mind letting down his reserved guard and sing along.  It didn’t stop the contrast between his vocals and the tone of the song from being stark, though, and there was something amusing about hearing a mighty voice that was designed for heart-aching alternative songs chant sunnily to a summer pop hit. Still, it allowed you to join in without feeling so out of league like you would have naturally done. 

The heavy thunk however shook the entire block no doubt, and it also stopped your little concert in the kitchen abruptly short. The two of you flicked your heads to where it had somewhat resonated from: the living room.

“What the hell...?” you murmured, your knife frozen against the chopping board.

“Those damn kids,” Sungjin tutted, quickly going back to his work at the pan, “if I get another complaint from that poor elderly lady from downstairs again I swear I’ll...”

You were going to join him in cooking again as you had done before, when a high-toned shriek emanated from the furthest hall. At the sound of it, the leader hissed grumpily into the steam of the half-prepared meal, but you couldn’t help but let your thoughts wander.

There was no plausible owner of the cry other than Wonpil, and that made you worry.  You couldn’t help it. The others may not play often, but when they did it sometimes was a little rough—and this didn’t count the occasionally relentless teasing that Jae and Younghyun could indulge in on a surprisingly regular basis. And Wonpil, bless his heart, was just as regularly the target. He was just so sweet and kind and gentle, and when he wasn’t, he was surprisingly, underhandedly sassy. These were the reasons why you’d fallen worryingly swiftly for the man and his cute habits and neediness, and it was also the reason why he was chosen as the one who got teased; his reactions were normally pretty funny.

But it also had to be said that though Wonpil could handle himself better than many would expect, there were a couple of scenarios where he couldn’t, perhaps. And going by the sudden flurry of footsteps that charged into someone’s bedroom and forced Sungjin to lean against the counter and pull the wide-eyed expression he always made whenever he was considering whipping someone into shape, you deduced this may have been one of those circumstances.

And so, you finished chopping the mushroom before you, dished it out onto the plate for the main chef to use, before throwing, “I’m just going to check everyone’s ok,” over your shoulder and heading out into the hallway. 

Peering both ways you couldn’t see a single culprit or victim, which was unnerving to say the least.

Heading towards where the original thud had originated from, you barely got to the other side of the living room when there was a flash of white and suddenly you were scooped into the air with a yelp.

A victorious laugh that was clearly Younghyun’s tapered off within seconds as you were immediately put back on your feet. “Oh, Y/N, I’m so sorry I thought you were—”

“What the hell are you doing?” you exclaimed, still in shock from your sudden, albeit temporary, flight. 

The handsome smile before you became even more sheepish. “Nothing bad I promise! Have you—”

“Nothing bad?!” you echoed incredulously. “You’ve been lumping around causing an absolute ruckus! If you’ve caused any offence to the other residents up or downstairs I swear I will—”

“—seen Wonpil?”

The sound of his name sucked any threats of spite out of you. He was the reason why you’d risked life and limb by exiting the kitchen. “N-no, but why do you want him?”

Younghyun chuckled at your defensive scowl. “He stole my pretzel and I want it back.”

“I can’t believe you guys—over a pretzel?” You rolled your eyes. “Even if I had seen him I wouldn’t hand over any information, and you know that.”

The man looked mildly panicked as you began to head back towards the kitchen. “Wait, Y/N! It’s a cinnamon pretzel! You know they’re like, really damn good...!” 

You stopped in mere steps as a plan gradually began to spin in your head. You span on your heel, sending Younghyun a sweet smile. “A cinnamon pretzel you say?” 

He nodded earnestly as you slowly drew to the archway where he stood, coming to lean against the arm of the sofa nearest it. “Interesting...”

“Will you help us find him? I’ll let you have a quarter of it!” Younghyun pleaded, pulling the best puppy eyes he could.

“A whole quarter? Wow I am lucky.”

You had to bite back another laugh as you watched him panic again. 

“Because I’ve already made an offer to Dowoon and Jae to help me catch him, ok?” he explained poutily.

You pretended to think for a bit, though your mind was already made up. It was time to put your plan into action. “Fine.”

Relief washed over him as he flashed you that charming grin that made everyone’s hearts flutter. Well, perhaps everyone except you as you’d swiftly rationalsied. Your butterflies only seemed to make an appearance whenever he was around, and as if to make up for their rather useful vacancy in normal situations, they made a habit of appearing at all times when you were with him—which wasn’t as lucky, but what were you to do? Ask him out? Don’t be daft. 

“Ok, good, that’s great!” Younghun sighed, jumping straight in with an outline of his oddly detailed plan on how to smoke out Wonpil from his hiding spot and reclaim his pretzel in an elaborate trap. You weren’t listening, though, and it was rather fortunate really that he didn’t get to continue for long enough to ask you questions that you then wouldn’t be able to answer.

He was interrupted halfway through explaining he was going to head towards Wonpil and Sungjin’s room by another thunder of footsteps wracking through the apartment. A shape that you would soon identify as Jae barrelled right through, in and out of the living room like a lightning bolt, calling, “I see him!”

And unfortunately for you, the image of a sweet, pristine cinnamon pretzel had overcome his senses, and since Younghyun was in the way, he took the fastest option of bumping him out of the way. But this created a domino effect, as in an effort to recapture his balance, the younger had stumbled forward and sent you over the arm, onto the plush cushions with a startled cry.

As you lay squashed on your shoulder and your elbow slotted between the leather you couldn’t help but think about your predicament, yet also your future rewards. 

The plan you had concocted was of the same level as a secret agent’s master plan, you were sure, and you couldn’t help a devilish smirk rise to your lips as you thought it over.

It involved stealth, deceit, smarts, and a good dose of luck.

A double-cross. The ultimate spy-movie-move. And you were going to pull it off to-the-T.

Truth was, if you found Wonpil and hid with him, you were guaranteed to get half a pretzel. Maybe even more, since the man who had stolen your heart so cleanly without even realising most likely, was kind like that.

Ignoring the ebbs and flows of your heart that dictated that you would always take his side over the others’ any day anyway, it made much more sense to bluff.

Not only this, you also had a great advantage over Jae and Younghyun, and that was you knew Wonpil very well. Yes, they’d known him for longer, but you knew him on a deeper level, from all the time you’d spent with him late in the evening and in cafes in the morning and everywhere you went with him. Because you listened to what he had to say, because you cared with your whole heart.  And so it meant that this time round you were going to beat them, and win that pretzel too.

And so, you pushed yourself up—with frankly a ridiculous amount of energy required, because the sofa seemed very keen to grip your hand and pin you down—and slipped in the direction the two had come from, into your room.

As your eyes settled on your bed, there was no chance of you wiping the pride off your face.

Though Wonpil was softer than the others, that didn’t mean he didn’t still have a few tricks up his sleeve; after all, he wasn’t as ditzy as everyone always figured he was.

Your room was in fact the safest option—it was your private space, so the others rarely came in, thus they didn’t know it well at all. The wouldn’t know where to begin. Add this to their discomfort to even being in your room without your permission, let alone scouring their eyes in every nook and cranny, that had origins in your rare but mighty wrath, it all amounted to the best choice. 

On top of this, Wonpil actually did know it well. He was the only one that frequented your room, because the two of you were so close. And though you weren’t as close as you wished to be, he always came to you in the evenings, wrapping up in your blankets at your side and sprawling over your lap, your shoulders, your stomach. 

This in itself made you repeatedly rethink your wishes to finally work up the courage and ask—as what if it ruined everything? And you didn’t like to think down those lines for long, as it made your stomach churn enough emotionally to make you feel physically nauseous. 

But this was why he had an advantage by hiding in your room (as well as why you’d held your tongue for months on end). 

Banking on the fact that you two had a lot in common too, you could certainly have a good guess at where he was, since you knew where you would choose to go.

Lifting the covers that hung like curtains from the edge of your bed to the floor, you found everything in order—the drawer you kept under there still in its place. A good sign.

You made your way round to the other side of your bed.

The drawer did not fill the expanse of it, after all, and left quite a lot of space under there. And since the frame was reasonably high off the ground, this would be the prime spot to hide if you needed to.

Crouching down, you glanced up to the door left ajar as to not arouse suspicion but also maintain some privacy if your deductions were correct. No one there, and no sound of anyone approaching.  Success.

“Wonpil,” you whispered to the carpet, fingers fiddling with the embroidered lace upon the cover, “it’s Y/N. I’m coming under, yeah?”

A series of shuffles was heard while the tiniest ‘hi’ graced your ears. You slipped under the bed on your stomach, hurriedly repositioning the covers to hide your position once again.

Your arm ended up nudging into something soft that then emitted a small hum as a greeting of sorts. “Oh, Pillie, I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” he responded meekly, shifting his weight to further accommodate for you, “you’re not searching with them are you?”

You shook your head, coming to settle resting on your elbows. “Nope. I told Hyun that I was though.”

“Y/N L/N, world’s best double agent,” he giggled, and you couldn’t help but smile at him merely being happy. 

You couldn’t see much under the bed since a lot of the light was blocked by the drawer and overhanging bedsheets, but you could just make out the lines of his face and the corners of his beautiful smile. His dark eyes also caught the slivered beams of light that crept beneath the furthest end of the bed, appearing like distant constellations in them. He was a masterpiece, never appreciated fully as he deserved—but for those that did, they would find all his quirks as food for the soul, and as such he rendered you feeling at true peace in his company. You longed to speak out again.

You were brought out of your thoughts by the one who had caught your heart so accidentally holding a soft pretzel towards you. “Do you want it?”

You prayed he hadn’t seen your stare in the dim light. “Hm? Oh, I’ll have any part you don’t want, it’s ok.”

“Well...” he offered the packet to you more insistently by brushing your arm with the back of his hand, until you accepted it. He then rolled over onto his side, settling into the carpet. “I don’t want it, so you can have it.”

You analysed the knot of the pretzel, before frowning at him suspiciously. “You haven’t eaten any of it...? You didn’t drop it on the floor did you?”

“No!” he cried in a whisper that verged on just-a-bit-too-loud. Much as you feared, footsteps came at a slower pace down from the living room, sending the two of you into a bout of silence, hoping that they wouldn’t turn into your bedroom.

To your luck, they continued on into the studio.

You exhaled in relief as you continued with your interrogation over the lukewarm, but still very delicious cinnamon pretzel. “But, Pillie, my Wonpil loves pretzels, especially cinnamon ones! My Wonpil dared to throw a pillow at Sungjin over a cinnamon pretzel! And yet here he supposedly is, handing one over completely untouched? I say, sir, you have been outwitted—now tell me, who are you and where is the real Wonpil?”

Your tone had been humorous, perhaps overly so. You couldn’t help it though; the rush of calling him yours, even with it being uninterpretable to mean in that manner, sent electricity through to your heart and left it thumping against your ribcage. 

Wonpil meanwhile only laughed under his breath softly, his brilliant smile tapering off into a gentler, sleepier one. “I am the real Wonpil, I promise! I just want you to have it.”

“Why?” The word came out of you too fast and before you could even attempt to stop it. You cursed your neediness in your head, shying your head away as you leaned into the scent of cinnamon as a feeble attempt of a cover. 

He shrugged, though it was awkward to see at his angle. “Because you really like them and I’d rather you have it over Jae or Younghyun.”

You snorted. “What did they do this time?”

“They hid my phone!” he whined, a pout clearly on his face in the dark even if you couldn’t see it clearly, “I looked all over the place desperately for like, ten minutes, and then they laughed at me when they gave it back!”

“That’s so mean,” you agreed, “do you want e to kick their asses?”

He laughed sweetly, rolling closer. “Nah, I got the pretzel. That’ll teach them not to mess with Kim Wonpil!”

“The Almighty and All-Seeing,” you finished with a grin, taking a bite into the dough at last. Even though it was a bit cool, it still tasted phenomenal, and you hummed out of reflex and in satisfaction.

“Is it good?” Wonpil chirped, shuffling even closer. He was still merged with the shadows, but you could feel his warmth by your arm. He couldn’t stay away for long, after all.

You nodded assertively, torn between chewing quickly so you could reply and taking it slow to savour the taste. Considering the size of how much was left, you opted for the former and eventually asked, “Where did you get this from?”

“I don’t know actually. I just saw it in Younghyunnie’s bag and took it.”

You couldn’t stifle the chuckle at the image of the man’s devious behaviour, and ended up choking.

“Are you ok?” Wonpil’s voice was concerned, his hand already on your arm, gently rubbing and squeezing the skin there as he waited for you to gather your breath together.

As soon as you erupted into giggles that you attempted to smother as much as you could, he sighed.

“I’m sorry, I just imagined you in full, stereotypical robber costume with the mask and everything, running away with a pretzel and, I don’t know, it just...?” 

Wonpil seemed to not really be listening—not an entirely uncommon occurrence—and instead took the opportunity to wrap his arms around your free one and lean his head against your side.  “I’m so glad you’re ok!” he whispered.

Hearing a clang from the studio nearby you tensed up, but after a few more seconds of hearing nothing, you allowed yourself to pay full attention to Wonpil again. 

“Of course I’m ok,” you said, “why wouldn’t I be?”

“I was worried you were going to die on me, and that just wouldn’t be ideal.” Hearing you scoff a laugh at his terminology, he avidly continued, “Look, we’d have to write on your obituary that you died from choking on a cinnamon pretzel, and then you’d become a cautionary tale for kids, and that’s just not a fate anyone deserves!”  It was then as if his mouth continued without him really being aware of it.

“And if you died, Y/N, then what am I supposed to do? I would be so alone, I don’t think I would—” 

These moments happened to everyone, it was fair to say, though his reaction to his own words as he cut himself short was an enigma to say the least. It was as if he’d said to much of something he’d promised he would never say. 

And then he was quiet. In fact he was dead silent.  Not a Wonpil-thing to do to say the least.

It was good timing however. There was a creak, as another person entered the room.  You hadn’t heard the footfalls, so you weren’t able to work out who it was, until he spoke.

“Y/N?” Sungjin called.

You didn’t respond.  This wasn’t exactly good news.

The chances were the leader would try and catch one of the others and ask them of your whereabouts, if he was searching for specifically you of his own accord. Or worse, he had joined the search—unlikely, but a possibility nevertheless.

After what seemed like hours of waiting, the door creaked once more and you were able to release the air you’d been subconsciously holding. 

Glancing down, you realised you’d better get on with your pretzel. You spoke to clear the silence and anxious energy emanating from the man who was clinging to you. 

“I wouldn’t know what I’d do without you either, Pillie.” Deciding to take smaller bites but often, you began to eat and savour the taste of the stolen delicacy as best you could, while finishing what Wonpil had insinuated in his accidental words. “I don’t think I would cope at all with you gone, too.”

“Really?” 

You imagined his bright eyes wide and gleaming at you in surprise, as you wouldn’t be able to see even if you looked back. “Yeah, my life would be so empty, I think,” you bit down the nerves that began to rise as you spoke, “like a huge part of me and my life would be missing, and I never want that to happen.”

“Do you really mean that?” Wonpil’s voice was so small you could barely hear it, “You... want me here with you... forever?” 

You froze on the spot.

Was this the time?

Evidently, yes.

You let the the pretzel fall to the floor, shifting yourself so you were on your back and able to hold Wonpil’s cheeks delicately in your hands above you, as you had longed to do for months.  “Yes. Without a single doubt, Pillie. I’ve liked you for so long I haven’t been able to say it, but now I’ve... finally kicked myself up the ass and said it,” you chuckled to yourself, watching his glorious smile rise in the dark, “so, Pillie, do you want to be my boyfriend?”

He nodded desperately, coming to rest his forehead against yours.

And it was as if your heart had burst in two out of sheer joy. You could have very much burst into tears right there and then, but Wonpil was not finished. 

“Kiss me?” he requested, in a voice so delicate and sweet that it instantly mended your broken resolve.  

You closed the distance carefully, not wanting to mess up and make a fool of yourself, even though the circumstances really did prompt it. Fortune was on your side though, as your lips found his without an issue.

Threading your hands through his hair, you revelled in the tenderness of his kiss. It felt so right as your heart throbbed, his chest lowering onto yours as he sank into your touch. It was so chaste and impossibly sweet, and yet it carried the weight of the world within it—you hadn’t been the only one waiting. 

As much as you longed to remain there, your beating hearts dictated that you needed to take in air.

He moved away first, his breath tickling your skin as he giggled. “You taste like cinnamon.”

“And now so do you!” You ran your thumb across his temple, unable to contain your smile. 

Overcome with shyness, Wonpil bit his lip as he ducked his head into your neck, mumbling phrases of disbelief into your shirt. 

Stroking the soft tress of his hair you attempted to ease him into more calm. “I’ll admit,” you began, “I didn’t think I would ever do all of this under a bed with a cold pretzel, and yet here we are.”

“How did you picture it?” he enquired, voice still muffled by your neck.

“I don’t actually know...” you answered, pausing to consider what you had originally intended, if anything at all. “Maybe after the cinema? That’s the classic way, right? Wait, no... Probably one time when you come to hang out with me like you always do?”

He lifted himself up, cocking his head to one side. “Why then?”

It was your turn to get a little bashful, “Because you’d be right there in my arms, and it would be much easier than under a bed hiding from the others...”

“Well,” Wonpil reasoned, his voice nothing but a whisper, “I’m here in your arms now...”

You sighed, “I know, it took me long enough right?”

“I could have done something about it too,” he pouted, “so don’t worry about it... and instead, maybe do it again?”

There was no way you could have stifled the chuckle that bubbled from your chest, but it tapered off when your new partner leant in to kiss you again.

Nonetheless, luck is a finite resource, and so it had to run out at some point—and for you, it was at an admittedly unfortunate moment, as it was right there and then.

Light was released from its coil outside as the bedsheets were drawn back and a face appeared in its wake.

“Boom! Found y—Y/N?!” Jae’s voice was way too loud in comparison to the peace, and then it was absolutely ecstatic, “Y/N?! Are you making out with our keyboardist?!”

You were stunned by his sudden appearance as you hadn’t heard a single bit of noise to offer the idea that anyone was nearby. Then again, you were enraptured with the beautiful man before you—there was little chance of you noticing the low creak of a door.

As you floundered however, Wonpil handled the situation instead, unusually disgruntled.

“I asked her to, Jae,” he countered, sending him his best mean look which only really involved a nose scrunch, “now go away and let her continue.”

“Oop—” The eldest disappeared from sight, and darkness returned.

“Now, where were we?” Wonpil hummed, but you were reluctant.

Your inhibitions turned out to be well-calculated too, as you heard Jae, not three seconds later, yell, “Brian! Y/N and Wonpil are making out under the bed, come see!”

You rolled your eyes. “We’d better get out of here.” Confronted with Wonpil’s pout however and your grumpy tone melted. “It’s ok, we’ll continue later, I promise! Just, I have to go kick Jae’s ass real quick too, you know?”

You felt his weight shift from you as he admitted defeat. “Ok, but get him good, baby.”

You choked on air at the sudden pet-name. So many things sounded like pure perfection coming from his lips. Even so, it seemed the term ‘baby’ in reference to you did not share the same effect.

“Eh?”

“What?” he said, confused by your outburst. 

“I think you need to find another pet-name for me,” you explained as you crawled out from beneath the bed. 

“What’s wrong with baby?”

Once you were out, you extended your hand for him. Handing you the pretzel which you then discarded on your bed, he began to shimmy himself out until he could accept your offer, while you searched for a reason other than ‘slightly cringey’. “I mean... I can’t be baby, because you are baby.”

As he got to his feet, he dusted the both of you off shyly. “Am I?”

“Hell yeah you are, baby,” you finished, making your point with added flair as you raised his chin to face you.

His eyes went wide at the touch. “Y-yeah, you’re right.”

“Oh, ew.”

Your eyes rose to the voice to find Jae still standing there, though this time with Younghyun in the doorway who suddenly looked panicked. “Don’t look at me, I’m fully supportive of young love.”

Your gaze focused on Jae, then, who was smiling brightly, though it was turning more and more worried by the second.  “Thank you for reminding me about the other problem at hand,” you chirped, “You get a ten second head-start, Jae, as I’m feeling kind today.”

“It’s because of all that love in your system,” he retorted with a cackle, though he didn’t then waste much time in making a mad dash for the door, shunting Younghyun out of the way once more.

“Kick his ass, sugarplum!” Wonpil encouraged by your side, and you just about hid your wince. Younghyun merely ducked his head out of the doorway to snicker.

“Yeah, maybe not that one either, baby,” you suggested, resting your palms on his shoulders and pressing a kiss quickly to his cheek. “But I’ll make it count, don’t worry.”

He sent you that glimmering smile, this time in the light where you could see, and you stood transfixed for well over the designated head-start. 

“Come on, go!” Wonpil ushered, thriving on the drama. “Avenge me!”

And with his blessing you grabbed your pillow and tore off out of the door.

To see you so smitten was endearing, Younghyun thought. He’d been wondering how long it would take you to finally ask, and was starting to worry a bit. Clearly he shouldn’t have lost faith in you quite that easily.

He managed to avoid getting trampled by you too as you ran out of you room, leaving Wonpil to take in everything that had happened. He’d expected him to gush about it, or have a fit of giggles, but the man just sat on your bed and sighed, looking at a pretzel happily—

Wait, that was his pretzel—

“Hey, that’s—!”

“I know,” Wonpil interjected, scooping it up and offering it to him, “you want it?”

Younghyun eyed him suspiciously. “Who are you and where is Wonpil?”

The younger tutted, rolling his eyes. “I am Wonpil, and I don’t want it, so you can have it.”

Younghyun, after a few moments, stepped forward to claim his prize. Until he had an epiphany.

“Wait, it’s been on the floor, hasn’t it.”

~~~

AN: I feel like I’m gonna hate this tomorrow but oh well. here it is!

and it wasn’t supposed to be this long but oops

(also itzy’s music and lyrics are also obviously not mine—I’m not taking any chances though so, I repeat: I have no ownership of the song, lyrics, etc they all belong to JYPE ok)

Masterlist

#wonpil #day6 wonpil #wonpil x reader #wonpil fluff #wonpil x reader fluff #wonpil oneshot #wonpil drabble #wonpil imagine #day6 fluff #day6 x reader #day6 imagine #day6 oneshot #day6 drabble #day6 x reader fluff

[kondraki]

what's the worst shit you've ever taken at the foundation?

July 19, 1998. About 4:39pm (time beginning). I remember it well. I hadn’t had a shit in over a day, which is unusual for me (generally I can count on a nice daily shit, which I personally think is the best way to go – no more, no less). I’m a bit worried, but not too much. Everything is quiet down there; no rumbling, no bubble guts. Now I realize my naivety. It was only the calm before the storm.

I am not sure what I was thinking, but I had had a lot of dairy that day. I’m not lactose intolerant, but when I’m stressed I do have a sensitivity to all the usual suspects – dairy, gluten, that stuff. Starting the evening before, I’d managed to consume a milkshake, several huge plates of cheese fries, several huge slices of cheese pizza, all washed down with copious amounts of coffee and the odd sip of vodka. I was a lot younger back in the day, so usually this wouldn’t cause me too much discomfort. However, one’s luck must always run out. That day was the day.

As I said, I felt fine. Right up until the moment I no longer felt fine, everything was going great. I’m walking up a hallway (thankfully a lesser trafficked one) and feeling great, and then… I sense it. A disturbance in the gentle fauna of my gut. Now, I’m no stranger to shitfests. Stress is a bitch on the gut. I’ve spent a fair few shifts gripping the bottom of the toilet bowl like it might be able to save me from my fate. There truly is no god in the bathroom. Anyway, I’m walking along, and I feel that little rumble. That little… movement. 

Immediately I go into survival mode. I know I have roughly thirty seconds before this is all over. I take five of these precious seconds to home in on my location and bring up my mental map of site bathrooms, which I have for this specific purpose (years of stress shitting will make you a physical Google Maps of bathrooms). I realise there’s a bathroom not too far away, but sometimes it’s locked. There’s another bathroom close by, but it’s roughly forty seconds away including a short elevator ride. Do I risk going to the first bathroom and finding it locked, or do I risk going to the second and getting stuck in an elevator (a great fear of mine) and then shitting myself, thereby gassing myself in the stench? 

A fart slips out. It was only a fart, but I know it was a close one. It’s also so hot it singes my ass hairs, and stinks so bad I can almost see the cartoon stink lines. I know I’m in trouble. I go for the first bathroom. There’s a storage closet nearby – if the worst happens, I can probably just shit in a mop bucket or an empty box or something. Off I go. The first half of the journey is uncomfortable but bearable. There’s a lot of movement going on in my gut that gets gradually worse. By the time I reach the hall the bathroom is on, I’m starting to think I have an idea of what it’s like to be pregnant. I remember when my son’s mother was pregnant with him and I would feel him kicking around in the womb, and she would try to explain how it felt from her perspective, but of course I couldn’t imagine. At that moment, I think I had a good idea. It felt like something was alive in there, rolling around and pressing against my organs. It was a strange feeling, but one with fond associations. That was my last moment of happiness for forty minutes.

I reach the bathroom. Mercy of mercies, it’s unlocked, but I barely register that. I stumble through the door, walking like I’ve already shat myself. I cannot unclench my ass, less the swamp within unleashes itself. I’m ashamed to say it, but I consider just dropping my pants and shitting on the floor and getting out of there. Some of my conscience remains, and I shuffle to the stall. There’s no time to check if there’s toilet roll. There’s no time to do anything. I’m unzipping and unbuttoning as I approach the bowl, and then it hits me – how am I gonna turn and sit on the bowl? As soon as I crouch, it is all over. I waste a precious second considering this conundrum, but then, with a grimace and a deep sense of resignation, I realize I’m completely at the mercy of this shit. I have no choice but to get this over with, and then try and work from there.

I whip my pants and undies out of the way (or at least, I hope I do). As I do so, I turn and begin to sit. Usually I like to get my pants all the way down around my ankles, but there’s no time. I’m shitting before I even hit the seat. I miss the back of the toilet, but not the back of the seat. I have to sit in some of the shit. Alright, that’s gross, but I’ve had a newborn by that point. I’ve had shit on places I don’t want there to be shit. I’m kind of relieved that it’s my own, which is not a great bar to set, but do I look like I’m in a position to be choosy right now? I should mention that this shit is completely puréed liquid. I mean, it feels like I’m sitting in a warm, half-blitzed smoothie. The smell is… I don’t even know. I am a writer, and I am a person who has seen unfathomable things, but even with these two major advantages I cannot describe how it smelled. It smelled hot, for a start. You know what I mean. The stench of this shit singed my god damn nose hairs. It was rancid. It was pungent. It made me consider the duality of man – how could my body have contributed to making something as wonderful as my son, yet still be the vessel to create this monstrosity? I do not mean to keep bringing up my son in a story about the worst shit of my life, but you have to understand that such situations really do make a man consider life and death.

The initial blast tapers off, but I’m still going. By now I’m sat on the seat, and rather than my usual position (hands gripping the underneath of the bowl) I find myself leaning forward and briefly putting my face in my hands. I’m regretting my dietary choices now. I might be verbally cursing myself. I quickly have to sit up properly again because the hunching is crushing my stomach and making the pain worse. I did not know that shitting could be so painful. I mean, I’d experienced such things before, but this is… this is something else. I’m experiencing hot and cold flushes. My heartrate is dangerously elevated. I think about the celebrities that have been found dead on the toilet and wonder if that’s my fate. I consider the fact it might be kinder. Meanwhile, as I contemplate my possible death, the acoustics of my ass’s contribution to the world are deafening. I have never heard sounds like it. I think it might be like if somebody accidentally drilled a hole to hell. They would put their ear to the hole and the sounds from my hole is what they would have heard. The splattering, the guttural growls, several different pitches of farts all at once… I cannot possibly tell you how much I wished to temporarily lose my hearing. I considered trying to blow out my eardrums, but thought that might be too painful and cause me to fall off the bowl and further complicate my situation, so I decided I might as well just suffer.

Suffer I did. This continued for almost twenty minutes. I have no idea how that could have all fit inside my intestines. Four times, I reached behind me and flushed the toilet (I have learned the hard way not to let it pile up). The Poseidon’s kiss from each metric ton of shitwater eroded another piece of my psyche. Finally the smoothie shit tapered off and I was treated to a final hurrah of machine gun fire that pinged rock-hard little pellets right off the back of the porcelain, loud enough that it actually made me jump. Like a dog, I was frightened by my own ass. Then, silence. Sweet, sweet silence. 

I’m alive. I’m sweating, I’m actually trembling by this point, I’m breathless, my heart is in the range of BPM that’s probably dangerous, but I’m alive. I sit there for a long moment, the silence in the bathroom deafening after the hell I experienced, and then I realize that there’s still more hell to come – I have to, somehow, clean up. I take a slow breath and regret it (the flushing didn’t eradicate much of the stench). I rise to my feet.

I fall flat on the floor, shit-covered ass in the air. My legs have gone numb. For almost a minute I have to lay there, until I’ve wiggled my traitorous legs and feet around enough to be able to stand. There are pins and needles in my left leg, and every slight change in pressure makes me teeter precariously to the side. I reach for the paper dispenser. 

There is no toilet paper.

I don’t know what I expected. I stand there for a long moment, staring at the ajar door (I had no time to lock it), and something within me breaks. Fuck it, I think, and I stride – I do not shit shuffle, I do not waddle, I stride – into the next cubicle. No TP. Nor in the next. This is a small bathroom, so there are only three stalls. I stand there, holding my pants around my thighs in a big bunch like a Depression-era grandpa trying to keep his string-tied pants up his starving frame, and then it hits me. There’s a storage closet next door. Could it possibly contain TP? I edge to the door. I peer out. The hallway is clear. I slip out. The stench has permeated the hallway outside, but at least masks me as I creep to the storage closet and open the door. Thank god, there’s TP. I grab two packets of 24 rolls and jam it under my arms, and then I scuttle back into to bathroom like the disgusting mistake I am. I retreat back into the stall like a worm returning to the soil. I begin the immense task of cleaning up.

Now, I’m not a talented mathematician, but I’m fairly certain that two 24s is 48. Which means I had 48 rolls in there with me. By the time I was done, there were probably 10 or 11 left. My flushing was likely responsible for every drought in California since that date. Miraculously my pants and underwear had escaped splashage, but the poor toilet had seen better days, as had the trail of drips scattered throughout the bathroom and hall from my adventure. Even when I was done, there was still a disturbance in the atmosphere of the bathroom that would tell anyone who passed by what had happened in there (even though the stench probably had something to do with that). I had to utilize all three toilets to flush everything. Finally, exhausted, I stumbled to the basin and scrubbed my hands and arms all the way up to the elbow, like a surgeon prepping for an operation. I did this three times before I felt even remotely clean, and knew that I would have to return home for a long, hot shower before I thought about doing any more work.

There were of course no paper towels, and the hand drier was broken. I dry off my hands and arms as best as I can on my pants… and that’s when I notice that my walkie talkie, tuned to the general channel and clipped to my pants, had been on the entire fucking time.

#anon #asks

[opheliathedreamer-blog]

Mummy x Reader

Summary: You’re the curator of a local museum and you often stay working well past dusk, cataloguing existing materials and arranging for new ones to be brought in. It might seem like a tedious job to others, but your love of history sustains you more than coffee ever could. However, when love poems and jewelry from the Egyptian exhibit keep appearing on your desk, your job gets that much more interesting. You realize that the mummified pharaoh isn’t as dead as previously believed.

You had been working at the local Museum of Natural History for about three months when it started happening. You’d be up late, authorizing the transfer of new artifacts or using the building’s free wi-fi in order to finish some research, and would leave the room for just a moment, only to come back and observe that items from Pharaoh Neferkha’s exhibit had made their way onto your desk. The first item was a golden necklace strung with beads made of lapis lazuli. You initially thought it was a janitor playing a prank. You set the necklace back in its display case and thought nothing of it.

Until it happened again. The second time someone placed an ivory jar of perfume next to your half-finished stack of paperwork. You picked it up gingerly and looked outside into the dimly lit hallway. No one was there. Even the janitors had left for the night.

You placed the jar back and surveyed the pharaoh’s burial chamber, hidden from the main exhibit room by a wall of painted hieroglyphs. Nothing was disturbed.

A few days passed and you had begun to relax, thinking that the prankster had gotten the hint that you wouldn’t be frightened so easily, before you received something new: a love poem etched onto a piece of pottery. Your brow furrowed as you deciphered the hieroglyphs.

My beloved has come,

my heart rejoices,

my arms are open to embrace her.

My heart is as happy in its place

as a fish in its pond.

O night, you are mine forever,

since my lady came to me!

You marched back into the exhibit. Nothing was amiss, save for a missing pot. Your eyes returned back to the shard within your hand. Your fingertips ran over the inscription’s edges and came back dusty. Had this just been carved?

“Whoever is doing this, it’s not funny! This is a museum full of priceless artifacts. Show a bit of respect.”

You almost expected someone to answer. You stood there for what felt like an eternity, a hand poised on your hip, but the pharaoh’s tomb remained still and silent.

Frustrated, you checked and double-checked every corner, yet still found nothing. You then decided to walk downstairs to the security office. The officer on duty, a middle-aged man whose name tag read Mac, obeyed your urgings and replayed the security footage.

You both watched, transfixed, as someone, or something, emerged from the tomb. The figure was hooded and cloaked, and not every motion it made could be caught by the camera. It passed by the wall. Skip. It had the clay pot in its hands. Skip. It walked out into the hallway, towards your office. Skip. It vanished without a trace.

Mac seemed just as baffled as you were. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. Ever.” He turned your way. “Should I call the police?”

A knuckle rested against your lips as you thought. A part of you felt outraged, if this was indeed a prank. You had been working to secure this job for years, and you didn’t want anyone thinking they could play games with your mind and destroy museum exhibits while they were at it. And besides, it had taken more beseeching than you cared to remember in order to receive everything from the Egyptian government in the first place. If they found out that their property was being defaced, they could take it all back.

But, if this was what your imagination said it was…

Ah, well, there was no harm in making sure.

“Not yet,” you murmured. “I want to test something.”

“Test what?”

“If I’m crazy or not.”

The next evening, you disabled the cameras in the Egyptian exhibit and tried to remain nonchalant, but your heart was racing and your ears distracted you with every slight sound. When you retreated briefly into the break room to grab some coffee, you paused by the doorway, listening. You flexed your sweaty hands against the doorpost and gasped when you heard the faintest sound of shuffling footsteps.

You suddenly contemplated what you would do if you encountered it—him—whatever it was. If it was a human, would they try to harm you for attempting to spoil their fun? If it wasn’t, what would it do? You thought back to those old black and white films you enjoyed watching as a child. A sacrifice to the old gods? A forced mummification ritual?

You shook your head, trying to dislodge such irrational fears, and took a steeling breath. You gradually inched away from your temporary haven. Keeping close to the wall, you slowly regained your courage as you continued your pain-staking return to the office. When its light was a mere foot or so away, you grit your teeth, tensed your legs, and rushed forward.

No one was there. You did, however, receive a new offering.

I wish I were her little signet ring,

the keeper of her finger!

I would see her love

each and every day,

and I would steal her heart.

You shakily chuckled, running a hand through your hair as you translated this new proclamation of love. “Oh, yeah? How can you steal my heart if I can’t even see you?” You exhaled and placed the pottery shard alongside its mate on your desk. “You better already be dead. If you’re not, I’ll kill you myself. I am the museum curator. That means it’s my job to preserve and guard everything in this building.”

Was that a chuckle coming from the shadows just outside the lamp light or was it your imagination?

I can do what I like with my belongings. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but you swore that you heard it.

An unseen wind rustled your papers, and you caught the whiff of something heady. Frankincense. Olive oil. Pressed white flowers that hadn’t seen the light of the sun in thousands of years.

Despite the pulse pounding in your ears, you clenched your fists. “All right. No more games. You have until Friday to show yourself to me. If not, I’ll—” You weren’t sure what you’d do or if three days was a sufficient enough time to plan. Guns and authorities never worked in those old movies, and enchantments were only effective half the time.

You cursed under your breath, grabbing your jacket and purse. “I’ll think of something!”

You thought you heard laughter follow you out the door.

The next evening, as expected, you received another poem. With a frustrated sigh, you picked up the pottery shard and silently mumbled along with the hieroglyphs.

I wish I were her Nubian maid,

her attendant in secret,

as she brings her a bowl of mandragoras.

You flushed, eyes rapidly blinking. From what you remembered, mandragoras, or mandrakes, in addition to being a hallucinogenic narcotic, were often used in ancient medicine to ease arthritic pain, and act as an aphrodisiac.

It is in her hand,

while she gives pleasure.

In other words:

she would grant me

the hue of her whole body.

Your splayed fingers came to rest over your gaping mouth. You glanced out into the darkened hallway as if the shadows had an answer, and you realized with dismay that your heart was racing with something else besides fear.

You looked again at the carved poem and set it down on your desk along with the others. The scent returned, this time stronger and far more cloying. The unexplainable breeze that teased your hair and traced your collarbone felt like thin, tapered fingers. Goosebumps erupted on your flesh.

You thickly swallowed. “You’re becoming rather presumptuous. Besides, I am granting you nothing unless I see the hue of your body. No cloaks. No hoods. No camera tricks. No shadows.”

Laughter echoed down the hallway, and this time you swore you heard it.

You straightened your shoulders. “No disguises, but you had better be clothed!”

The second evening came and this time, instead of poetry, the pharaoh’s crook and flail appeared. You briefly hesitated before gingerly picking them up. If it weren’t for the fact that both were gilded in pure gold, the wood would have disintegrated in your hands.

“What does this mean? Why are you offering me your crook and flail?”

You would have laughed at how easily you had come to think of this stranger as the pharaoh if you weren’t so distracted with deciphering the figure’s intentions. A gust of warm wind pushed your arms upward so the crook and flail rested against your chest. It was almost an exact replica of the pharaoh’s crossed arm funeral relief.

Your eyes widened. “The gifts… and this… You want me to be—”

My queen.

The wind raced around you faster than it ever had, and you thought you could make out a figure standing outside. Its golden eyes were smiling.

Flail and crook still in hand, you drew closer. Much to your exasperation, the figure took a step back every time you took a step forward.

“If you want me, then let me see you, damn it!”

Then it—he—spoke. His tones were as harmonious as a lyre’s and as rich as honey. “You gave me until Friday, woman. I have one more night, as do you. If you can accept me, knowing who I am, then come to my tomb willingly. If not, then stay in this room and close the door. I will receive the rejection gracefully.”

“If I reject you, would you keep everything in its proper place?”

He chuckled lowly. “You amuse me, thinking that you own all of my treasures. I am dead, not gone.” He stepped backwards, and the lights of his eyes faded. “Until tomorrow, my lotus.”

“Wait! Don’t you dare!”

But he was already gone.

You found that you couldn’t sleep that night nor could you bring yourself to leave the office. You instead sat at your desk, pensively gazing at the two symbols of a pharaoh’s authority. You mulled over his proposal. For some reason or another, he had chosen you. He had been wooing you and had every intention of making you his queen. And, although your logic railed at you for even considering the idea, you thought it wouldn’t be such a terrible fate. Ancient Egypt had interested you ever since you were a little girl, and you eagerly wanted to know all that he had seen and experienced. He could answer questions that scholars had been debating for centuries!

And he was undead.

How? Were the ancients correct in positing that the ka could endure far after death?

And he spoke to you in English. How did he learn it? How long had he been conscious in that tomb?

You placed a hand on your forehead and smiled wryly. “Well, if his majesty keeps writing me poetry, it isn’t such a bad deal.”

After a day of pretending to be hard at work, you watched as the sun god Ra slowly returned to the Underworld. The moment his rays died, you took a steeling breath and waded through the darkness until you saw the backlit entrance to the pharaoh’s tomb. You entered and saw him waiting for you. 

He wore the nemes headdress, complete with golden vulture and cobra, as well as a golden collar. You marveled at how his linen robe and sandals could still be intact after all these years and how he wasn’t as frightening as you’d imagined. You reached out a hand and hesitated. His thin lips quirked upward, and he nodded his approval. You placed your hand on his chest. The skin was leathery and dry and surprisingly warm. He leaned closer to you and when he spoke, rather than smelling death and dust, you smelled cinnamon, mint, and lotus flowers.

His eyes glinted roguishly. “Your answer?”

“Yes,” you said, feeling the course of your future lock into place. “I willingly accept you, Neferkha.”

He wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in the scent of spices and desert sand. Your eyelids drooped. It was strangely comforting, even though your ears detected no heart beat. “Then I am your servant, my lady. Ask and it shall be granted to you.”

“Write on the paper I’ll give you instead of breaking another pot. I don’t want the Egyptian government breathing down my neck.”

He laughed. “And?”

“Tell me about your world, what it was really like when you were alive. Tell me how you’re alive now. Tell me why you chose me.”

“As you wish.”

You talked in each other’s arms until daybreak, when he was forced to retreat back into his sarcophagus. He was apparently the victim of an ancient curse from a rebel régime who condemned him to permanent separation from his family in the Underworld. Under the light of Ra, he said, his soul was forced to leave his body and roam about aimlessly on Earth. But he promised you that he would return to you the next night and every night after, for all eternity. 

The next morning, you brought him the notebooks and pens, as promised. You also spent your lunch break researching traditional Egyptian poetry.

When Neferkha awoke and rose from his coffin, he saw a piece of paper decorated with his native hieroglyphs.

My god, my lotus,

The north wind blows.

How pleasant it is to go to the river.

My heart longs to go down

to bathe before you,

that I may show you my beauty

in a tunic of the finest royal linen,

drenched in fragrant oils,

my hair plaited in reeds.

I’d go down to the water with you,

and come out to you carrying a red fish

which feels just right in my fingers.

I’d set it before you

while gazing at your beauty.

O my hero, my beloved,

come and see me!  

When the pharaoh stalked into your office, your heart fluttered at the cat-like grace of his movements and the impish curve of his lips. “You summoned me, my queen?”

“I did. I… remembered something.”

He leaned closer, so that you were mere inches apart. “Yes?”

“We’re married, aren’t we?”

“If you still accept me, yes. I claim you as mine before all the gods of the Duat.”

His thin lips briefly brushed against your own teasingly, and he moved to back away before you pulled him to you, fingers entangled in the folds of his headdress. “Then two can play this game,” you murmured in ancient Egyptian before overtaking his lips with your own.

The security cameras were never turned back on, and your employees questioned why you seemed to live at the museum, but their suspicious talk paled next to the thought of meeting your pharaoh at the end of every twilight.

Note: All the poems listed above are translations of actual Egyptian love poetry found in my textbook: The Norton Anthology of World Literature, vol. A, 3rd ed. 

@ban23

#exophilia #mummy x reader #male monster #female reader #monster boyfriend

[empressofmankind]

The Lion in Winter - Part I: Departure - 05. Jon

Fandom: A Song of Ice & Fire

Major Character/s:  Jon Arryn, Stannis Baratheon, Robert Baratheon

Minor Somebodies: Renly Baratheon, Loren Lannister, Pycelle, Barristan Selmy, Petyr Baelish

Location/s: King's Landing, the Red Keep

Premises: But what if we had a PoV chapter for Jon Arryn?

Mood: If you're glad you're not Jon and don't have to deal with all this utter bullshit, raise your hand raises hand

Warnings: Robert being rude (PG-13)

Word Count: 13.681 

NOTE:   Part I of The Lion in Winter is set shortly before King Robert   Baratheon, Queen Cersei  Lannister and their family set out for   Winterfell. It therefore takes  place a little bit before the start of   the first book, ‘A Game of  Thrones’.

The Lion In Winter - Part I: Departure - 01. Kevan I // 02. Loren I // 03. Jaime I // 04. Tywin I //

O O O

Lord Jon Arryn descended the stairs of the Tower of the Hand, light spearing into the dark stairwell through narrow lancet windows every other turn. The steps were scuffed and tapered, their height made uneven by the feet of uncounted Hands, travelling up and down, day after day, council after council. Even the engraved handholds hammered into the ashlar had long since been reduced to formless knobs with the dark, fatty sheen of metal polished by incessant handling. Today was one of those days on which the steps seemed endless. Jon had once been a large man, wide of chest and thick of waist, but time had worn him thin as surely as it had the tower steps. He was robust for his considerable age, but the seven hells take those stairs. A few short years and I am twice-forty, Jon thought as he reached the bottom, his breath laboured and sweat beading on his forehead. Preposterous.

Jon crossed the inner bailey, towards Maegor’s Holdfast. To his surprise, he saw Lady Loren standing by the lone, stone archway into the godswood, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers entwined. Jon wondered if she’d come from the enclosed acre of alder and black cottonwood. He didn’t think any other women of the court frequented it.

Lady Loren wore an elegant, sable cotehardie, edged with bands of red velvet and goldwork. Belted high and reaching past her knees, it gave the impression of skirts. However, when she shifted her posture, Jon saw she wore dark chausses underneath and long riding boots to match. Her braids were held in scrolls on either side of her head, like ramshorns, evoking the steadfast determination of that creature. Gone were the voluminous sleeves and lengthy skirts of red damask, the sumptuous ermine mantelet, the jewelled crespinette and elegantly veiled circlet. In the days since Tywin had left, she had changed her appearance, gradually, one garment at a time, until the subtle resemblance became unmistakable. In essence, she had adopted her Lord Husband’s severe style. Few at court would look at her now and forget with whose authority she spoke. Jon smiled. She was an incisive woman. No doubt, a quality Tywin appreciated in his Lady Wife.

Lady Loren spoke to a man who stood with his back towards Jon. He was tall, bald and sinewy. Dressed in storm grey damask that shrouded his broad shoulders and fell down to the heels of his well-made boots, Jon thought for an instant that Tywin had returned. But no, on glimpsing the man’s stern profile he recognised Ser Stannis Baratheon, Robert’s equally surly brother.

“Shireen is a sweet girl,” Lady Loren said as Jon passed them. Her green eyes moved to him.

Jon inclined his head but didn’t slow his pace. “Good morning, my Lady.”

“Lord Jon.” Her gaze flicked down in acknowledgement before returning to Stannis. “How old is she now, seven, eight?”

“Nine.” Stannis’ tone was curt, his lips pursed. Those unfamiliar with him would be forgiven to think it a reprimand, a rebuke to an error the Lady of Casterly Rock had made. It wasn’t. He always spoke this way.

Lady Loren smiled, Jon glimpsed it as he moved away from them. It softened her sharp features and dimpled her freckled cheeks. “A little lady already.”

Jon had hoped to speak to Stannis in private, regarding the matter they were investigating, but it would seem that would have to wait till after the small council. He dreaded telling Robert, even though he knew they must. A man, even a King, might father a dozen bastards and few would care. A woman? Unbidden, he thought of Eddard and his Lady Catelyn, and all their little ones with their red, red hair and soft, summer faces. And the bastard girl that resembled Eddard like a younger sibling. They had to be sure. Queen Cersei deserved that much.

“Kevan will stay here, in King’s Landing.” Lady Loren’s voice floated to him on a warm breeze. “Have you thought on where Shireen might ward?”

Jon snapped out of his pensive thoughts. Shireen? Warding? The day before, he had seen her speak to Lord Yohn Royce. Shireen and Ysilla, he thought. Daughters your son’s age. And he realised why the Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock had come to court after all these years.

They had shown off their young children at Joffrey’s name day tourney as surely as Tywin had his twins all those years ago at Lannisport. Though that event had taken an unfortunate turn. The memory of Tywin stalking from the royal pavilion with his crying daughter in his arms hadn’t seen fit to leave Jon yet. Fortunately, Joffrey’s tourney had been a joyous event. Young Kevan had near won the children’s tilting at the quintain. Helaina had sewn a beautiful favour as she sat on her Lord Father’s lap, watching her brother ride. Even Tion, an unbreeched boy barely able to sit his sister’s pony, had participated. However, his heart laid elsewhere, Jon could tell. In hindsight, Tywin’s interest in the performance of other children - youths and maidens alike - had been telling. He had mingled, and much more so than you might expect of a Lord Paramount as unpersonable as Tywin Lannister.

“Do visit to the Westerlands, someday. The tourney season is ahead of us, and I dare say Helaina would be thrilled to have a friend to visit the fairs with.” There was a smile in Lady Loren’s tone. A smile and a fishhook.

Jon thought of the little girl with her blonde curls, tiny goldwork slippers and lion-embroidered petticoats. She had carried her older sister and Queen’s train as if the smallest of ladies-in-waiting. His son Robert she’d greeted with courtly grace and a gentle curtsy. They had played a while. Though, she’d given her small favour to Prince Tommen.

By then, Jon had reached the serpentine steps up to the inner bailey and Maegor’s Holdfast. Seven hells take all these stairs, he thought, and with a resigned sigh, he climbed them. The sun beat down on him despite the early hour and by the time he reached the penultimate landing, sweat beaded on his forehead once more.

Jon paused and glanced across his shoulder, down into the courtyard below. Lady Loren and Stannis still stood by the godswood. Jon had recalled something, as he’d been making his way up the thrice-damned stairs: Eddard had a daughter around Kevan’s age. Was it Sansa or Arya? Jon wasn’t sure. It had been years since Eddard had come south. Perhaps, it was time that he did. There was no way to avoid Tywin feeling slighted by the whole sorry affair when they revealed their evidence regarding the matter they had been investigating. However, they must, somehow, forestall him raising his banners in reprisal. It wouldn’t be the first time a son and maiden had mellowed fraying loyalties. You must come to court, Eddard, Jon thought. Robert will need you before the end.

Jon sighed, climbed the last flight of stairs and made his way to Maegor’s Holdfast and the royal chambers. Tywin’s eldest son stood guard by the door to Robert’s solar, his white cloak crisp and clean even at the bottom trim. Jon wondered if the young man resented his duty. The lions were proud.

“Ser Jaime,” Jon greeted as he approached.

Ser Jaime inclined his head but didn’t speak.

“Your Grace?” Jon called.

“Ah, Jon! Come in, come in!” Robert boomed from beyond the doors.

Jon entered, but he didn’t see the King. The morning sun came in through the latticed courtside windows, and fresh thresh with herbs woven in saturated the air with the scents of summer. A bird tweeted clear notes, just outside one of the windows. A lark, Jon thought, when he heard the trill that followed the melodious tones. In front of ornate chamber screens carved with tourney scenes, stood a low solar table, its mahogany tabletop resting on the shoulders of a carved stag. Two comfortable, upholstered chairs with a faded forest-motif on their ochre damask stood beside it. Jon frowned at the half-full goblet that stood upon the table. It wasn’t even noon.

“I’ll be out in a minute!” Robert bellowed from beyond the mahogany partitions. It was abruptly followed by cussing. “Seven-be-pissed-upon, mind the goods, lad.”

“Apologies, Your Grace.” One of the Lannister boys. Lancel, judging by his timid voice. Tyrek was an assured youth with a tongue to match. Jon suspected that Robert liked him better than his cousin, for most of the same reasons as he did young Kevan.

“No rush, son,” Jon said. He had anticipated the usual argument to convince the King to attend his small council. However, it would seem Robert was already changing into his court finery. Pleasantly surprised, Jon clasped his hands behind his back and waited.

When Robert appeared from behind the chamber screens, Lancel at his heels, Jon’s expression fell for Robert was wearing his most polished hunting attire.

“Find your cousin Tyrek and have him ready the horses and hawks.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The nervous youth made a bow his King ignored. “Lord Jon.”

“Lancel.” Jon inclined his head then turned to Robert. “The small council, Your Grace—.”

Robert interrupted him with a wave of his large hand. “I’m going hawking with Loren and, after that, her lad’s fete.”

“I am certain young Kevan will enjoy it,” Jon said tactfully. In quintessential Robert Baratheon fashion, the King had insisted they throw the ten-year-old a celebratory fete when he had heard of his squiring. Unfortunately, that had been scant three days ago. That they had managed to organise it at all was a small miracle. And how precisely they were going to pay for the last minute festivities was a point on Jon’s agenda still to be resolved.

“Oh, I bet he’s a right little party lion, if he takes after his feisty mother or that witty uncle of his,” Robert guffawed. He snapped his fingers. “Golly, what’s his name. Garon? Gerold? No. Gerion, that’s right. He knew how to have fun.”

“Your Grace, I must insist. Your small council has need of you.” Robert and Loren were peers in age, and he knew they had been friends in their youth. The two of them, together with Eddard and his sister Lyanna, had oft gone hunting or hawking in those heady, heedless days before Harrenhal. For a while, it had been apparent that Loren and Eddard would wed.

Robert strode around to the table, picked up the goblet and drained the last of the wine with a deep gulp. “The rabbits have changed their fur: thick and soft as sin for winter. Those mottled pelts will look handsome about her freckled shoulders.” He squinted, imagining it, and added: “those delightful spots run down across her teats, you reckon?”

Jon closed his eyes and pretended he hadn’t heard that. His King and former ward had never been shy with his opinions, especially not when it concerned ladies. However, Jon wished he’d exercise restraint when speaking of other men’s wives.

“I’d bed her on them if she’d let me, I tell you,” Robert chuckled. It occurred to Jon he may have drunk more than the one goblet, found he hoped so because then his egregious comment might be overlooked if not forgotten.

“Your Grace, may I request you refrain from such observations, they are ill-advised.”

“That’d be a right fright if Tywin can hear all the way from that cliff of his,” Robert scoffed.

Maybe not, but his son certainly can, Jon thought, glancing at the door from the corner of his eyes.

Robert shook his head, his jowls quivering under his bushy beard. “Mad Aerys spend half a decade taking potshots at the old lion, and he got away with it.”

Jon pursed his lips. “He got away with nothing, Your Grace, in the end.”

Robert’s expression fell, no doubt remembering precisely why the sack of King’s Landing was a thing that happened. As well as who ran a sword through the Mad King’s back. With a measure of grim satisfaction, Jon saw Robert’s gaze jump to the door. He let the uncomfortable silence sit for a moment before he spoke again.

“Lady Loren will be here for a few more days,” Jon said, his tone not unkind. He raised his hands in an open gesture. “Why not go on the morrow? Invite the Lords and Ladies of the court, make a day of it.”

Robert shook his head. “I made a promise, Jon, and I mean to keep it.”

“Your small council has need of you, Your Grace,” Jon repeated. As he had feared, Robert laughed at that.

“I loath counting coppers. If I had known then how boring it would be, I would have never taken that crown.”

It was no news to Jon that Robert detested his lot in life. Well, the ‘tedious nonsense’ of it, as he put it. It reminded Jon of the time, now seeming so long ago, when Robert had been but a young lad and joined his father Steffon to court. He had met the boy then and had overheard him and his brother Stannis speak breathlessly about the King holding court and how noble and wise he’d been. Jon smiled. That day, King Aerys had not sat the Iron Throne, it had been his Hand, Tywin Lannister.

Robert smiled ruefully. “I should have let Tywin have it, the old lion would enjoy this tedious nonsense.”

Jon didn’t believe Tywin would have accepted the crown. He was fond of the Westerlands, was unable to give them to Jaime and unwilling to give them to Tyrion. No, Tywin was a career courtier, he wouldn’t have taken it. They might have had a King Eddard and though, outwardly, he may have done it to the best of his abilities, he would have been as miserable as his friend. In hindsight, all they’d had were poor choices.

“Loren would have been a proper Queen,” Robert asserted. “Always pleasant and supportive.”

Tywin would have sooner returned as Hand, the position Jon knew he craved more than any crown. A duty that had been his for over twenty years. Twenty stable years. Despite a King’s ever more rapid slide into madness. Early into their victory, Tywin had made a casual pass at being willing to return as Hand. Robert had responded without an inch of decorum he’d rather have Eddard. That, of course, hadn’t gone down well. And so, Tywin had left. As had Eddard, for that matter.

Jon had stepped up to council his erstwhile foster son. In the end, it had been for the best that Tywin had returned to the Westerlands for he hadn’t been particularly popular with the gentry and commonfolk of King’s Landing alike at the time. Jon had arranged the marriage between Robert and Cersei in the hopes of mollifying the rankled Lord Paramount and smoothing the slight of the preceding reign with the promise of change. They couldn’t afford to alienate one of the most powerful Lords of Westeros. Still couldn’t. Tywin was a poor enemy to have, and their impending accusation would surely make him one. Unless they could sustain his support.

“She never so much as raises a peep against him.” The wistful tone of Robert’s words struck an uncomfortable chord with Jon, jerking his wandering thoughts back to the unfortunate present.

Perhaps not in public, Jon thought. He’d never enjoyed the company of the man Tywin had become but had known the child he had been: a serious, long-limbed boy that had been a dutiful page to King Aegon, and a calculating youth who had outperformed his elders during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Even as a child, Tywin had not suffered fools, and so Jon highly doubted he’d wed a woman who had nought but rose water and fairytales between her ears. No matter how obedient and pleasant she may seem.

“Perhaps, it is because he doesn’t give her cause to,” Jon said mildly. Queen Cersei was no kitten, but one could avoid many scratches by not wilfully yanking the tail.

“She stacks the court with incompetent sycophants. She wanted her uncle to be master-at-arms!” A hint of youthful petulance crept into Robert’s baritone, and it reminded Jon how young they all still were. What is thrice-ten, really? He had decades ahead of him yet.

“If you came to the small council together with your Queen, we might all speak on the appointing of certain offices.”

Robert crossed his arms with gruff finality. He looked away from Jon. “Loren doesn’t drown Tywin in cronies.”

Jon smiled, but it was a sad smile. * That’s because she trusts him to have her back, son,* he thought, but said: “I am certain Queen Cersei would appreciate it if you requested her to support you at council.” It would be good to have them both where he could see them. Queen Cersei desired a ruling crown with the same intensity her Lord Father did the Hand’s seat. Jon might as well try and make her wiles work for him, for surely her presence would prod Robert to engage too.

“My Queen doesn’t care to support me in anything.” Robert shrugged, though then changed the topic and added: “Jon. There is something else I wish to discuss with you.”

“Your Grace?”

“It’s about your boy, my namesake.” Robert sat down, and the chair groaned ominously as he settled in it. He motioned at Jon to do the same.

Jon did as he was bid, dread coiling in his gut. A year ago, perhaps more already, certainly before Stannis had approached him, he’d spoken to the King regarding a promise of betrothal between his son Robert and Princess Myrcella. Nothing had come of that, and he’d forgotten about it. Until now.

“Have you decided where he will foster?”

Jon swallowed his relief. “No, not yet, Your Grace.”

“I see.” Robert frowned and reached for the goblet, but he had already emptied it earlier and sat it back down after casting a reproachful look at its wine-stained bottom.

“May I ask why, Your Grace?” Jon didn’t like the brooding mood that had settled over Robert.

“Young Robert is a sensitive lad. Gentle. Delicate, I’d say if he were a maid.” Robert’s careful choice of words brought Jon’s apprehension right back. “But his Lady Mother...” Robert gave Jon a near apologetic look. “Lady Lysa is soft with him, careful. I fear she may smother his manliness, and so hamper him as a youth.”

The thought had crossed Jon’s mind, but he didn’t begrudge his young wife her doting care for the boy. It had been trying for her. Robert was their only child, and his needs were different than most. He trusted her to know what was best for their son.

“Do you have someone in mind where he might foster?” Jon said, meeting the King half-way on the question he was beating around the bush about.

The dour clouds of Robert’s expression broke with a beaming smile. “Yes. And before you protest, I assure you that I have given it some thought.”

Jon forced a calm, and hopefully encouraging, smile.

“I believe, strongly believe,” Robert continued. “That it will be best for the boy if he wards at Casterly Rock.”

It may have been good for his son, once. Jon didn’t disagree with that. There would be young peers for him to spend time with - Kevan, Helaina, their friends among their Lord Father’s banners’ children. The bracing climate and sea air might have done his health good. However, there was the matter he’d been investigating.

“Your Grace—.”

Robert raised his hand. “I know, I know. The lion doth not deign to ward.”

Does she suspect us? Jon thought. Are the betrothals a convenient ruse for an investigation of her own? If she knew or suspected, she would undoubtedly share her suspicions with Tywin. Could she have found out? They had been careful. She was a shrewd one, her meticulous image politics during the tourney had shown that. She may have.

“Not to worry,” Robert continued quite unperturbed. “I have it on good authority that his dear Lady Wife can hector him into it.”

Jon doubted anyone could hector Tywin into much of anything. People had said the very same thing when he had wed Lady Joanna. He thought it more likely that it had to do with peoples’ wish to lessen Tywin’s looming presence, rather than the reality of his relationship to either his current or late Lady Wife. Once again, the immediacy of guaranteeing Tywin’s continued support clamoured in his mind. If they knew, this could mean they were moving into a position where they could keep his only son and heir hostage. But did they know?

“I will take it under advisement if you consider it wise, Your Grace,” Jon said tactfully. He couldn’t precisely tell Robert why he was less than thrilled about this prospect.

“Excellent.” Robert slapped his knees and rose. “If that is all? I have a hunt to attend, and I will not have it said I made a Lady wait.”

Jon sighed and nodded, he’d be remiss to say he wasn’t glad the conversation was over. “May I suggest that, in the future, you could plan these events around the meetings of your small council, Your Grace?”

“I will try,” Robert said with good humour. “This one couldn’t be helped. The lady requested it, not I.”

Jon frowned. It had been plain as a plucked cockerel that neither Tywin nor Lady Loren herself had appreciated their King’s overfamiliarity during Joffrey’s name day feast. She and he had been friends, once, but that was a long time ago. And things had changed. Why would she ask him to hawk? It was no secret that hunting was the second-best thing their King liked to do, and the best-thing assuredly wasn’t on the list of acts she was willing to commit to.

“Your Grace.” Ser Jaime saluted as Robert left his chambers.

“Run along, Kingslayer.” Robert made a dismissive gesture. “Go report to your winsome sister that I am going hawking with your good-mother and save her flunkies the effort.”

Jon wished Robert wouldn’t antagonise the knight at every opportunity, lest they find out if he’d care to be a kingslayer twice over.

“As you will it, Your Grace,” Ser Jaime said, his expression impassive as the Wall. With some sorrow, Jon supposed he was used to it. He hoped against his better judgement that Ser Jaime wasn’t keeping a tally.

Jon watched Robert go, his hunting leathers creaking about him in discontent as he walked. The weather was good, at least. The hawks could soar. Sudden realisation snatched him like a falcon: Myrcella was eight. And young Kevan’s… cousin? Niece? He rubbed his forehead. The Lannisters certainly made everything complicated. Wait. He snapped up. If that is the reason—.

“Your Grace, a final word?”

Robert turned to Jon. He smiled amiably as if he’d expected the words. “Quickly, then.”

“Has Lady Loren perchance spoken to you regarding betrothals for her son?”

Robert grinned, seemingly pleased. “Not with so many words, no, but she was rather curious about my plans regarding Myrcella’s future.”

She doesn’t know. Jon blinked. Does Tywin know? No, clearly not. He may be proud, but he was absolutely not stupid. He wouldn’t stake his pre-eminence on a false claim. And he definitely wouldn’t tolerate his son be wed to… to… Jon’s thoughts baulked at thinking the foul words. None of this was the little princess her fault, but it would cost her most, all the same. Jon pushed himself to smile. “That is all, Your Grace. Enjoy your hunt.”

“I shall,” Robert said with a fat wink.

Jon watched him stride away, a swagger to his gait. He shook his head. It really would be better if their King wasn’t so transparent about his appreciation of other men’s wives.

Robert halted abruptly, some ways down the hall. “Oh, and I shall tell her about young Robert!” he bellowed as he gave Jon the thumbs up. “Loren will be pleased, I tell you!” He swore heartily then. “Seven-take-her, even my precious Queen, will be pleased!”

Jon started terribly.

“Can you believe it? I am convinced those two haven’t agreed on a thing ever.” Robert snorted derisively. “She’s twice as quarrelsome with her good-mother as with me, even.”

Cersei desired his son be fostered at Casterly Rock? That, surely, was a move to hold him hostage. Did she know of—.

“Lucky she got her practice in with Tywin, eh?” Robert chortled and waved a hand in their direction. “King slayer, tell your sister it is a done deal, while you’re at it!”

Jon marshalled his reeling nerves. He could not let on any of this alarmed him, particularly not with Ser Jaime right beside him. If they didn’t suspect him yet then seeing his reaction would assuredly make it so.

“It seems you have been relieved of your duty for the day,” Jon said to Ser Jaime as they watched the King truly leave now. His light tone sounded forced, even to his own ears.

Ser Jaime pursed his lips sideways, and it reminded Jon of Lady Joanna, who’d do it just so when irritated. How long since she’d passed, now? Twice-ten years? More? Ser Jaime resembled his Lady Mother with his delicate, alabaster features, mild cat-green eyes and hair like beaten gold.

“I will see to my young brother, then.”

“Ah yes, a squire soon. A great leap for every growing boy,” Jon said with a gentle nod. “Give him my compliment.”

Jaime smiled, and it made him look more like the late Lady Lannister still. “I will.”

Jon made his way back out of Maegor’s Holdfast, down the serpentine steps and to the small council’s chambers. By the time he passed the Valyrian sphinxes guarding the entrance to the modest hall, sweat beaded on his forehead once more. Perhaps he ought to move the small council to his solar.

The Baratheon brothers, Ser Stannis and Renly, sat on either side of the King’s seat at the head of the massive, polished trestle table. Ser Stannis, serious and prim, sat with his back straighter than the chair he sat on. Renly, his brown hair in a fashionably unkempt ponytail, reclined sideways with an elbow on the table, already bored. Grand maester Pycelle hunched, shuffling his papers. Correspondence from the ravens, no doubt. Only Ser Barristan Selmy rose when Jon entered.

“Lord Hand.” Ser Barristan inclined his head.

“Lord Commander,” Jon returned as he walked around the table to the King’s vacant seat. Two more places were empty. Lord Petyr Baelish, the master of coin, was missing. As was Master Varys. However, Jon suspected the clever eunuch only attended when he needed to verify information from his ‘little birds’. Or when he had seeds of his own to plant.

“A good afternoon, my Lord,” Pycelle was quick to say on the knight’s heels, his voice feeble.

“Grand Maester,” Jon acknowledged. For the briefest of moments, he entertained relieving Lord Baelish from his duties the minute he arrived. Not that his lateness was such a grievous offence or a regular occurrence, but it was a reason. Jon didn’t like the man and never had, and yet he could not point to any one thing. Lysa spoke highly of him, but then he was her childhood friend. He wasn’t inadequate at his responsibility, either. Still, Jon rather saw the back of him.

Jon seated himself at the head of the table. They had several pressing matters to discuss: the state of the fleet, repairs on the seaward defences, the laying of stores for the coming winter and, not least among his worries, how they were to settle the bill for Robert’s latest fete. Even though nominally, it was not in his own but young Kevan’s honour. Best they start light with the ships.

“Lord Stannis, if you will,” Jon said.

Stannis pursed his lips as everyone turned to regard him. “The construction of three carracks is well underway. It may be possible to add a fourth graving dock if we dam the eastern wharf.”

“And thin trade even more?” his brother scoffed. “It’s already impossible to get Penthosian wine.”

Though a decade hence, the royal fleet was only now recovering from the Greyjoy rebellion. It had taken years to rebuild King’s Landing after the Sack, and that had eaten into their reserves. In those early days, Tywin had refused loans, citing the need to fortify Lannisport and the whole of the Westerlands in anticipation of Ironborn activity in the regnal power vacuum. He had not been wrong. Yet a man could be right and serve his agenda - a fortune of confluence. Not for the first time in all these long years, Jon wondered if there had been more to the refusal than wounded pride.

“If trouble stirs in the east and we are caught with our braies untucked, there will never be fine wines again, brother.” Stannis’ tone was terse. He put his hands on the table, palms pressed against the dark wood.

The Greyjoy rebellion had come and gone, leaving the royal fleet limping on the quayside as surely as it had the Lannister ships. And they’d been burned at anchor. Yet the Lannisters had the means to rebuild their fleet despite Lannisport laying in ashes and had done so swift as their coastal winds while the crown tottered on its last coppers. Tywin had agreed to extend loans then and on his terms as they had been in no position to make demands.

Renly had sat up now, his attention on Stannis. “And what good will fine ships do us when the loyal subjects of our dear brother rise up against us?”

“Over wine?” Stannis crooked an eyebrow.

Now, the lion’s share - Jon smiled, amused at his word choice despite himself - of their debt was to the Lion of the Westerlands. And the Iron Bank of Braavos, which wasn’t much better. What if it was by design?

“They’ve revolted over less.” Renly turned to the Grand Maester. “Isn’t that so?”

Jon didn’t doubt Tywin would use the debt when it served him. His thoughts strayed to Robert’s words regarding Myrcella. They could definitely force that betrothal if they wished to. Didn’t they know what Cersei and her twin brother had done? Or was it all feints? Meant to give the illusion of legitimacy where there was none?

Pycelle flinched as if he’d been dozing, but Jon caught the keen look in his green eyes. “The sumptuary law of 278 AC was ill-received.” Jon leaned forward, straining to understand the Grand Maester’s stuttering account. “It restricted the wearing of Lysian silk to the landed nobility. Before, it had been available to any who could afford it. Which were not many, to be sure! But it is the idea, you see. Many a merchant or trader may see it as their future, robbed prematurely. Some of our powerful but, say, not quite pedigreed, Lords, took great offence and harnessed this ambitious smallfolk to their side to—.”

“The point, Grand Maester,” Jon said, not unkindly.

Pycelle huffed, stacking his papers. “The point—.”

“The point is: a bunch of up-shot merchants blockaded the city over whether or not their fine ladies might wear silken smallclothes between the sheets,” Renly interjected. “Hardly a life essential, though I am sure our King would disagree.”

“It has been too long the fleet has been below strength.” A vessel started to pulse at Stannis’ neck as he spoke.

“And whose fault is that?” Renly crooked a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “You’re the Master of Ships. Is it not your duty to find a way?”

“I found a way,” Stannis said through gritted teeth.

Renly waved his hand. “A poor way. Lord Brokken Lannister of Lannisport ought to take your seat. The Lannister fleet has been bobbing at the port at strength for several years now. And it was burnt to the last plank a crispy black, I believe.”

Pycelle bobbed his venerable head. “Yes, precisely so. All fifty-and-three vessels—.”

“No.” Stannis glared at his sibling. “There is enough lions at court as it is.”

Renly shrugged. “At least they know their ships.”

As Stannis looked about ready to explode, Jon quickly raised his hands in a placating manner. “We can find a middle ground,” he said. “And Lord Stannis is not wrong. The Lannisters are not well-loved in our capital. If these tensions around imported luxury goods are as you say, then their further involvement may only fuel the fire.”

“ ‘The Lannisters are not well-loved’, ” Renly repeated, his tone nasal and overacted. “People keep telling me this, and yet all I saw was crowds cheering loudest every time that little lion rode his pony at the quintain.”

“Smallfolk are fond of the children’s games.” Pycelle had folded his bony hands atop his parchments.

Renly flicked his hand and eyes in perfected unison. “Evidently, even when its the ickle-wickle whelp of the Lord they purportedly hate? Sure.”

Stannis pursed his lips. “Young Lord Kevan is a gallant little fellow and charming as they come at that age.”

Jon frowned. The Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock had been on their best behaviour for Prince Joffrey’s name day tourney, even Tywin had been near pleasant. He realised then that it had been an intelligent ploy to garner a favourable image. They had not come to court in years. For many, court peers and smallfolk alike, it would be the first they ever saw of the lions. He glanced at Renly, who had slouched once more. Might there be more who shared his blase attitude towards the Sack and the House that had permitted it?

“The Lannisters host some of the most prestigious fetes on Westeros, and they do not overlook their middling class and smallfolk,” Ser Barristan said. He had not spoken up before though Jon was not surprised he did now. Ser Barristan had been a famous tourney knight in his younger days, and he still enjoyed riding down the lists. “Lady Loren conforms to the common people their expectations of a pre-eminent peeress and the Grand Lady of a Great House. She is well-loved in the Westerlands. And it is that way, precisely, because of how she conducted herself, her Lord Husband and her children, such as she did at the Crown Prince’s tourney.”

Renly snorted. “You mean, unlike our beloved Queen?”

“Don’t let Her Grace hear you, her toes are as long as they are fair.” Lord Petyr Baelish swept into the room with a flutter of his silk capelet, striking down on the empty seat like the bird on his sigil as the fine cloth settled about his narrow shoulders.

“Someone ought to cut them down to size.” Renly shifted to lean on his other elbow, away from Lord Baelish.

“Lord Baelish, I am pleased you were able to join us after all,” Jon said before the topic of Queen Cersei’s vanity could be discussed further.

Lord Baelish smiled that soft, insipid smile. “And how I wish it was with good tidings for you, Lord Jon.”

“Out with it, Baelish,” Stannis demanded. “You’re already late, don’t insult us further.”

“You wound me, Ser Stannis. I would never delay the realm’s vital matters.” Lord Baelish’ grieved expression was as fake as the shimmering black of his short hair.

Jon had a bad feeling about the petty Lord’s good mood. They rarely turned out well for anyone but Petyr Baelish himself. “Lord Baelish, how are our coffers?”

“As empty as his promises, I am sure,” Renly scoffed. The Baratheon brothers shared their first agreeing look in weeks. They are a good team, Jon thought, when they can get over themselves long enough to work for a common goal.

Lord Baelish’ expression was pained as he folded his hands, one palm across the other. “It is the matter of little Lord Kevan’s squiring fete—.”

Apprehension settled in Jon’s stomach like spoilt supper as Lord Baelish caught his gaze. Had Ser Jaime refused? Had Robert changed his mind? Jon glanced at Ser Barristan. Have you stood by the old tradition that none but future Kingsguard may squire with its current members? For one, horrible, moment, Jon feared he had unwittingly supported the induction of a ten-year-old.

“—the King’s feast for the young squire has a tidy bill that will need paying.”

Jon stifled his sigh of relief. Monetary problems they had plenty, to be sure, but it beat having to inform Tywin another son would take up the white, any day.

“How much will it cost us?” Stannis had clenched his jaw. He wanted to fund for the fleet and, Jon suspected, the Stormlands. They had ever sat in the shadow of the Crownlands and had never recovered from the wars with Dorne.

“372 500 dragons and 8 stags, precisely,” Lord Baelish answered with a mathematician’s satisfaction.

“Three-hundred—.” Jon could all but see the calculations fly by behind Stannis’ grey eyes, which widened a fraction in shock. * “How.”*

“There’s the banquet, of course, and the tokens for guests. The honour guard and the minstrels and mummers,” Lord Baelish enumerated as he struck a finger for each item. “The throne room has been decorated, and then there’s the King’s gift—.”

“If only our brother cared to spend as much on us, eh?” Renly remarked as he tossed Stannis a look. He’d slouched again.

“Can we afford it?” Jon may not like Lord Baelish, but he was decent at his job.

Lord Baelish steepled his fingers and pursed his lips, drawing out the moment as he looked at each of them in turn before catching Jon’s gaze once more.

“Sadly, no,” he said as he folded his hands in defeat.

“Then we must call it off,” Stannis said, ever pragmatic and unable to empathise.

“We are not calling off a child’s name day party.” Renly sat up an blew a stray bang out of his face. “And certainly not mere hours before it starts!”

Stannis opened his mouth and closed it again. The muscle in his jaw flexed. “It’s not his name day.”

“Like the difference will matter to the lad,” Renly pointed out. “Besides, will you escort Lord Tywin’s sobbing child to him? Because I plan to be out of town for that one.”

“Have you been successful in your negotiations with the Iron Bank of Braavos, Lord Baelish?” Jon interrupted, steering the conversation back to the fact of the bill rather than its potential consequences.

At his words, Lord Baelish’ insipid smile became positively self-satisfied. “Yes, they have extended our credit and agreed not to charge returns for the coming two years.”

“Good, very good.” Jon chose not to wonder on how, precisely, Lord Baelish had managed to wheedle the infamous institution into wholly meeting their demands.

“However, it would be prudent to save those for, let us say, greater matters that require deeper pockets,” Lord Baelish added.

“Agreed,” Jon said with a nod.

“We have some levies that we can cover the little fete’s expenses with,” Lord Baelish said. “We can raise import taxes for the coming quarter to make up for it.”

“No.” Stannis made a cutting motion with his hand. “Traders will skip our port and make straight for White Harbour and Lannisport instead.”

“So?” Renly drawled. “I bet Lord Tywin taxes the daylight out of anyone making port in his Lady Wife’s humble town. All we need to do is stay a margin under him.”

“If we do that the Starks will have a good year.” Stannis’ lips had become a thin line as his palms pressed against the wood of the table.

“It doesn’t matter.” Renly shook his head, his tousled locks bouncing about his shoulders in such a dramatic fashion that Jon could all but hear the youths and maidens sighing. “The lions and wolves can’t stand each other. Our brother placated Lord Stark, and they may be willing to discuss import agreements to cut Lannisport.”

Robert had been cheerful the other day, when Jon had asked, in passing, after his renewed correspondence with Eddard. Jon had good hopes his foster sons had bridged the chasm that had grown between them. However, Renly wasn’t wholly correct. It was the wolf who couldn’t stand the lion. Jon wasn’t so sure the lion felt the same.

Lord Baelish smiled pleasantly. “Perhaps we should ask the wolves, then, if we might lend their tail? It’s not like they have need of it for wagging.”

“Surely, there are reserves left to us, to pay for the fete?” Ser Barristan said, a frown creasing his lined brow. Everyone looked at Lord Baelish, who pointedly turned to Stannis.

Stannis ground his teeth. “There are fleet reserves.”

“We shall use those,” Lord Baelish said amiably. “And we can entreat the Iron Bank to finance further expansion of the fleet.”

Stannis looked pleasantly surprised, but Jon shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

The fleet reserves had come from Casterly Rock, together with Lannisport shipwrights and Westerland hardwood and steel. In essence, generous ‘gifts’ that Jon was acutely aware of, as well as the stream of gold trickling back to Casterly Rock through the pay and keep of these shipbuilding crews. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, though, and Tywin had spared no ink to use it. Not that Jon was naive enough to think another Lord wouldn’t have, given the same opportunity. Charity was for the Silent Sisters, as the proverb went.

“Why not? They will easily suffice.” Lord Baelish smiled still, but the mirth had left his eyes.

Jon looked at him, gauging his intent. “Those reserves come from Lord Tywin and are intended for the fleet. If we change how we spend them, we must inform him.”

“The party is a gift from our King to the boy, Baelish,” Renly said with a look as if he considered the petty Lord both dimwitted and beneath him. “Are you volunteering to tell Lord Tywin he’s footing the bill?”

“Oh, that is very true, how silly of me, that might certainly ruffle his mane,” Lord Baelish said, and while his tone was flippant, there was venom in the look he threw Renly.

Renly snorted. “You think? A choice gift indeed if you have to pay for it yourself.”

“No doubt, Lord Tywin has spent more on the boy than most of us do in a lifetime,” Stannis said. He’d managed to unclench his jaw, for now. Although his palms still pressed on the wood, the tension not having left them just yet.

“As is his duty as Father,” Pycelle’s reedy stutter added with a disapproving frown at the King’s brothers. Pycelle was ever servile, but today his sycophantic comments made Jon frown. He resolved to be mindful around the old Maester, incase he whispered to leonine ears. Maesters were supposed to swear off all bonds of loyalty except to the Lord they served, but old allegiances died hard.

Renly slouched, his expression bored. “I am putting myself up for warding with the lions. I wouldn’t mind a few gifts like that.”

Stannis looked at his brother with open disgust.

Renly grinned. “What’s that, Stannis? Afraid they’ll forge me a dandy antlered crown?”

Stannis jaw worked.

Jon raised his hands in a placating manner. “My Lords.”

The last thing Jon needed was the two brothers trying to entice the Lannisters to either of their sides. The Tyrells were already behind Renly. They were the traditional enemies of the Lannisters. The two Great Houses bickered over their shared border like fishmongers over a cod cut. An alliance was unlikely, but Jon was wholly unwilling to chance it.

Ser Barristan crossed his arms. “If Lord Tywin puts a crown on anyone’s head, it’ll be his Lady Wife, and an exquisite Queen she’d be.”

A Tyrell-Lannister alliance would have a stranglehold on Westeros’ economy. Olenna and Tywin’s mother, the late Lady Jeyne Lannister, had been ladies-in-waiting together at King Jaehaerys Targaryen’s court. And at Joffrey’s name day tourney, Olenna and Tywin had yet been on speaking terms.

“As fine as our beloved Queen.” Pycelle bobbed his ancient head sagely. Jon curbed the urge to tell him to cut it out.

If Renly, or more likely, Olenna herself, was attempting to forge this alliance, he must reinforce Tywin’s support to Robert sooner rather than later. Twice so, in light of the matter they were investigating. However, if Robert and Eddard had reconciled, a further tightening of bonds might prove troublesome on account of the latter’s dislike of the Lannisters in general, and Tywin in particular. Eddard had never forgiven him for allowing his banners to tarnish their justified rebellion with the blood of the Targaryen children.

“Doesn’t he do so already, on her name day?” The disapproval was obvious in Stannis’ tone.

And yet, though the wolf couldn’t stand the lion, Jon wasn’t so sure the lion felt the same. Again, he thought of Eddard’s daughters. All it would take was one wolf, one young wolf, and that one-sided feud might be gone.

“Indeed,” Ser Barristan said.

“When is the tourney, half a year, thereabouts?” Renly straightened, leaning both elbows on the table.

“Eight months,” Ser Barristan said. “You mean to attend?”

“Loras mentioned it.” Renly’s tone was thoughtful.

Jon hadn’t yet forgotten his earlier comment. Few would think twice of the sons of Great Houses attending such an event, certainly one as eminent as a fete in honour of a Grand Lady of peer Great House. A chance meeting, an exchange of thoughts, a sharing of drinks together that would attract attention in any other setting. Indeed, Jon had once used the very same tactic, many years ago. He frowned. He must secure Tywin’s continued support of Robert. More so than ever, it would seem.

Ser Barristan nodded. “I will ride. The Lady Loren asked that I preside the squire’s tourney.”

“Ah, the first occasion young Lord Kevan will enter the lists as a young man, is it?” Pycelle wheezed as he stroke his beard.

Ser Barristan inclined his head. “Just so.”

“My Lords. I understand the importance of jousts to the realm, but might we continue with the matter at hand?” Lord Baelish suggested smoothly. “Whether Lord Tywin would like a crown is perchance better saved for the solar and a glass of fine Penthosian wine.”

“Good luck finding that,” Renly scoffed as he threw his brother a look. Lord Baelish’ perfect eyebrows rose, but he didn’t ask.

“His daughter is Queen,” Stannis said, the scowl contorting his mouth. “What more does he want.”

His son to be Hand, Jon thought but kept that notion to himself.

“The debts owed paid, I imagine,” Ser Barristan frowned also. “Baelish, it is your task to see to these things - and without loan upon loan.”

Lord Baelish raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “Unlike Lord Tywin, I cannot sift a bucket of gold from our sewage, Ser.”

“My Lords, the matter at hand,” Jon interjected before it could escalate. What was it today with everyone regarding the Lannisters? This was no use. Jon decided they’d settle the matter of the fete and then adjourn. He wished to speak to Stannis, regarding the matter they were investigating, but now, also, regarding his younger brother’s seemingly casual remarks. They could not afford a Tyrell-Lannister alliance as a result of Tywin choosing Renly’s side. And Stannis jilting him regarding his daughter’s offspring might do just that.

“I have modest private funds,” Lord Baelish said. He laced his fingers, smiling amicably.

“Another loan, but this time from you.” The distaste in Stannis’ tone was impossible to miss.

“Well, the funds must come from somewhere,” Lord Baelish bristled. “I suppose it is easy enough when one’s Hand sits on gold mines, apologies Lord Jon, but alas we do not have such luxury.”

“We could, perhaps, invade the Westerlands?” Varys glided from the shadows, the voluminous sleeves and skirts of his sumptuous houppelande whispering in his wake.

“Are you out of your mind?” Stannis demanded. The palms of his hands tapped against the wood.

Varys smiled softly as he folded his on his ample stomach. “Invasion by marriage, I apologise for my unclear word choice.”

No, you don’t, Jon thought. No one made comments such as that idly, certainly not someone as crafty as the eunuch. A way to gauge the room on Lannister support, he decided. The disquieting feeling of brewing unrest swam somewhere in the vicinity of Jon’s stomach. Had Varys found out? He may have. Did his comment imply he wanted a change of King? Or only Queen?

“Quit speaking riddles.” Stannis scowled.

“A marriage could bring us the funds we seek.” Varys’ puffy, powdered face tempered with a gentle smile. “Myrcella and little Lord Kevan.”

Jon flinched. If he knew, he was intentionally steering for a scandal.

“They are related.”

Jon flinched all over again. This time, it was Ser Barristan who had spoken up in distaste. How had he—.

“Cousins.” Varys unctuous smile never wavering. “As are Lady Loren and Lord Tywin.”

“Technically, the boy is her uncle.” Lord Baelish glanced up from inspecting his nails. “The Queen is his big sister, after all.”

Right. Jon let his breath slip. For a moment he’d thought—.

“Half sister,” Pycelle amended promptly.

“Lord Gerald and Lord Tywin are cousins, and maternal ones at that.” Ser Barristan shook his head. “Lady Loren’s relation to her Lord Husband is more distant.”

Baratheon, Arryn, Starks, Tully and Lannisters had once seen eye to eye. If he could reforge those old alliances, Robert’s reign would be secure. Betrothals, as they’d done then - Kevan to a Stark girl and his little sister, Helaina, to his Robbie. Jon pursed his lips. It could work. And if he committed to tutoring young Kevan, taking him with as he went about his duties as Hand, Tywin might yet stay with them when they brought their evidence before Robert and the whole of the royal court.

“Let us settle the matter of the fete,” Renly said. “I grow tired and have more interesting occasions to attend to.”

Jon gave the youngest Baratheon brother a look, but Renly ignored it. Jon sighed. In truth, he was growing tired too. “Very well.”

“Lord Baelish, you said you had some funds.” Ser Barristan had crossed his arms once more. Despite his age, they were thick with muscle. It reminded Jon how winded he’d been, coming down the stairs. He’d never been a soldier, but he knew perfectly well that he could do more for his health.

“Private funds from a lucrative venture,” the petty Lord said. He’d clasped his hands, and Jon entertained the notion he resisted the longing to rub them together. No, Jon thought. No, we shall not be indebted to you, Petyr.

Ser Barristan’s bushy eyebrows rose. “‘Venture’?”

Lord Baelish smiled, almost apologetically. “Modest funds, certainly, from an establishment I invested in.”

“Establishment?” Stannis scoffed. “You mean that whorehouse on the street of silks.”

“Well. The ladies—.” Lord Baelish stacked his fingers.

“Whores.” Stannis glared.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Varys said smoothly, his tone as slick as the silks pandered on that street.

Jon flinched as what Stannis had threatened ever since he’d put his hands on the table finally happened. The Lord of Dragonstone slammed his open palms on the wood, rising in anger. “We are NOT paying for a * child’s* fete with whore pennies!”

Varys inclined his head demurely.

Certainly not for Tywin’s child’s fete, Jon thought. Tywin had never quite softened to the plight of those women. Not after his Lord Father had squandered their gold on them and taken one to mistress right under the Lady Jeyne’s nose. Jon hadn’t forgotten what had happened to that woman when Lord Tytos had passed.

Lord Baelish pursed his lips, his feathers ruffled. “It’s a trade, like any other.”

Renly let out a snort of laughter, Stannis merely glared. Ser Barristan had straightened in his seat, disapproval on his lined face.

“A dangerous one, too, those poor women.” Varys smiled softly. “They are lucky to have you watch over them, Lord Baelish.”

The master of coin smiled, inclining his head.

Are they? Jon thought. Are they, truly?

“We will use funds from the Eyrie,” Jon said. Everyone looked at him. His House wasn’t quite as prosperous as the Lannisters - he smiled to himself, not in any meaning of that word - but neither were they poor. They could use part of the funds he’d set aside for repairs on the Gates of the Moon. Those were necessary, yes, but had been for a decade. They could wait a while longer still.

“Lord Jon, if I have given offence regarding your capacities as Hand, I dearly apologise,” Lord Baelish said, sweet and servile.

Spare me, Jon thought. That jest of Tywin shitting gold was old when you were born. He wanted the matter done with, he needed to speak with Stannis. “None taken, Lord Baelish. I will send word to my treasurer, Eryn Wyles.”

“It’s most gracious of you to provide private funds, Lord Jon.” Varys hands folded into the unimaginable depths of his voluminous sleeves. “If that is all, my Lords? I must attend to other matters.”

“Your little ‘birds’ have ‘need’ of you?” Renly scoffed. He slouched in his chair, kicking a leg idly. He flashed a wicked grin at Varys.

“I only ever tweet to my flitter-flatters, Lord Renly,” Varys cast his gaze down with a demure nod. “My… late employer left me little choice, as it were.”

Renly laughed heartily at that.

Stannis pursed his lips. “What ‘bird’ might tweet matters of equal import to this council?”

Varys looked up and right at Jon. A soft smile curving his painted lips. “Why, the fairest bird in all the realm.” Before Jon could respond, the eunuch turned and swept away with the rustle of great lengths of exceedingly expensive samite.

“Indeed, this is all,” Jon said and rose. “Let us meet on further matters on the morrow, at noon.” There were agreeing noises from around the room. Only Renly looked displeased. No doubt, he must reschedule some outing or the other. He might complain about it but what mattered is that he did it. Jon sighed. If only Robert would.

“Stannis, a word,” Jon said as the Lords filed out. He caught Renly’s suspicious look and added: “you wanted my thoughts on the fleet composition?”

Stannis halted, frowned. Jon caught his gaze and tried to signal him with his eyes. It felt as if eternity passed before Stannis gave a curt nod. “I did.”

“Let us walk, then.”

Jon meant to return to the tower of the Hand but thought better of it. Instead, he conducted Stannis to the eastern court gardens. There may be ‘birds’ there, too, but the open architecture made him feel it would be harder on them to eavesdrop. Not impossible, no, but harder, at least.

They walked in silence, each to their own thoughts. Jon tried to decide how to start the discussion. There were several things he meant to address. On at least two of the three matters, he anticipated resistance from the younger man.

“Fairest bird in all the realm,” Stannis pursed his lips. “He meant Cersei. She knows, then.”

Perhaps. Varys was tricky. He’d certainly meant the Queen. But, had he intended to let on she - he - knew of their clandestine investigation, or did he merely wish for them to believe so? “I wouldn’t go on the word of a spider alone,” Jon said. “But it is not unthinkable. The lions are not altogether clueless.”

Stannis’ lips twitched, and for a moment Jon thought he might smile. “The little lion is sharp as a dirk.”

“I imagine his Lord Father made sure the best whetstones are applied to his young mind.” Jon clasped his hands behind his back as they ambled through the lavish gardens, pebbles crunching underfoot. Kevan was a good topic to start on. He suspected Stannis was enamoured with the boy. Jon smiled to himself. Four short weeks ago none in King’s Landing knew Casterly Rock’s pint-sized heir. Now, he dared guess those who didn’t were scarce.

“He assisted me with fleet inventory calculations. He had asked to, said he wanted to impress his uncle when he came home.” Stannis pursed his lips but Jon could tell he was pleased.

“Not his grandfather?” Jon asked, surprised. Lord Gerald Lannister was Lord of Lannisport and fleet master, last he’d heard.

“He said uncle,” Stannis scowled.

“I believe you,” Jon said, not wanting to irk the younger Lord already.

“He meant his mother’s older brother, I believe.”

Ser Brokken, then, Jon thought. He wondered why the boy favoured his uncle. “He did well, I take it?”

They had halted at a fountain, water instead of fire spewing from its three marble dragons. The water clattered cheerfully, the morning sun glinting on the splashing water. Its sound would obscure their voices from any but the keenest ears.

Stannis turned to Jon. “He is serviceable with his numbers, but that was not what he excelled on.”

Jon smiled despite himself. “Don’t let Lord Tywin hear, I dare say ‘servicable’ isn’t what he’d like.”

Stannis gave a curt nod. Jon sighed. So much for striving to keep a light mood. “What did he do well at?”

“Plotting coastal patrol routes,” Stannis said. “He took one long look at the map and adjusted the current routes to overlap more efficiently, as well as using fewer ships.”

“No small feat for an adult, nevermind a ten-year-old. He must have spent a good amount of hours being drilled on similar tasks, perhaps optimising guard patrols or area canvassing.” It was an essential skill for a field commander. Again, Jon had the unnerving feeling unrest was brewing. He was positive Tywin would have his young son instructed in these matters even if they were in the middle of the greatest peace of their age. And yet, here was a ten-year-old performing a task an adult commander might be troubled with. Maybe, it was merely a boy with a knack for the same skills as his father. Or, it was another incongruity. Another leaf falling spelling the change in seasons, the end of summer.

Stannis looked him up and down, his frown wrinkling deeper. “What is it you wanted to speak about? Not ships, I think.”

There it was. Jon took a deep breath. “The matter we’ve been investigating.”

Revulsion delineated Stannis’ already resolute features harder still. “It is true, I know it.”

“It very likely is,” Jon said, his tone diplomatic. They had calculated the years, tracked Ser Jaime’s whereabouts, even visited a near dozen of Robert’s bastards. And while it was true a wife’s children might look like her, even three, four; none of the bastards did. None.

“We must tell Robert, and soon.” Stannis’ tone was firm. He was sure, had been from the start. So confident, in fact, that it had given Jon pause at the onset. Robert and his younger brother were scarce a year apart, and with no legitimate son, Stannis was his natural heir.

“There is one more avenue I wish to explore. I have been able to acquire a copy of Grand Maester Maelleon’s work on the lineage of the Great Houses, including Baratheon and Lannister.”

“A maester one-hundred years dead and buried.” Stannis’ temper turned impatient. “What possibly can ancient history tell us on this matter?”

Now it was Jon’s turn to frown. “A great deal if we have the wits to hear and wish our accusation to be wildfireproof.”

“Your wish,” Stannis pointed out.

Jon let it slide. He’d always had a cautious nature, he knew this. He also knew young Kevan wasn’t the only Lannister that didn’t lack for wits. If they couldn’t ascertain Tywin’s continued support and if there was even the smallest of cracks in their claim. He’d turn it into a gaping hole. If he could be won to their side… Lady Loren would surely side with him, Ser Kevan as well. Even the Imp might, on account of his apparent affection for his good-mother if not his father. Besides, there was absolutely no love lost between him and his sister. Even Jon could tell. Jaime would undoubtedly side with Cersei, but he’d never had the sharpest claws of their pride, and he was only one knight - one sworn white cloak: no name, no lands, no funds. And no longer vital to his father’s grand ambitions.

“Lord Jon?” Stannis’ voice cut through his thoughts, then repeated his question: “How do you mean to use this book?”

“It’s a genealogical record, famous for both its accuracy and meticulous recording. It should corroborate our theory - Baratheons’ dark as winter wood, Lannisters fair as the summer sun.” Jon sat down on one of the elegantly carved marble benches near the fountain. His back ached, and sitting afforded some small relief.

“That is all?”

Jon glanced up at Stannis’ dismayed words. “Lady Loren said she thought there may have been a Baratheon maid wed into her side of the family around the time the record was made. I mean to see if that’s true, for it could provide the ironclad proof we need.”

“You told Lady Loren?” Stannis said sharply. That boded ill for one of the other points he meant to discuss. As he had feared.

“No.” Jon shook his head. “We came to speak of lineages after I complimented her boy’s performance at the tourney and remarked on his striking similarity to his father.”

Stannis made a noise that could have been derision. “The lions all resemble each other. Kevan looks just like Lord Tywin. His sister Helaina is the Queen in miniature. Even the little fat one—.”

“Tion,” Jon corrected mildly.

“—Tion, looks like the old lion.”

Like his grandfather Tytos, actually Jon thought but he didn’t say it out loud. Poor boy. His grandfather was not well-loved by his father.

Lady Loren had told Jon her Lady Mother was dark of hair, as was her older brother, who in turn had a raven-haired daughter himself. She had confided, moreover, fear for a dark-haired child of her own. In light of Robert’s appalling behaviour ever since they’d come to court, Jon understood her concern all too well. If such a child were born, there would be talk no matter the truth.

“After you have pursued this avenue…?”

Their investigation indicated she need not fear - all her children with Tywin would be golden as the sun, like their parents. Jon had wanted to reassure her but knew he couldn’t do so without revealing what they had discovered. And so, he’d said nothing. He felt poorly about that. It had been evident that the possibility gave her much concern.

“If it confirms our suspicions we can bring our case before Robert,” Jon agreed. Then he shook his head. “We must mitigate the odds of Lord Tywin calling his banners and bringing war to our doorstep.”

“His daughter committed treason.” Stannis’ jaw worked.

“Indeed, it seems she has.” Jon sighed. “However—.”

“Treason,” Stannis repeated. “And shielding her will be tantamount to the same.”

Stannis certainly wasn’t wrong, but that was not the point Jon wished to make, and so he said: “would you not do the same for Shireen?”

Stannis’ scowl darkened. “Shireen is a child.”

Jon nodded. “That she is, but if she weren’t? If she was a woman grown and someone brought a claim of treason to your threshold?”

Stannis’ jaw worked.

“Wouldn’t it be a father’s duty to protect her?” Jon pressed. He needed Stannis to see the necessity of meeting Tywin halfway - three quarters if need be.

“It would be his duty to get to the bottom of it.” Stannis’ tone was reluctant. It was as much of an agreement as Jon would have dared wish for. After a moment of thought, Stannis added: “I would hold myself to the verdict.”

Jon’s expression turned sad. You would, wouldn’t you? he thought. He hoped no one would ever speak of the disfigured girl with convincing ill-will to her father.

“You aren’t Lord Tywin, however,” Jon said diplomatically.

Stannis gave a curt nod.

“He’s a pragmatic man when it comes down to it, and House Lannister’s honour no longer rests solely on the twins’ shoulders.” And not for the first time that day, Jon thought how fortunate they were in that. If they could ensure the futures Tywin likely coveted for his younger children, he just might be willing to cut his losses.

Stannis rubbed his chin, his brow furrowing. “You think he could be persuaded to stand aside? The Queen won’t like that.”

“He might. And no, she most assuredly won’t.” Without the tangible threat of Tywin’s swift and sharp retribution, Queen Cersei had very little; indeed, Jon thought. And no doubt, she knew it as well.

“If we can ensure certain prospects more worthwhile to retain than a disgraced daughter...” Stannis mused as he pursed his lips.

“Son and daughter,” Jon corrected mildly. It wasn’t merely Cersei who had committed treason. And they ought not to forget it cost Tywin two children, not just the one. His two eldest children, at that, the son and daughter traditionally most valuable to a noble House’s future.

“But not his heir.”

“Therein lies our gain,” Jon said. It will be a scandal, no doubt. A blemish on the Lannisters’ golden history that they will have a tough chore polishing away, to be sure. But it wouldn’t be the end of the House. * Needn’t be,* Jon corrected himself. Not the way it would have been if Tywin hadn’t wed again, hadn’t had additional sons he was willing to leave land and title to.

“You sound as if you have given it thought?” There was an edge of suspicion to Stannis’ tone.

Jon had given it quite a lot of thought, the past fortnight as they assembled their final pieces of evidence, but he said: “Some, yes.”

Stannis regarded him carefully. “And these thoughts entail?”

“I could tutor Kevan, take him with me as I go about my work,” Jon said as he clasped his hands in his lap. “Tywin has served this realm as Hand for over twenty years, and not inadequately, despite the increasing instability of King Aerys. I do not think it a poor guess that he might have similar ambitions for his son.”

The beginning of a scowl crept onto Stannis’ stern face. “It would also give him ears at court and right beside the King, at that.” Jon had considered this too and knew it would make the offer all the sweeter for it. Tywin hadn’t come to court in nearly ten years, and so there was no reason to assume he wanted ears here. However, a shrewd man wouldn’t decline an opportunity freely given. Small ears hear the clearest, as Varys once said regarding his little informants.

“It would, but if he wanted it, he already has it through Ser Jaime standing guard right outside Robert’s door, through Cersei and her ladies, or the nephews squiring for our King.” Not entirely true, for Kevan was a ten-year-old who loved his father as well as any young boy might. And Varys had once told him that: ‘small ears hear the clearest’. Jon didn’t think Stannis would consider this nuance, to him children were children, bless his stubborn heart.

Stannis’ expression soured. “It would be no promise, but the implication the boy be Hand after you is there.”

“It will still be six long years before the boy will be of age, but yes.”

“A son’s future for a daughter’s trial.”

Jon didn’t like to think of it that way, but it was true.

“Robert likes the boy,” Stannis added.

Jon knew it to be correct. Did he fear young Kevan might prove a rival? It was not unheard for kings without legitimate issue to adopt an heir. He couldn’t afford Stannis to be suspicious of the boy. And so he said: “He’s young yet, and we’d have some years to help him grow. You come to the council.” Jon smiled, though it was a sad smile. “Robert does not.”

Stannis seemed to consider this. “You think this will be enough to pull Lord Tywin’s support?”

Jon wished it would be, but he dared not hope. Tywin likely considered it within his own capacities to assure this future for his son. They would need more. Something he could not as quickly achieve himself. It was why he’d come up with his second assurance. “I will speak to Lady Loren and confess an interest in the promise of betrothal between her daughter Helaina and my son Robert.”

The way Stannis stiffened told Jon what he would say even before he burst. Jon sighed. And so came the first of the two anticipated arguments.

“You will hand them the Eyrie?” Stannis struggled to keep his voice low, to not raise it into an angered shout.

“It won’t come to that,” Jon said with more confidence than he felt. His son was sickly. He might not even make it to wed and become a man grown, he thought with a heavy heart.

Stannis gave him a sceptical look, and Jon heard the unspoken words as surely as if he’d spoken them.

“Robert spoke with Lady Loren, he wishes my son page with her Lord Husband, at the Rock.” Jon left out the part regarding Cersei desiring this also. It concerned him a great deal, to be sure, but it would only fan Stannis’ unease.

When Stannis spoke, he’d seemingly dropped the topic. “She spoke with Lord Royce,” he said.

Jon frowned, confused. “I imagine she spoke with a great many lords, including you, I presume, this morn?”

“That she did.” Stannis cocked his head. “You do not think it odd she spoke to him?”

Jon frown deepened. “House Royce is an ancient and respected House of the Vale—.”

“Of the Vale, indeed,” Stannis said. “The kings of old, were they not?”

“Yes?” Where was he going with this?

“A while ago, you mentioned you’d declined Lord Yohn’s offer to betroth his daughter Ysilla to your son.”

He had.

Stannis’ eyebrows rose meaningfully. “And now he’s talking to the lioness,” he added.

Could it…? Jon’d assumed Lady Loren had approached Lord Yohn, not the other way around. Lord Yohn had an infant son, too. What was his name? It had sounded similar to his sister Ysilla’s. Elijah? He’d be scarcely more than a babe, two years, three maybe, but Helaina was just five, after all. “Lord Yohn and House Royce are loyal.”

“Are they?” Stannis’ expression was grim.

If Lord Yohn had approached Lady Loren, that was the only time ever he’d noticed the old Lord toe the line. And, even then, it was hardly tantamount to treason if all they’d done was reflect on mayhaps and could-bes. Helaina was only five, his son an unbreeched boy. Jon shook his head. “House Royce has never given cause for doubt.”

Stannis regarded him silently.

“If Robert and Helaina wed, it doesn’t matt—.”

Jon’s voice trailed off as a stifling realisation settled in his chest like a wet towel across the face. If his son passed - and though he dreaded it, he knew his boy’s sickly nature would not see him grow old as he had - Helaina would certainly rewed. And who might then be the right choice, to ensure the support of the Lords of the Vale for the youngest Lady Lannister? Lord Yohn’s son.

“You might as well hand them the Eyrie straight away and save them the trouble,” Stannis said.

Jon shook his head. They were in a sorry situation, but he believed they had little choice. “Robert must set Cersei aside as a result of her actions and rewed. If we can, in any way, avoid Tywin raising his banners in rebellion, we need to try it. The quicker and quieter this whole affair goes, the better.”

“Lord Mace wishes his daughter wed my brother.”

You mean Olenna wants it, Jon thought. “All the more reason to smooth any ruffled manes. The Reach and Westerlands have bickered like hens over worms for generations. We don’t want Robert to become that worm.”

Stannis nodded. “Renly supports it too, though she’s a fair maid and cleverer than him by half.”

Jon knew Renly, Loras and his sister Margaery to be fast friends, much like Robert, Loren, Eddard and his sister Lyanna had been. He speculated the reason Renly supported this match was due to Olenna. No doubt, if he supported it, she would permit him and Loras to have what they had. As far as Jon knew, Olenna took no issue with it. However, he knew her well enough to know she’d use it when it suited her.

“Lord Tywin and the old crone seemed amiable enough, during the tourney.” Stannis pursed his lips.

“I’m sure they did,” Jon said. He’d been around a little longer than Stannis, though. Those two would flay the other alive if push came to shove. Not that it had happened. At least, not yet. “We know the gods are good because they saw fit to make sure those two did not wed each other.”

Predictably, Stannis didn’t smile, let alone laugh.

“Let us hope they only spoke about their children and grandchildren,” Jon said. He hadn’t yet forgotten Renly’s allusions during the small council. A Lannister-Tyrell alliance against them was the very last thing they needed. Renly would be a puppet the minute Tywin and Olenna found common ground in supporting him as the Baratheon of choice. No, if the lions and roses were giving each other sidelong glances, they better exploit the situation and marshal them behind Robert before they forged any cunning plans of their own.

“I believe so, Kevan was with them.” Stannis had crossed his arms, thoughtful too, now.

Jon feared Tywin and Olenna were plenty capable of talking right over the boy’s head in covered language if they so pleased. He didn’t share his concern.

“You support this too, Margaery?” Stannis asked.

Jon frowned. “Yes. Yes, I do think so.”

“The Tyrells are good allies to have, particularly if the Lannisters rebel.”

“We must prevent that at all cost.” Jon shook his head. He wouldn’t let it come to that if he could. They didn’t need another war, they needed stability. There had been stability until they had found out what Cersei and Jaime had done.

Stannis scowled, and Jon realised there was no more postponing. He had to tell him what he planned to do. Stannis’ stiff, recalcitrant demeanour reminded Jon of Tywin and reaffirmed to him the necessity of his plan. For if Stannis baulked, then assuredly Tywin would for he was every inch as contrary. Jon might throw morsels large and little at him, but if the lion was in no mood to eat, it was no use at all.

Jon took a deep breath and put his hands on his knees, steadying himself. His gaze wandered to the godswood. Had Robert and Loren yet returned from their hunt? He squinted into the middle distance, bracing himself and mustering patience: “I believe we must tell Lady Loren and have her break the ill news to Lord Tywin.”

“And give him a headstart to rally for war?” This time, Stannis’ voice rose well above the clatter of the fountain.

Jon made a placating gesture, urging Stannis to lower his voice. “If our accusation leads to him raising his banners, it doesn’t matter when he hears.”

“Of course, it matters!” Stannis objected. “It will give them the time to rally vassals ahead of us. Even mount a counter case to our accusations.”

“If our claim is solid and true, no counter save bribery will prevail and if they go that route, our case will crumble either way,” Jon said. It concerned him because most people could be bought, and few were more persuasive in the buying market than the Lannisters on account of their wealth. And Robert enjoyed the lifestyle he could assuredly not afford on his own. How much gold would it take to convince him to keep Joffrey as his heir? Jon hoped they would never find out. Hoped, he realised, that Tywin would be too proud to accept grandchildren born of incest.

“He could rally an army,” Stannis repeated through clenched teeth.

“We cannot risk open war, and if it comes to it, we are at poor odds even if he hears it only at trial. Last time he pitched his banners, there were 12.000 lances at the toss of a liripipe. And the Tyrells favour your younger brother, if the Lannisters join them, we might well have a coup on our hands.”

“Not last year, there were skirmishes in the northmarch - south of Silverhill, along the greentail.” Stannis’ jaw worked. He’d crossed his arms, and there was tension in his shoulders.

“Perhaps.” There were always skirmishes in the northmarch, except during the tourney season. Presumably, Clegane and Crane butting heads on the shores of Red Lake because they were bored. Jon smiled, for the landed knights had reminded him of something not altogether dissimilar. “Years ago - many, years ago, when I was younger - Lady Olenna and Lady Jeyne were ladies-in-waiting to Queen Rhaella.”

“Lady Jeyne, that is Lord Tywin’s late mother, correct?” Stannis’ jaw had stopped working, but his stance remained pinched.

“Correct. Those girls were vicious. Jeyne once put copper powder in Olenna’s bath, staining her grain golden hair a sickly green and necessitating its cutting. Olenna put dead mice in her clothes chest in reprisal, the odour of death never leaving the fine samite garments, and they had to be burnt.”

“How is this relevant.”

Jon raised a hand at Stannis’ impatient tone, bidding him listen. “One day, Lady Lyarra Stark came to court and choose her sides: she favoured Lady Olenna in a solar conversation with the Queen. Then, perhaps to seal the deal, she assured a spoilt egg made it into Lady Jeyne’s breakfast, giving her embarrassing flatulence all through a court ball. Do you know how Lady Olenna responded, to this?”

Stannis’ jaw worked once more. “No.”

“The Lady Lyarra woke up to find one of her braids cut, right below the ear, and a note on parchment bearing gilded roses that she’d better stayed up north.” Jon recalled it well, for Lyarra had been distraught and her father much peeved. Yet he’d seen the lioness and Queen of Thorns share tea in this very same garden that day.

Stannis was processing his story, Jon could tell from his frown. “You believe the Tyrells will support the Lannisters?”

She might, Jon thought. And, like Tywin himself, Olenna was a poor enemy to have. Nevermind those two combined. Jon pursed his lips. “This is no spoilt egg, to be sure, but not as certain an impossibility as one might think.”

“You mean to tell Lady Loren, then,” Stannis said. “You have already decided.”

Jon regarded Stannis for a long moment. Then nodded and said: “Yes. I will examine the genealogy tonight. I suspect it will confirm our theory. On the morrow, I will discretely approach Lady Loren. I will propose tutoring of Kevan and convey interest in a promise between Helaina and my son. If she is forthcoming, I will share our findings with her. And, if the gods are good, I can convince her of the necessity she be the one to bring this news to her Lord Husband. And of the assurance that these futures for her children are set in stone if they allow the twins to stand trial.”

Stannis frowned but no longer objected. “Will she return home, or send a raven?”

“I hope to convince her to go in person, such matters are better not trusted to ravens. And, I do not think such news should be given on paper,” Jon said. Least of all to Tywin, he thought. He needs to hear it from her, lest he think it a falsehood.

“She may bid him return here, rather than travel home herself.”

“If we’re fortunate, she will. It will be better for us to have him here at the capital. That way, we avoid the impression we went behind his back.” The less tinder this wildfire sees, the better.

“We went behind his back,” Stannis asserted.

Jon sighed. He felt old and tired. “You know what I mean.”

Stannis’ reluctance was apparent but he nodded. “Very well.”

They spoke a while longer, of matters of little import but great interest to them personally. The weather was exceptional, the early afternoon sun warm, the late summer skies clear. It was a pleasant while and Jon would never have thought it be his last.

When Jon finally rose to send a raven, which he had been meaning to send all morning, a chill ran down his spine as he stepped out of the sun and into the shadowed cloister surrounding the fair garden. He made his way to the Grand Maester’s tower and by the time he had climbed the steps to the rookery, sweat beaded on his forehead. But this time, the sweat was cold. As he watched the raven fly north, he bid it make haste. War was coming. He could feel it in his bones. And not for the first time, he wondered if he was to be the instigator once again.

O O O

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#jon arryn #gotfic #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #game of thrones fanfiction #a saga of bears & lions #imperial fictions #I have a lot of feelings about Jon Arryn and nobody ever addresses them #so I went for it #this chapter could also probably be titled #six people talk about tywin a whole ass lot #and I am not sorry

[fluffy-marshmallow-heart]

A Twist of Fate ch.2 - When I See You Again

The Elementalist

Beckett x MC (Oriana)

words: 1641

A chance encounter may alter the course of Beckett's life, and give him a second chance he never thought he'd have.

Beckett had been working for four months, and he loved his job. For the first time in his life, he was excited to wake up in the morning. He had made friends with a couple colleagues and went out to the bar with them once a month after work for a happy hour. Everyone at the small firm had been extremely welcoming to him, and Beckett was thrilled things were working out.

It was now Friday night, and it had been a long week at the office. Beckett was currently sitting in a booth with a couple co-workers, Dave and Tom, and an empty pitcher of beer in the middle.

  “So, Beckett. You’ve been with us for months now. Tell me, do you still think you made the right choice in joining us?” Dave asks

Beckett nodded and took another sip of his beer. “Absolutely.” He told him.

“Well, we are damn glad to have you.” Tom raised his glass towards Beckett before downing the entire thing.

Beckett laughed. “You do know we reached our one pitcher limit, right?”

Tom grinned. “I sure am. Gentlemen, I need to be headed home or the wife will freak out that I’m still here and not helping her with the kids.”

“Sounds kinda lame, Thomas.” Dave joked.

Beckett smiled at the two men. Both of them were happily married. Tom had 2 kids and Dave’s wife was expecting. She was due around Christmas. Although Beckett would never tell them, he sure did long for that kind of life. They teased him about getting a girlfriend fairly frequently, and even tried to set him up once. Then, he told them about ‘the one that got away’, as well as the horror stories of the girls his mother used to bring around for him and they dropped the subject.

The three men gathered their belongings, and as they passed the bar, Beckett developed a tingling sensation. Huh. I haven’t felt that since…

He swallowed hard as he caught sight of her. Oriana Miller was sitting alone at the bar, staring into her almost empty glass dejectedly. What is she doing here?

“Uh, guys, I think I left something at the table, I’ll see you Monday, alright?” Beckett told them, his eyes never leaving her. He heard snickering come from their direction and he turned to glare at them as they left the building, smirking in his direction. I have to do this. Something’s wrong. Just say hello and see where it goes. You’re just old schoolmates, it’s not weird at all…right?

With his heart beating furiously and a mound of butterflies in his stomach, he walked over and sat on the stool next to her.

“Not interested, buddy. Keep moving.” She snapped, not even looking at him.

What the hell?

“Oriana…? He asked hesitantly.

She slid her eyes in his direction. “Beckett. Figures.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

She sighed. “It means I came here because I thought there would be no chance of anyone recognizing me. I don’t want to talk.”

Beckett nodded. “Okay.” He told her. Rather than leave, he waved down the bartender and ordered himself a soda.

She turned to fully face him now “Really? I just said I want to be alone.”

“Actually…you said you didn’t want to talk. And we’re not talking. We’re drinking.” He responded with a smirk.

The corners of her mouth turned up and Beckett’s eyes dropped to her lips. I wonder what she’s doing here. I wonder where Chase is. I’ve never seen her alone before.

The barkeep brought Beckett his drink and another for Oriana. They sat in silence for a little while, Beckett’s mind going wild with questions he had for her. He hadn’t seen her since graduation. He’d re-read her yearbook message a million times, he often dreamed of her. He couldn’t figure out for the life of him what had brought her to this particular bar, and why her makeup was smudged like she had been crying recently. Finally, she started talking again.

“Sorry, I just…it’s been a bad day. I kinda just drove and ended up here. Not sure why, I’ve never been here before…” She trailed off, glancing around. “Didn’t even know it existed.”

“It’s okay. Everyone has bad days. I have had more than my share. I get it.”

“Do you come here a lot?” She asked him

He shrugged. “Every month, usually with a couple friends.”

“That’s great, Beckett.” She sniffled, and he noticed tears forming in her eyes. She gave him a watery smile. “I’m really glad to hear that. You were always so…alone…back at school. I’m glad you’re finding your way through life well enough.”

Beckett gave a soft chuckle. “I suppose. It could be better, still. But there’s time. Life is not a race.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Wow. That’s a complete 180 from how you used to be. Beckett Harrington, master of all things, too good for anyone.”

Beckett frowned and turned back to his drink. Of course, she thinks that. Everyone at school thought that. Why would it change now?

“Oh god, I’m…I’m sorry Beckett. I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did.” He told her firmly. “And it’s okay. You’re right. I made my entire college career miserable for myself. I’m trying to make up for that now. Things are…looking good.” He finished slowly.

This time she gave him a half smile. “Glad to hear it.”

“What about you?” He asked. “What’s been going on since you graduated?”

She hesitated before responding. “Um…well, I moved in with Chase…” She trailed off. “I didn’t really have a job lined up and I definitely don’t want to go to grad school…”

She looked down into her now empty glass. “It was good for a while. I guess. Or, maybe I just wanted it to be, I don’t know.”

She stopped talking and Beckett had a bad feeling about what was going on.

“Do you want another drink?” He asked

She shook her head. “I’m not exactly sure where I’m going tonight so. A couple drinks were necessary, but I don’t know what I’m going to do tonight yet.”

“Oh. Um, alright.” He swallowed. He took a deep breath. “Why don’t you know where you’re going? You’re not going home?”

She gave a cold laugh. “What home? I don’t have one anymore, Beckett. I left Chase and I was living with him. I have nothing. I have clothes and random sentimental things packed in my car but as for where I’m going? I have no fucking idea right now.”

Beckett felt his heart plummet. “What happened?” He whispered.

“Oh, come on, Beck. Everyone knew Chase was cheating. I refused to believe it until I walked in on it a few hours ago. Only have myself to blame, right? Shoulda listened to my friends’ concerns”

“Oh, Ori.” He murmured. Without thinking he leaned in and hugged her. She stiffened under his embrace.

He cleared his throat and straightened back up. “You don’t have anyone to stay with? You had friends….” He trailed off

She sighed. “Griffin graduated a year before us, and he kept in touch for a little while but. It gradually tapered off. Zephyr and Shreya are traveling the world together this year. They begged me to go with them. Like an idiot, I said that I didn’t want to leave Chase. And now here we are. I left Chase and there is no one around I trust.”

Beckett chewed on his bottom lip. His dream girl was sitting right next to him, with nowhere to go, and a very dark outlook on life right now. His ray of sunshine was not shining and more than anything in the world, he wanted to bring it back.

“What about me?” He asked quietly.

She shrugged. “What about you?”

“Well…think about it. We've known each other for years. I’m not here all that often. You’ve never even heard of this place. Somehow you ended up here at the same time as me.”

“Okay…” She said slowly. “And?”

He swallowed. “And maybe that was supposed to happen. I have a spare bedroom, Oriana. You can stay with me if you want.” He held his breath waiting for an answer. He had no idea if she would go for it.

“I…can’t pay rent.” She confessed. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder and felt a current of electricity. “You will never be a burden to me. I have the space. I’m offering it to you with no strings attached.”

She gave him a Look, and he chuckled. “Okay, maybe a few strings attached. Help with cleaning, cooking…little stuff like that.”

“I don’t know, Beck. We never got along before…”

This time he grinned. “First, you already developed a nickname for me, bet you didn’t even realize it.” She opened her mouth to protest but he cut her off before she could.

“Second, you wrote in my yearbook that you were sorry we never extended an olive branch.”

She bit her lip, seemingly in thought.

“And third.” Beckett continued. “Where else will you go tonight? Are you planning on living in your car?”

She groaned. “I hate to say this…but yeah, that’s kinda what I was planning on.”

“Come on.” Beckett said. “My place is now your place.” He stood up and extended his hand to her. She looked at it, then back up into his eyes. She slowly started nodding and placed her hand in his. She inhaled sharply at the contact and met his gaze again.

“Only for a little while.” She said.

“Of course.” Beckett responded.

“I mean. This is not a permanent thing.” She told him.

“Definitely not.” He shook his head.

“Just until I’m back on my feet.”

“Absolutely.” He agreed.

“Beckett?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

   @blackwidow2721 @sleepwalkingelite @flowerpowell @agent-bossypants @annekebbphotography @carabeth @gardeningourmet @eileendannie @dancetothestoriesinyoursoul @alesana45 @zigortega4life

@emerald-bijou @xo-endlessmayhem-xo @divergentofhogwarts @endlessly-searching-for-you @rissah @syltti78 @askdana @drakewalkerfantasy @damienswhore​​

#the elementalist fanfic #beckett harrington fanfic #beckett x oriana #beckett x mc #beckett harrington #playchoices #the elementalist #choices the elementalist #choices fanfiction #twist of fate #a twist of fate

[ontherockswithsalt]

A Guy With A Secret

/Part One/ /Part Two/ /Part Three/ /Part Four/ /Part Five/ /Part Six/ /Part Seven/ /Part Eight/ /Part Nine/ /Part Ten/ /Part Eleven/ /Part Twelve/ /Part Thirteen/ /Part Fourteen/ /Fifteen/

Part Sixteen.

“Are you looking for trouble?” I ease back against the headboard of my bed, dragging my teeth across my bottom lip.

Noble’s soft laugh rumbles through the phone and just the sound of it thuds in my heart. “Always.”

“Because I got these--” I shift to pick up the Ray-Bans from my nightstand. “Sunglasses in the mail today out of the blue.”

“That’s random. Someone trying to buy your affection?”

“Maybe. But it's pretty dreary here in New York these days so I don't know if someone's trying to get me some place sunnier or--”

“Yeah, I think that's the idea.”

“Noble, I can’t accept these.” Unfolding the shades, I play with the frames before I slide them onto my face and scoot down in my bed. “They're kinda pricey.”

“Nah. They're knock-offs.”

I laugh. “No, they're not.”

“They're not. But too bad, it's a gift.”

“Too bad?”

“Yeah, you're stuck with them.”

“You're such a generous guy.”

“I can be.”

“Well thank you. For the gift.”

“You're welcome.”

Just the sound of his voice stirs up this heat, these sparks beneath my skin. “How can I return the generosity?”

“You can get your ass down to Miami and come hang out with me.”

A smile plays along my lips and I reach up to slide off the sunglasses. “Do you miss me or something?”

“I miss parts of you.”

“Oh!” I call out a loud laugh, tipping my head back into my pillow. “Like my brilliance and my clever--”

“No.”

I laugh harder and lean over to return the Wayfarers to my nightstand. “Well then you might have to be more specific about these parts that you miss.”

“Yeah, you'd like that I bet.”

“I would like it.”

“The things I miss about you aren't exactly friendly things, so. You know. We drew boundaries.”

“Did we?”

“I mean if I start talking about that little line that defines your hip that you didn't even bother hiding with those shorts you wore so damn low--”

I press my lips together as this swell of unexpected heat sinks through me. Fuck. “Those were your shorts.”

“Yeah well. Maybe if I ran a six-minute mile, I'd have a smaller waist size. But I don't.”

“You look pretty damn good for someone whose idea of working out is picking up all the girls who work at The Greenwich--”

“Damn!” He calls out and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Here I am thinking you're about to get me hard and you go and roast me.”

I crack up even more and reach down to absently play with the drawstring on my pants, wrapping it around a finger. “I said you look good, I don't know what you're talking about.”

He just mutters a skeptical hum.

“I miss things about you too.”

“Friendly things?”

A smirk pulls at my lips. “No.”

“Oh well then you can't say them.”

“Wait, you're talking about some kind of line going down my shorts--”

“I said if I were to tell you I missed that line, that little distinct… path, I'd be outside the friendship boundaries. It was just an example.”

“Ah, just an example.”

“Right.”

“So if I told you I miss... how good it felt when you sank your mouth all the way down on my cock and I could feel it hit--”

“Jee-sus, fuck!” He chokes out on the other end of the line.

I tip my head back again and cough out a laugh at the ceiling. “I thought we were just giving examples of what would be outside the boundaries--”

“You fucking prick, oh my god.”

“Alright, alright. I'll stop.”

“Hell no. I'm all turned on now. Keep talking,” he insists. “What are you wearing?”

“No, I forgot. Friends only,” I muse. “Let's see, I miss our good conversation--”

“N-n-n-no. Fuck that. Talk more about your dick.”

“I probably shouldn't.”

“Where are you?” He wonders. “Are you alone?”

“Yes. I'm on my bed.”

“Get your laptop and check flights right now.”

I laugh softly. “Yeah? For a friendly visit?”

“Yeah, I only deep throat a dick for a certain kind of friend.”

My free arm falls across my face and muffle a groan into my biceps. “Oh my god.”

“I'm not kidding. I'm really fucking hard right now. Are you on your way?”

“It's kind of a long flight though--”

“Well then fine. You're gonna have to send me a picture. To pass the time.”

“A picture of me?”

“A picture of you right now. Whatever you look like in your bed. But like, if you have a shirt on, take it off first.”

I twist my lips in amusement. “You want it of my face, or…”

“Just send me a damn picture you jerk.”

Laughing, I shake my head but I can't deny I'm sort of aroused when he tells me what to do.

“God,” he huffs. “What I wouldn't do you you right now.”

The desperate sentiment makes my eyebrow jump as I lean up, set my phone down and tug off my t-shirt. “Is that right?” I murmur absently. Picking up my phone, I flick open my camera, point it toward me and tilt it low, managing to capture a photo of myself from my shoulders-down, all the way to the end of the bed. I'm lounged there in just loose grey sweatpants, one leg out straight. I figure it's a good enough picture, well aware that it includes the path from my stomach, down the ridge of my hips that just disappear beneath the waist of my pants.

“I expect a picture in return,” I tell him as I send it off. “There. Enjoy.”

He waits a second and then I hear his gravelly, “Fuck me. Yep. I gotta go.”

“No way, don't get off the phone.” I protest. “It was just getting good. What you wouldn't do to me, huh?”

“Yeah, you probably couldn't handle it.”

“Oh-ho!” I choke. “You mean because you have such a damn huge dick?”

His loud laugh echoes through the phone and I have to smirk.

“I handled it alright last time,” I tell him.

This shaky breath, the slightest bit scratchy, rumbles out of him. The sound of it pulses through me, throbs in my hard-on. I run my hand up the length of it over my pants. “So where's my picture?”

“I'm busy.”

I exhale a hot laugh. “So take a picture of whatever you're busy doing.”

He complies, “Hang on.” And then he pauses a minute, the anticipation making me chew on my lip. My hips tilt down, as if I'm seeking out the friction of his body. Then he clears his throat. “There you go. Frame it and put it on your desk.”

Arching an interested brow, I pull the phone from my face and peer down at the new message from him. A surprised chuckle escapes me. “Oh damn.” Something deep in my core tightens when I see the picture -- in a similar position as I am, his large hand loosely grasps the prominent contour of his stiff cock over his gym shorts.

I bring the phone back to my ear. “Yeah, I don't know if I can handle it. Shit, Noble.”

“So are you on the plane yet, or--”

“Yep.” Without a thought, my hand slips into my pants. I dip the waist down and my touch grazes my rigid shaft before I wrap my grip around it.

“Don't be a tease.”

I can't control the impatient breath that escapes with my words. “If I were there, I promise I wouldn't tease you.”

“No?”

“No. I want you too bad.”

He groans and I can tell he moved the phone away from his face but I still hear him whisper a faint “Ah, god.”

My chest rises and falls as my lips part. “Unless you want me to tease you.”

“I want to watch you come again, that's what I want.”

My strokes find a gradual rhythm and I swallow hard to temper my breathing. “Watch me, or make me?”

“Both.”

“You made me come so fucking hard,” I tell him. “I don't think I've ever come as hard as I did with you.”

The breath he draws in is sharp and falters there a moment. We both know what the other is doing and if I wanted to stop, I should have done it when I looked at that picture.

But the sounds that he makes, restrained then heavy as a rush of air escapes his chest are sexy as hell. They make me wish he was right here on top of me.

He swears again in another rasp of air. “I would ruin you if you let me.”

I stretch my neck back and this needy groan sneaks out of me. My mouth falls open before I press my lips together to contain and throaty growl. “Yeah? You got me pretty damn close.” I'm close to being destroyed by him. He could break me. If I was there right this moment, I'd let him do whatever he wanted to me.

All he can do is breathe out. I listen and restlessly stoke the flames that course through me, giving in to this need while he does the same.

His choppy exhales echo my ragged ones in what's become this measured, pulsing beat.

I can't finish a thought. I want to tell him everything I would do, everything I want from him. How damn hot it was when he grasped my hair just before he came, lying on the floor of his penthouse. The way his muscles tensed and his urgent exhales cracked in his throat. But I can't be that articulate when I'm this turned on. And really we're too far gone to need words at this point anyway.

My eyes are closed and I imagine he's here. His hot panting in my ear, his hand jerking me instead of my own. I feel the bass of his voice in my pulse and I'm about to come and fuck I wish I could feel him when I do.

A desperate rush of air escapes him and I picture him until it's just a blaze of white light streaking behind my eyes. My breath catches in my chest, trapped until the throbbing in my grip lets go. The evidence of my release collects on my stomach. I was too caught up to take care of it anywhere else.

I assume the inevitable occurred on his end of the line too because it's quiet for a moment. Heavy breaths dwindle and slowly my surroundings return to me.

My hand that's holding the phone is stiff with a cramp and the rest of me feels completely limp.

I sink heavy into my pillows and exhale up at the ceiling. “God damn.”

That low laugh of his vibrates through the phone and it's like I feel it on my skin. “Yeah, that was pretty intense dude.”

A lazy chuckle rumbles inside me and I close my eyes. “So anyway--”

He coughs a surprised laugh and the sound of it as it tapers off to a weary groan amuses me. “Yeah so did you get that plane ticket yet?”

“Just now? I was preoccupied.”

He huffs, frustrated.

“What's the weather like in Miami these days?” I wonder.

He clears his throat and manages a deep breath. “Eighty-five degrees and sunny.”

“Do you still have those blue shorts with the flamingos on them?”

He hesitates a moment, then laughs softly. “Yeah. Why? Are those an incentive?”

“If you promise to wear those shorts at some point--”

“I'll wear those damn shorts to pick you up at the airport if it means you’ll come stay with me.”

I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut to fend off a smile before I answer, “Let me see what I can do and I'll let you know.”

#jamie x noble #welp #4 pepper alert #read this in a ditch somewhere #but then let's talk about it because ayyyeeeeee

[desdemere]

birth

Philippa had witnessed several births— helped with a handful, even. On ships, at port. Her fellow women apparently loved shitting these things out. And what wasn’t to like? Getting swelled for months like a body too long in the water; wanting to eat everything and nothing at the same time… Gods forbid she sleep on the wrong side. And, of course, there was the little fucker in there kicking and tossing. The scullery maid always dreamed of having to piss every five seconds— not to mention becoming woefully aware of just how many ribs she had floating around in her chest. Now, as she sat sweaty and angry, contractions becoming almost too much to bear, she also had to deal with a fucking cat staring at her.

Just sitting. Disinterested eyes half-lidded still focused on her nevertheless, black tail swishing back and forth against the rhythm of the waves. As if nothing was wrong. Nothing different. The loud, crass woman was still loud and crass; only today she swore loudly and crassly on her blankets than out and about on the island.

“Should’ve left you with the rest, I should’ve,” she hissed through her teeth, glaring squarely back at it. A languid blink in return. “For the company,” she mocked in a sing-song tone, “Cat didn’t do shite. Just a fooking cat.”

Every muscle in her body tensed. The fabric burned against her skin the tighter she squeezed it. Philippa let loose a crescendoing scream that rang against the walls of her shelter, funneled into the afternoon air like the blast of a horn. Seagulls screeched and fled. That finally managed to spook the damn animal, eliciting a bitter sneer from the laboring woman. She was loath to let anything else sit around comfortably as she suffered. Wasn’t fair. Wasn’t earned.

There were no words to describe this pain. Nothing to compare it to. Did it feel like someone slowly ripping apart her insides while jumping up and down on her abdomen? She wouldn’t know; she’d never had her insides slowly ripped apart with someone jumping up and down on her abdomen. But, she figured it was close enough. And gods was she hot. Philippa could feel the sweat dripping down her back, the rest of her body coated in a light film. Her gaze darted to the nearby shore and wondered if she should just scuttle down into the water and have the sharks put her out of her misery. What better chum than a newborn? 

Philippa settled for throwing her head back and stringing together obscenities instead.

Philippa knew how to read the sky better than the alphabet. She could tell seasons, months, maybe even exact days based on the positions of the stars. And she did so while stranded on the small atoll. Mostly because she had little else to do, tallying the nights like a prisoner in their cell. Except she had to climb trees for their fruits, spear her own fish, and find fresh water to stay alive. Prisoners had it better than she did.

Some of her favorite stories as a child were those of female pirates parading as men, and, when they were caught to be hanged, revealed their secret. Being a woman wasn’t enough, though; they would then claim to be pregnant to escape the noose. Showed her that their curse could be a cure as well. So when that big ugly fuck held that forsaken ship hostage, well— it wasn’t quite the same scenario. It was someone goes or everyone dies. She went. They still died. Those fuckers deserved it anyway.

Philippa liked to think she was like those women in the tales. Brave. Vibrant. Amazing. Bearing a child to survive.  Rebelling against unjust laws and reclaiming riches from those who didn’t need more than they already had. This wasn’t something she chose, though. It wasn’t her daring or adventure that brought her here. The story of her life was sad, and pathetic, and she fully expected to die in the belly of those ships whenever her time came. Scrubbing up after everyone else, covered in their filth. This wasn’t the first time in her life that she tried to break away from that life. This was simply the only time it seemed to work.

And she didn’t know how to feel about it.

Her head flopped to the cushions, bits of hair clinging to her face, chest heaving almost desperately for air. That hadn’t taken as long as she thought it would. Philippa remained unmoving, the hill of her legs blocking whatever she produced. She would never admit to the fear blocking her throat, making it difficult to swallow. A short pregnancy. A relatively quick birth. A child demanded by a dragonturtle and facilitated by some god. What exactly had she brought into the world?

Philippa kept her legs up and firmly closed. Agonizingly slow moments ticked by. Waiting. Finally, it began to stir. Small, pitiful grunts first. She could feel it squirming through the blanket. Then, a weak wail. Her heart jumped— and then fell. It only sounded… almost normal. There was something else— something strange and alien in the ‘child’s’ voice. A quick glance to Rats showed the cat looking to the source of the noise, eyes wide and ears flicked forward. That all but confirmed it. It was something animal in the babe’s cries that froze her there.

She resisted five or so minutes of gradually louder and more distressed yowling. Philippa lifted her cloud of dark brown curls from where it lay. And she parted her knees.

Hand damming her mouth, Philippa immediately crashed back down, thighs slapping back together as if shutting the door against something unwelcome. She wanted to believe she didn’t see what she saw. Wanted to believe that her vision might be off from the strain of the birth. Or poorly-adjusted from the bright light beyond the cave’s mouth. Or, hell, even slipping as she aged. Her grandfather had gone blind. Why not her?

But, no. Upon daring a second look, her fears became realized. And, again, she stiffened.

It was a boy. That much was certain. That much was normal. But it pretty much ended there. Tiny webbed fingers tipped with tiny sharp nails— his feet, too. A bizarre, dark… rash? coated most of his body. Good portions of his skin were covered in it: arms, legs, cheeks. 

The cheeks.

Philippa recoiled, watching as the babe’s face seemed to split with every cry. Looking away, she fought down bile bubbling in her gut.

What had she done? What had she made?

What did she expect?

Did she honestly think this would end normally? That a dragonturtle’s request for a child be innocuous? That a god would shape one for it and make it ordinary? Again, she wanted to. Again, she closed her eyes and wished to wake up like she had so many days and nights stuck on this island. And, again, she didn’t.

Philippa did her best to suppress her scowl as she scooted forward, righting herself. All babies came out sort of ugly, in a way. And, in her mind, it made some cruel, self-deprecating sense that hers would probably just end up being the ugliest. Either that, or the boy simply took after his ‘father’ after all.

Hesitant hands floated just above the babe. When Philippa managed to convince herself to pick him up, the softness and fragility of the thing surprised her— despite his abnormalities, and despite her previous experiences with young children. The bumps on the little one’s skin were actually smooth; all at once, she realized they were scales. At least, where scales might one day be.

“Big fucker wasn’t lyin’,” she breathed, a faint curiosity intermingling within her otherwise uncomfortable expression.

The babe’s screams suddenly and drastically tapered. Philippa blinked, and she left him dangling there in her stunned silence. His ensuing whines shook her from this state.

“Know my voice, do you?” 

The question was a shaky attempt at maintaining any semblance of composure. Especially since the infant responded just as he had before: he calmed significantly, using whatever control over his limbs he had to wriggle about. Philippa drew him to her then, her head going tingly.

Next was the tit, wasn’t it? She shimmied the well-worn blouse from her heavily-freckled shoulders. The babe barely required any guidance, latching only seconds after introduction. His wails turned into tender, thirsty hums as he ate. It happened in an instant. Philippa let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. A finger brushed against a drying tuft of his dark hair. It was the same color as hers.

#kallias #my writing #my ocs #my dnd character #my d&d character

[phillybaguettes]

Let’s break bread. Give us this day our daily bread. The band Bread. 

Yes, nothing brings people together like some good old fashioned bread, and at the top of the list of all-time great breads sits the mighty baguette. While Philadelphia is known for its classic Italian breads and hoagies, it’s never had much of a reputation as a baguette town. But as this one-post blog hopes to show you, we’re a city on the rise, like a baguette gloriously puffing up in the oven. And while it may not be obvious, there is no shortage of bakeries in this town churning out beautiful batons that would make even the gruffest Frenchman say “oui oui” with delight.

So one hot and humid summer afternoon, fellow baguette head Brian Chu and I set out to tour Philly’s quietly thriving baguette scene. First on our list was Artisan Boulangerie, a South Philly staple owned and operated by Cambodian immigrants André Chin and Amanda Eap. Chin honed his baking skills in Paris before moving to Philadelphia to open his own French bakery about twenty years ago. This is a no-frills joint that makes tasty pastries and breads each morning, then stays open til they sell ‘em out. They’ve been crushing it in a hip part of South Philly since long before the third-wave coffee shops and yoga studios joined the fray. Even though it was our first stop of the day, they were already pretty much out of everything, including baguettes! (get here early folks) But luckily, the charming Ms. Eap convinced us that a “banette” is essentially the same thing, but in her opinion, even tastier. We couldn’t say no to that, and quickly got to work on what turned out to be essentially a baguette with a big old paunch in the middle, gradually tapering to pointy ends.

Aesthetically, this bread is an absolute beauty, with precise flour-dusted ribbons wrapping around its soft bubbly bulge. While it was quite tasty, it was more reminiscent of a French bread than a baguette, lacking the crispy edges and airy middle that I crave. It’s doughy and chewy in the interior, and while I could see it being a great vehicle for a sandwich, it did not quite cut it on its own. 

From there, we ventured a few blocks east to the Bok building, the eight-story monolithic former public high school that has recently reopened as a hip space for small businesses and organizations, housing everything from a pre-school to a rooftop bar. We had our sights set on Machine Shop, a wholesale bakery that’s been operating out of Bok for a few years. While we knew they don’t sell directly to the public, we figured it was worth a shot to see if we could pop our heads in and check out the operation, and maybe ask them where to find a nearby retailer that carries their bread. As luck would have it, Bok’s security is fairly lax, and we signed right in and walked up to the fourth floor bakery to find co-owners Katie Lynch and Emily Riddell sweeping up the joint and getting ready to end their day by delivering bread to local restaurants. We sheepishly explained our baguette tour concept, and Katie was kind enough to not only give us a free baguette, but to tell us about the operation and show us around the small and charming space.

Whoa Nelly, was this a good baguette. Rustic in appearance, with a deep brown hue, and an organically irregular shape with nice crispy ridges and ends, you could almost see and hear how good this baguette was before even tasting it. Breaking the crispy and crunchy exterior revealed an impossibly airy middle, with big pockets resembling the moon’s craters. Each bite had the perfect combination of a satisfying crunch followed by a nice chew, and with the addition of salt and butter it was a baguette lover’s dream come true. This baguette utilizes sourdough instead of yeast, along with just a touch of whole grain added to the white flour, all of which, while not quite traditional, gives it a depth of flavor rarely found in baguettes. Moral of the story - get this baguette.

It would be tough to top, but from Machine Shop we hopped on our bikes and headed north to Old City to see what High Street on Market had to offer. The more casual sister restaurant to the ultra high-end Fork, High Street is a full service operation for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but also has a sort-of secret side biz as a bakery. While I’d only had their bread with meals, it is damn good, and I wanted to see if it might be worth swinging by next time I’m in need of a nice baguette to go. They have a number of loaves for sale, including a picturesque spelt baguette.

This was certainly the most Instagrammable baguette of our tour, a bit stouter than most, with deep dark ridges flanked by sensual white-dusted ribbons. Despite its beautiful appearance, the crust didn’t crunch and crackle as I had hoped, resulting in a baguette that was a bit too tough to break apart. The inside, however, was delightful all around, hitting the right balance of chewy and airy. It was a bit bland on its own, with a mild fermented taste that was not quite as pronounced as Machine Shop, but was hitting all the right textural notes. It was a great vehicle for toppings, and was absolutely beloved by French bulldog Xavi.

We were a bit full, a bit parched, but there was plenty more baguette bounty to get to, so we soldiered on to Northern Liberties to hit up the hip bakery and coffee shop Kettle Black. Though the owners/bakers were not present at the time, the friendly barista was happy to tell us that this joint opened because the French owners had been living in Philly for a while and just couldn’t get a baguette that lived up to their lofty expectations.

Well, those must have been some damn lofty expectations, because this baguette was an all around banger. Starting with a rustic appearance with deep dark hues from the ridges and ends, intermingling with the golden brown of the crust, this thing was a beauty with zero fussiness. Similar to the Machine Shop baguette, this baguette had the perfect combination of crunchy exterior and soft chewy interior, with the elastic and springy dough meshing about the porous craters. They use an all-natural fermentation process, but the sourdough taste was a bit subtler than our previous two baguettes. Definitely a baguette worth going out of your way for, and I’ll be back soon to check out their bagels and other goodies.

Next stop - another French spot with a significantly different aesthetic, the brightly lit, white-walled Center City bakery J’aime. This place has a very modern French vibe, with a pastry case full of dainty pastries and miniature quiches. While the focus here seems to be on the cutesy sweets, they do offer two baguettes, a “French” (which looked more like a French bread loaf than a baguette) and a sourdough. We opted for the sourdough, which despite its oddly round ends had a nice appearance, with precise and thin ribbons giving it a satisfyingly geometric vibe.

Unfortunately, just holding this baguette I could tell we were dealing with our densest bread of the day. Just as the sky was hinting at some heavy rain, it seemed the forecast was also calling for a heavy baguette - an arguably worse omen. The interior was lacking the large cavernous holes that we all know and love, with little tiny air pockets in their place. This was a doughy, chewy, and soft baguette, and on top of that it was undersalted and dry. While this place seems to be doing great work with the pastries, they are sadly lacking in the baguette game.

When we left J’aime, the wind was howling and it seemed that heavy rain was imminent, so we biked as fast as we could to seek some shelter, non-baguette food, and beer at Parc. Oh, we would also be getting a baguette there. Duh. Parc is a Disneyfied French bistro, one of the OG’s of the Stephen Starr empire. While the annoyingly high prices ($15 Frosé), the annoyingly bougie crowd (a healthy mix of tourists, Jersey-ites, and old people who live in Center City), and the annoyingly on-the-nose faux Frenchiness (pretty sure it says joie de vivre AND je ne sais quoi on the menu) make you wanna hate this place, they actually make some damn good French comfort food. In fact, my love of their baguette is what inspired this tour in the first place.

I’ve been hitting this restaurant up for all my baguette needs for years, because they’re baking them all day long, so it’s the ideal way to get a fresh-out-of-the-oven baguette at just about any time. While there’s nothing flashy about the Parc baguette, it’s so consistent and inoffensive that it’s the perfect vehicle for a pre-meal meat and cheese board. It’s never gonna steal the show, but this is a baguette you can set your watch to. Solidly middle of the road in almost all of the factors that we’ve been analyzing (crunch, chew, airiness, flavor, appearance), it’s hard to praise this baguette too much, but it’s also hard to find fault with it. For $3 and always fresh, there’s no reason I won’t be fighting through the crowd of befuddled old folks and out-of-towners to snag one of these the next time I need an impromptu baguette.

After a nice salade lyonnaise and beer at Parc, the storm had subsided and we ventured across Rittenhouse Square to Metropolitan Bakery, a Center City institution that’s been running the French baked goods game since the early 90′s. 

Right off the bat, Metropolitan set itself apart from the pack by offering a third of a baguette for a cool $1.35, definitely an appealing option for those that are craving just a taste of baguette. Sadly, despite this customer-friendly option, and their dope old-school French signage, the baguette itself was a disappointment. Similar texture and bubbly exterior to Artisan Boulangerie, it was very lacking in crunch. The soft crust gave way to an gummy interior that was laboriously chewy, and while the taste was solid, the unfortunate texture left much to be desired.

In Summary

Artisan Boulangerie (South Philly): Aesthetically pleasing soft and chewy blank slate ($3)

Machine Shop (South Philly): Boldly flavorful sourdough baguette with earthiness from a touch of added whole grain, a textural superstar with a most satisfying crunch and perfectly airy middle (Wholesale only, but available at various coffee shops and restaurants, as well as on site Friday mornings)

High Street on Market (Old City): Instagram-ready spelt baguette with a slightly fermented taste ($3)

Kettle Black (Northern Liberties): Delicious rustic baguette with deep dark crispy crust and springy air-filled interior ($3.50)

J’aime (Gayborhood): Neat and tidy appearance, but a bland and doughy interior ($3.78)

Parc (Rittenhouse): A baguette you can set your watch to. Hot and fresh any time of day and a simple crowd pleaser ($3)

Metropolitan (Rittenhouse): Unique value and a mild but pleasant taste, but an overly chewy texture and no crunch ($1.35 for a third)

[potato-on-your-head]

HELLO FRIENDS I am on mobile so I’ll do a read more in a sec on desktop (I swear you used to be able to do a read more on mobile?? Did I imagine this?)

Uhhhhhh so update on my life currently

(Major negativity and honest account of panic attack so don’t feel any obligation to read if you’re not in a good headspace)

I went to my doc on the 21st and told her my life inexplicably sucks despite all evidence to the contrary and existence is a chore and my hope for the future is currently buried under layers of self-doubt and spiraling negativity

And she prescribed me Lexapro (an antidepressant) and said we’d get me started on it, re-evaluate in 4 weeks whether or not it’s working, and talk about referrals for therapy and stuff the next time I see her (I would start it right away but I’m currently still city-hopping between Michigan and Illinois, which is a huge fucking pain in the ass and a significant stressor that’s probably just exacerbating my state of chronic dissatisfaction)

And anyway I was aware there could be some pretty shitty side effects but I generally handle medication really well, so I wasn’t expecting anything major

I took my first dose before bed per my doctor’s instructions and woke up 3.5 hours later with THE WORST panic attack I have ever experienced, literally my heart has never pounded so fast and I had this burning pain in my arms that felt like they were on fire

So then I just sat on the floor shaking while my parents slept in the room next door and generally just felt super pathetic and anxious for awhile until my mom got up

So I stopped taking them right away and didn’t do the smart thing (which was to call my doctor) bc I didn’t want her to tell me to keep taking them, bc I shit you not, that was some next-level anxiety my friend, also fun fact severe anxiety paralyzes me from doing literally anything and existence is even more unbearable than normal, like “you thought you were swimming in the eternal lukewarm boringness of depression WELL NOW YOU CAN SUFFER IN THE FLAMES OF PANIC ATTACK AND POST-PANIC ATTACK HELL”

I still had awful residual anxiety for 6 days after just taking that ONE dose of medication. Like holy fuck it was awful. I’m told that Lexapro has a longer half-life than most other antidepressants, which is normally what makes it a good medication for log-term use, but obviously it took a few days to get out of my system and/or my brain was just refiguring out how to be its slightly less shitty version of "normal" after panic hell. I kept waking up like clockwork at 6:30 am and having mild panic attacks for days afterwards

Anyway that's super not intended to scare anyone away from medication; I've had great success with anti-anxiety meds but those aren't ideal for long-term use. they're really effective for stopping panic attacks but don't resolve their root cause. I consulted a bunch of different online forums and found out my reaction to the Lexapro is very very common in people with both depression and anxiety, and that the symptoms are super unpleasant for 1-2 weeks but DO resolve after that initial adjustment period. Also, the next time I try meds (because it's not a question of if but when, seriously, I've had depression on and off since puberty so I'm obviously in this shit for the long haul), now I know that I need to start much smaller - like even cutting my pills in halves or quarters - and gradually tapering up. A lot of people still experience anxiety this way, but it reduces the chances of me having to fight through severe panic attacks and would probably be more like the low-simmering anxiety that's still unpleasant but comparatively much more manageable.

I’m just really angry and frustrated (or like Angry Lite™ that’s a hallmark of depression lol where it’s not even like the righteous purposeful fury but like this listless sad unsettled non-feeling) and not hopeful that there’s any solution and this is just my life and happiness isn’t something I get to feel again

But like that is LITERALLY my tangle of mental illnesses just being absolute shits and I cognitively know that’s not actually true, but damn is it hard to hold onto that. I'm working on it haha.

So here's my new and improved plan of action. I have orientation for my new job starting July 31st, and I'm just going to assume that I will need the full 6-8 weeks and then some to see if my medication is actually working/adjust dosages/do the lovely trial-and-error of like 20 MG MAKES ME FEEL LIKE DEATH 10mg makes me feel like an anxious zombie YOOOOO 15 mg makes me feel decent etc. 

Since I'm only 4 weeks out from orientation, that's way too soon to try again without risking unpleasant side effects AND job stress at the same time, so I'll continue struggling along unmedicated for the time being. In the meantime, I'm going to start CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) in Illinois where I'll be working and continue using my anti-anxiety meds as needed to prevent panic attacks. I'm committed to all of the necessary work that therapy entails, and I know it's not always a fun process, but I'm willing to undertake it.

I’ll continue evaluating my moods and generally how I’m handling life in the midst of transitioning into my first full-time job (which could also be a potential trigger for my current summer anxiety problems... thinking about being a first-year teacher and how much work I have to do, worry about having panic attacks in the first 2 weeks of school like I’ve had in the past, etc.). If, by the end of the school year, I’ve determined that I need to add medication again to help the therapy be more effective, I will have TEN WEEKS of significantly fewer professional obligations to ride out the awful side effects and play guess-and-check with dosages.

Soooooooo that's where I'm at right now. It sucks, and I'm back to my previous state of having insomnia, low-grade anxiety, and generally feeling like life is garbage, but at least I'm not having panic attacks or nausea and am able to eat relatively normally. Thanks for reading if you've gotten this far =)

#negativity #like HELLA negativity #potato speaks

[thatrosylife]

Laugh at life's turbulence!

I haven’t updated this blog for quite sometime and there have been some huge changes, challenges and in my mind, miracles. After constant worry and anguish that I would never be able to find, let alone be successful in securing a new job, I did it! I put all the fear and pessimism to the back of my mind and took the plunge! I remember being told I had an interview and fear and panic consumed me, I thought “wow this is it, this is my chance”. I grabbed it with both hands and started preparing. I spent every spare moment I had to prepare, this was it, after 14 years of emotional bullying, I had an opportunity to finally leave my job and I wanted to make damn sure it happened. I even spent an entire afternoon sat in a lovely comfy pub on my own which takes guts, to prep prep prep. My interview came round pretty quick, I was full of excitement. My interview I felt went so well I was so happy. I though to myself “this is the job I want and this is where I know I need to be”. I had to come back down to reality the next day and back into my monotonous dark and toxic job. The only thing still niggling me was the anxiety of the travel and stress of a new role potentially making my symptoms worse. How would I cope? What would I do? Give up work completely? Answer to that, no! How would I know unless I at least tried. There I was sat at my desk one dreary morning and the phone rings, “we like to offer you the role”, the words circled through my mind over and over while feeling dizzy from the adrenaline. These words I had been so desperate to hear had finally been spoken. I was in shock and on cloud nine! Then the panic set in, but no, anxiety you are not spoiling this for me. I had a 2 week holiday to Mexico to look forward to and a new job, all in the same year I also nearly succumbed to depression. Wow what a year. I had my last day at work and after 14 years you’d think they’d be happy for me, jeez was I wrong. I don’t even think they deserve the words I am typing so I won’t waste my energy explaining it. My friends however made a lovely effort with a leaving speech for me and parting gifts. That was that, I was finally free. I felt a huge weight lift off me, what a relief it was like being set free from a prisoners camp (I imagine). Back to approaching holiday, I took half a benzodiazepine prior to flying which panicked me as I thought I was having a bad reaction but I was ok after 15 mins or so. After 10 hours we landed, got our transfer and wow, I was ok! I had been feeling a lot better since taking the Prozac so was basically in remission. I was having a wonderful time, feeling happy about starting my new job and then food poisoning hits me……why me?? It ruined the rest of the holiday but didn’t affect my symptoms and got home ok with the benzodiazepine again. Don’t think I just let it go, I am still in the process of claiming back from my holiday insurance. My first day in my new job, I get the early train, I want to be on time and make a good impression! Everything is going fine, everyone is very welcoming, kind and accepting. Then a huge wave on anxiety kicks in….jeez I wasn’t expecting that. Thoughts race through my mind “what have I done, is this the right decision, I can’t go back now”….I take a calm walk, meet a friend, calm down and carry on. I get the train home, break down in tears on Mick and then pull myself together. I try again the next day, expecting my symptoms to flare up due to the stress…..but they don’t. I was going to come off the Prozac before I started but Mick assured me this was a bad decision as I wouldn’t cope, boy was he right! It took me a few months to feel settled, I have made some lovely friends there, it is a wonderful team and I feel so lucky to have landed this job. Based on past experiences I feel this was a miracle, someone up there giving me a break! But however lucky I am I still have that dark cloud visiting me from time to time, yep you guessed it….depression! I was doing so well, ok I didn’t have the best confidence but who would starting a new job with unfamiliar faces and dynamics. I persisted through it thinking “this is a blip” but gradually I realised, I have been taking Prozac for 18 months now and was on 60mg per day, which is quite high really. I decided to take matters into my own hands and went to the doctor to change them, I was prescribed venlafaxine (Effexor). With the help from my hugely supportive manager I tapered off the Prozac and started the Effexor (quick release)….after a day or 2 I was presented with a whole host of side effects, some were expected but not as intense. I had a dry mouth like I had just eaten a bag of flour, grinding teeth which caused me to feel sick and anxious. Then the heightened anxiety! I give thanks that my work are very pro wellbeing and I was able to work from home in my own surroundings whilst enduring these awful side effects. One of the days I awoke with huge terror of leaving the house, I felt paralysed laying in bed. I got up and dressed but in tears of panic. Again I worked from home, but went back to the doctor who prescribed me the one a day slow release Effexor. He had no idea why the substitute doctor had provided fast release as these cause awful side effects, so note to everyone taking Effexor for the first time, don’t get the fast release! I've now been taking this for 3 weeks and have about another 1-3 weeks to start feeling the full effects but I’m getting there with the support of family and work. I have been listening to audio books, motivational you tube clips, colouring, exercising, Netflix bingeing and getting out in the sun for walks with the dog. I also immerse myself in my work to keep me feeling motivated and I really enjoy my job so that helps. I do this all to help keep the harmony and happiness that the tablets are not giving me at the moment. You are probably wondering why I take them, I have my dream job, I should be happy right? Not quite, depression takes over even if you have everything you could possibly want as some of you more than appreciate, but I also take these to control my stress and anxiety levels because if these increase, there is a chance my symptoms will relapse or get worse if not in remission. On a separate note, after several visits (private and NHS), procedures (lumber puncture, venography) they have come to the tentative conclusion that I have narrowing of blood vessels in the brain which is causing the symptoms, I am yet to get a formal diagnosis. This is mind settling after battling for nearly 10 years however the surgery to ease this is very invasive (stent inserted to widen vessels) and comes with life changing risks or even death. This is something I need to consider and weigh up the benefits. My symptoms are stable at the moment and I am eternally grateful for that, I think the idea of MdDS got ruled out by the consultant at Cambridge Hospital as I wasn’t showing the notorious sign, rocking. I had also travelled on the train for 2 hours everyday for work and get the elevator to the 7th floor and down numerous times a day at work. No symptoms triggered? And the floor moves where I sit and this also is fine. Who knows, I’ll have to wait for the diagnosis letter but I feel I’m there. To anyone out there battling for a diagnosis or battling with acceptance, it will come. I truly believe if you accept your “new way of life” your brain accepts it and adapts. Maybe I’m just lucky but it’s been a rocky road and it has not been easy. I’ve been subjected to emotional abuse from the people who were supposed to be helping me, closed doors in my face by ignorant doctors, loss of so called friends and wanting to end my life, but you have to keep going. Keep going for you! Laugh at what life throws at you! There is always a reason for the things that happen, good or bad. The trick is, when bad things happen, try your best to take a positive from the situation. Even if it is the tiniest thing, there is a positive in there somewhere. When you start to do this, all the bad things are just a bit of life’s turbulence. You are on a plane to happiness, there is always turbulence along the way. This is what grows us. If I hadn’t gone through everything I have, I wouldn’t be me. I wouldn’t be strong willed, determined and confident. Every time life throws me a curveball, I mentally stick my middle finger up and say “Try me” not why me! Remember god gives his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers. Laugh at life, none of us make it out alive. Stay strong x

#depression #anti depressants #effexor #staystrong #laughatlife #miracleshappen

[allyinthekeyofx]

Fading light -Part 2- 6/6

PART ONE  - Chapters 1-6

PART TWO -  Chapter one   Chapter two   Chapter three   Chapter four   

                       Chapter five

NOTES - There are another two parts to this fic - keep that in mind when you get to the end of this chapter.  That’s all I’m sayin’ 

PART TWO

CHAPTER SIX

There have been no more nosebleeds. Not since that frightening day in the park has Scully lost so much as a spot of blood. But this time, what she is actually losing is so much worse, because this time, as the tumour pushes an unrelenting path in to her brain, what she is steadily losing is herself.

The first time I really noticed was about a week after I had brought her home from the hospital, a week after we had sat cross legged on the couch, facing each other as we fed each other forkfuls of coconut Birthday cake and vanilla ice cream. And for a few hours I had been happy. The pain in my injured hand not even really registering as I watched my partner laugh as I dabbed a blob of butter cream on to the end of her small, sculptured nose, leaning forwards in response to the playful challenge she threw down to me from those sparkling blue eyes. And just for a few hours we forgot everything as we lost ourselves in each other.

Should we have made love that night?

Probably not; Scully was still weak from the blood loss and by rights shouldn’t even have been released from the hospital, but there was an unspoken need between us that we couldn’t ignore so we just took it steady, tempering the passion through necessity and truthfully, something happened to me that night as I gazed down at her enlarged pupils; perfect lips that were swollen from a hundred teasing kisses and my whole perception of life seemed to shift slightly on its axis, rendering me almost unconscious with love for this woman. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced before – a joining of two souls that nothing would ever tear apart and I swear I could almost see the shadows melding in to light around us, chasing away the darkness, leaving only this love, a love so blinding in its intensity that I somehow knew it would survive somehow inside me even as the physical structure was taken from it.

Maybe it’s true that love is eternal. I don’t know. But that night, just for a few moments, I felt sure that it could be.

And as Scully gently cupped one of her small hands around my face, her eyes told me that she felt it too.

I held on to that feeling in the days that followed as Scully’s headaches intensified; rendering her unable to function on any level at all for more than a few minutes. I lost count of the hours I spent holding her against me, spooning myself around her as I gently tried to stroke her pain away. Sometimes I succeeded. Most times I didn’t. And it became very obvious very quickly that it was time to up the pain meds.

She cried then. Huge wracking sobs that almost tore me apart, knowing as she did that stronger medication was the first small downward spiral towards the abyss and she had fought so hard, so fucking hard to deny the need to herself and to me. Until one day when I came home from work to find her curled in a ball in the bathroom, surrounded by the sickly sour-sweet scent of her own pain induced vomit clutching her head as tears and snot marred her beautiful face; screaming at me to make it stop. 

To please just make it stop.

We already had the morphine; prescribed by Dr Zuckerman, to be used when things got bad. He had shown me how to inject her, an action necessitated by her refusal to be admitted to the hospital where her pain could be better managed and if I had initially baulked at the idea when she first suggested it as a compromise, when it came right down to it, plunging the needle in to her that first time to stop her hurting was singularly the easiest fucking thing I had ever had to do in my entire Godforsaken life.

I had held her then, right there on the bathroom floor, I rocked her gently until her anguished cries gradually tapered off in to occasional hitching sobs and she turned and buried herself in the folds of the jacket I hadn’t even had time to remove, knowing then that, even if she couldn’t voice it, she needed me there; that I could deny it no longer.

That night, after I had cleaned her up and carried her to the bedroom, laying her gently down as she succumbed to the medication now numbing her senses I picked up the phone and called Skinner to let him know I required an indefinite leave. That for as long as it took, I wouldn’t be returning to work.

It put him in a difficult position. I know that now. Because Scully and I, on paper at least, were nothing more to each other than partners. Work Colleagues. Bureau policy on the fraternisation between male and female agents was very clear and while relationships surely occurred on a regular basis, it was never acknowledged. And yet here I was, expecting to be granted a leave of absence without a single question being raised; but he managed it. God knows how he managed it but I received the paperwork just 48 hours later, the box labelled ‘expected return date’ marked ‘unknown’.

And to my surprise, I effectively walked away from my life’s work without even a murmur of dissent.

Because the X-Files suddenly didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing mattered any more except Scully.

Don’t get me wrong, we still had a measure of normality. The morphine, whilst sometimes leaving her fuzzy and disorientated, did its job admirably and without the constant pain, Scully was able to carry on. Her appetite was poor though and she began to lose weight, beginning to look as sick on the outside as she was on the inside. But despite this, she was still my Scully. She still laughed, still poked me in the ribs playfully when I overstepped the mark, and still admonished me when I casually dropped my discarded clothes on the bedroom floor instead of crossing the few feet to the laundry hamper. She could still beat me hands down at Yatzee and Clue , grinning at me with satisfaction at my frustration when I lost over and over again despite my best efforts.

Oh yeah, she was still my Scully.

We spent hours walking. Usually around Rivergate, as slowly winter turned in to spring and new life began to bloom around us. The irony of that wasn’t lost on either of us I don’t think.

Occasionally we got in the car and just drove. Aimlessly driving, needing in some unspoken way to keep moving forwards. We just let the road take us, stopping if something or somewhere caught our interest. Often she would fall asleep with her head resting against my shoulder, and I would find somewhere to park just so I could look at her. Sometimes being with her was so excruciatingly painful that something hard and cold took up residence in my chest cavity, stealing my breath from me and rendering me incapable of speech. And she knew; she always knew when I was falling and she would find a way to emotionally catch me before I hit the ground.

Only very rarely did we talk about her cancer.

We both refused I think, to allow ourselves to be defined by it or more crucially, for our relationship to be defined by it.

Until one day, one frightening day, when Scully began to drop random words in to her sentences, substituting in a way that clearly made sense to her but only to her. And even more frightening was that she was totally unaware that she was even doing it. The first time it happened I thought she was kidding.

Had you big time Mulder

But it was all too clear that she wasn’t.

She had refused all offers of a further MRI scan, arguing that since she was on no actual treatment protocol, tracking the progress of the disease was pointless. But really, I think she was simply afraid. I didn’t blame her since I seemed to spend every waking hour suspended in a state of perpetual terror that gnawed at me with an uninterrupted tenacity that would have, if I’d allowed it to, swiftly rendered me unable to function on even the most basic level. I wasn’t sure I was ready to physically have to face the demon that was slowly and relentlessly taking her away from me, not ready to have to weigh the time we had left in weeks or months. It was just too damn painful.

So instead, we made memories. As best we could at least.

A trip to the fair where we rode the ferris wheel again and again, laughing as the wind whipped around us, her slapping me at the centre of the chest in mock admonishment as I made the car rock when we were right at the top of the arc. And I kissed her, slow and deep as coloured lights twinkled beneath us and the starlit sky stretched to infinity above. I kissed her with my eyes wide open, to preserve this moment in time for ever. The sight of her face, flushed as it was with almost childlike happiness as I prayed to whatever God controlled the universe to please let me keep her for one more week, one more month, one more year; knowing the futility even as I wished that it could be so.

Because day by day, it was becoming clear that there was no stopping the progression of the disease, that the Scully I had fallen in love with so many years ago was slowly being taken. Not just from me, but from herself.

Her short term memory was becoming poor. For the most part she managed to hide it from me although I know she was in the habit of checking to see if her toothbrush was wet; to check that she had remembered to clean her teeth in the morning. And that she had begun to carry a small note book and pen with her in to which she jotted small snippets of daily life, to refer back to should she forget. She never asked me for help in that regard, fiercely trying to hang on to her independence, refusing to be cowed by the relentless damage being wrought upon her by this cruel disease.

I had reconciled myself to the fact a long time ago that this time there would be no miracle cure. That any intervention I had thought might come had been nothing but a scant hope from a desperate man. I had been stupid to even think that there might be. Because finally I knew, that everything leading up to this point had been carefully orchestrated and calculated. To give her back to me the last time. To allow me to fall in love with her, only to take her now was almost too heinous an act for me to comprehend.

On one night, not so very long ago, Scully had made me promise that I would continue to fight for justice. For her, for me, for everything and everyone who had been taken from us both. And I promised. Of course I promised. I would promise her the sun moon and stars if I thought it might bring her peace.

And when she was gone, when I had finally let her go, I would beg for her forgiveness before putting my gun against my temple and pulling the trigger.

Because without her, there could never be justice.

Because no amount of legal or moral recompense could ever be equal to what they have taken from us.

And now, as I sit on the sofa, listening to the sound of Scully’s desperate sobs from within the bedroom where she fled, I no longer have any fight left to give. I feel hollow inside. As though my heart has been ripped out of my chest.

Because this evening, as we curled up together on the sofa to watch TV, my beautiful, brilliant partner with her incredible mind, the woman who re-wrote Einstein when she was 23 years old, discovered that she could no longer read; that the words on the screen meant absolutely nothing to her.

And as I watched her literally fall apart before me, months of futile denial finally becoming undeniable, something cracked and broke free from her and she fought me with everything she had as I tried to take her in my arms, to soothe her even as I knew that there was nothing I could hope to do to make this right. Watching helplessly as she sought escape from me.

I didn’t follow her.

I couldn’t follow her.

Because I am alive and she is dying. For perhaps the first time she has to acknowledge that she is dying.

And I will give her the time she needs to at least begin to make sense of all this and then I will hold her against me as I search for the words that will convince her to keep going, to keep fighting.

Because I can’t lose her yet.

I just can’t.

XXXX

I think I fell asleep for a few minutes. I have no recollection of even closing my eyes, but the shadows in the room have deepened slightly. My watch tells me that barely half an hour has passed, but the apartment is quiet. The sounds of Scully’s distress have silenced and I decide to risk going to her.

But when I enter the bedroom, I am suddenly frozen with an inexplicable fear that paralyzes me. I am unable to move as I realise she isn’t there. And like a magnet, my eyes are drawn to the centre of the bed, to the leather holster that usually holds Scully’s service revolver in place.

It is empty.

And she is gone.

My eyes narrow as I see a single page torn from a book has been left alongside the holster and with shaking hands I pick it up. My throat is burning with a combination of raw fear and an all encompassing guilt that I fell asleep.

She was hurting and I fell asleep.

I recognise the page as being the preface to one of Scully’s favourite books, a collection of poems and anecdotes that speak of love, of remembrance. Of loss.

She knows that book by heart.

‘ Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away in to the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly the way it was. I am I and you are you, and The old life we lived so fondly together remains unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference in to your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner. All is well’

And even as I am scanning the words, I hear a noise, a strange animalistic keening sound that builds in volume and intensity until I realise that the sound is coming from me as realisation slams into my consciousness.

No Scully. Please No. Not this. Never this.

And I literally throw myself out of the apartment, screaming her name.

But there is only silence.

CONTINUED PART THREE

NOTES -  Credit for the beautiful piece of writing at the end goes to Henry Scott Holland (27 January 1847 – 17 March 1918) who was Regius Professor of Divinity at the University of Oxford.

#Fading light #my fic #cancer #angst #msr #not everything is as it seems #but sorry anyway