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laurelsofhighever · 7 months

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Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Characters/pairings: Alistair x Cousland Chapter: 9/? Rating: T Warnings: None Fic Summary: The story of the Fifth Blight, in a world where Alistair was raised to royalty instead of joining the Grey Wardens.

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Morrigan, it seemed, was every bit as unpleasant as suggested by her acerbic remarks back in Flemeth’s glade. Generously, her mood might be blamed on the resentment of being sent from home and turned into a guide by her mother, but Alistair’s own churn of grief and worry left him little room for sympathy. After announcing that she had packed her things, and tutting all the while that Rosslyn needed help into her armour to avoid her injury, the witch had set a demanding pace, and seemed to follow no path beyond her own whims.

Most of the trees slouched too close together for frost to touch the banks of moss beneath their feet, but the cold still found its way in, with the scent of wet earth and the occasional shower of droplets from disturbed branches overhead. He pushed away the discomfort, worried more for Rosslyn, for the sickly gleam of her skin in the half-light. They carried only enough supplies to get them to Lothering – even having left behind his heavy plate armour in favour of quieter, faster movement – but though she bore the least of them, her eyes glazed over, and as the sunlight lengthened and dipped low, more than once ahead of him she stumbled and had to clench a sob between her teeth as the movement jostled her injured arm.

They finally halted on a spur of exposed, striated bedrock above a small pond. A stream fed into it from somewhere nearby, the distant rush of water the only sound through the windless trees, but not enough to disturb its dark, glasslike surface.

“We should set watches,” Rosslyn said. She had already sunk onto a lip of the rock, almost grey with fatigue.

“Two should be enough,” he answered, throwing a meaningful glare at Morrigan.

The witch made no protest, but shrugged off her pack and turned away.

“Where are you going?”

“You wish to eat, I suppose?” she drawled. “We will need a fire and shelter, if that is within your capabilities.”

He watched her stalk into the trees with a huff before setting down his own pack and unstrapping the small hatchet Flemeth had graciously allowed them to take. A firestarting kit had been shoved in the top as well, and this he passed to Rosslyn.

“This is almost like all those times your father dragged us out of the castle to go camping,” he joked, and then mentally kicked himself. “Almost. Fewer things wanting to kill us. Uh… I’d better get started if we want a roof over our heads tonight.”

He was still packing moss onto the roof of the lean-to to block the wind as the final light bled from the sky and stained the encroaching clouds like a cup of spilled wine over a tablecloth. Every so often he glanced to Rosslyn, who frowned as she poked the fire. She had built it well, and even in a short time the narrow hollow between the ridge and the first line of trees had grown almost cosy. The silence, however, had not. It was a relief when Morrigan emerged out of the gloom with a brace of rabbits at her hip and the edge of her cloak folded over an armful of mushrooms and some kind of long, tuberous roots.

The quiet persisted. Night fell without the rustle of deer through the undergrowth or the calls of hunting owls overhead, as if the whole forest were cowering from the darkspawn, with only the slow bubbling of their small stewpot to measure time and Cuno’s snuffling at the discarded innards of their meal to offer conversation, until the oppressive air closed so tight that Alistair wanted to scream.

“We should probably talk about where we’re going next, once we’ve got our supplies in Lothering,” he ventured.

“Would that imply you have a plan?” Morrigan asked in an airy voice. “I had thought this morning it was settled we would go to this Arl Eamon in Redcliffe. Did you forget already?”

He tried not to grind his teeth and turned instead to Rosslyn, wiping her sword with an oiled rag. “What about the treaties? Elves, dwarves, the Circle of Magi… We’ll have to find them all at some point.”

Flemeth’s warnings gnawed at him, the sheer enormity of their task, and beneath it a deeper dread for what would now become of him – what would be expected – even though Cailan had only acknowledged him in the first place because the Landsmeet was growing restless that he had no heirs of his own.

“Rosslyn?”

She started.

“What do you think?” he pressed. “About where we should go.”

“Oh… Redcliffe is closest.”

“You do not sound eager to get there,” Morrigan observed.

A frown drew in across her brows, knotting her mouth in a hard line as her gaze drifted out into the darkness. “I came to Ostagar to find Fergus. My brother,” she clarified, at the witch’s blank look.

“Rosslyn…”

Morrigan cut across him. “If he was lost in the Wilds, then attempting to look for him would be foolish. He is either dead or he managed to flee to the north.”

“Very sensitive.” He glared at her again, because it was easier than watching the way Rosslyn’s fingers clenched in her lap.

“I am simply saying that you have no notion where this man is,” she replied in a slow, careful voice, as if he were an argumentative child. “It would be nigh-on suicidal to look for him when the wilds are overrun with darkspawn and we already have a mission that could decide the fate of everyone in Ferelden.”

“And you don’t want to try and have even a moment of compassion?” he demanded. “Or are witches allergic to that? Have you never lost anyone close to you – what would you do if your mother died?”

“Before or after I stopped laughing?”

“Right, very creepy,” he snapped. “This is the moment where we’re shocked to discover you’ve never had a friend your entire life.”

“I can be friendly if I desire. Alas, desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so.”

“That’s enough.”

Rosslyn was standing. Her features blazed in the glow of the fire, the darkness mantling about her like wings as sparks gathered in the corners of her eyes and the leather of her sword’s scabbard creaked under the strength of her grip. Before he could reach for her, the thread of tension holding her in place snapped. She turned, swallowed by the night. For a moment even Cuno only watched her stalk away, until with a high, worried whine he hauled himself to his paws and padded after her.

Alistair’s gaze flashed to Morrigan. “Happy?”

“I did not –”

But he wasn’t listening, already following the path Rosslyn had taken through the forest. The sudden loss of firelight left him blind until his eyes adjusted, the air too cool and damp against his face, but she hadn’t retreated far, and he found her tucked against the gnarled roots of a yew with one knee drawn up to her chest and the other folded underneath, the way she had once sat on the plush chairs in the teyrn’s study as she took her lessons.

“Are you alright?” he asked, at a loss for anything else to say.

She only sniffed. The Cousland sword lay embraced across her chest like a favourite stuffed toy, with the dog at her side torn between fussing over her like a nursemaid and pinning Alistair with such a baleful glare there could be no doubt of his intent.

“May I sit?”

With one last sniff, she swiped at her cheeks and laid a hand on Cuno’s head to calm him. “Feel free.”

Silence fell over them. He fidgeted. Though he tried to find comforting words, his mind kept drifting instead to the last time they had truly been alone together, to all the things unsaid that had been seething in his gut for the past two years.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, as if such a small word were enough.

She shook her head and dragged a shuddering breath into her lungs. “No. Morrigan’s right. I shouldn’t hope that he’s alive. Part of me – part of me doesn’t want to.”

“What does Morrigan know?” he scoffed. “Maybe Fergus got out, maybe he heard about the army’s defeat and went to Lothering. But… that’s not what I meant.” He licked his lips, hoping for eloquence, that this, at least, might be one burden he could take from her shoulders. “The last time we saw each other, before the Blight, I… the way I behaved wasn’t fair. I just wanted you to know you don’t have to worry about – about me doing anything like that again.”

He had to look down at his hands, twisting them in his lap to avoid the way she searched his face. Until he spoke the words aloud, he had not recognised the traitorous little corner of his heart that still wanted, that hoped she might reach out and cup his face and draw him in for the kiss he had once so clumsily asked of her. Instead, she turned away and let the back of her head thump against the bark, scowling out at the dark in a way that told him he had yet again misjudged, too entangled in the mire of his own feelings, selfish, insensitive, callous as a –

“Arl Howe betrayed us.”

His gaze snapped sideways. “What?”

“Back in Ostagar you asked what happened.” There was a dead, distant quality to her voice. “He persuaded Father to send Fergus ahead with the army – said his own muster hadn’t finished – and then when night fell he had them attack. The defences weren’t seen to, and we were overrun.”

“And the warden-commander –”

“Conscripted me,” she spat, her lips pulled back from her teeth. “Refused to aid us until my father agreed to let him take me. What?”

“I just…” He shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Howe is one of Highever’s vassals, one of your father’s oldest friends. And all this time…” Back when he was still in Starkhaven, had Nate known what his father planned? “I can’t imagine what it was like to see that.”

“Don’t pity me,” she snarled. “I live. And before this is over, I will take my family’s sword and use it to carve Howe the slow, excruciating death he deserves.” Her knuckles strained white on the hilt, clear even in the gloom, her eyes blazing and bright with unfamiliar, feverish intensity.

He wanted to touch her. Offers of shared vengeance and enduring loyalty tripped on his tongue. And yet, with the way her pain already chafed like a splinter caught under his skin, he sat locked, struggling against the fear he might only make it worse.

“I could never pity you,” he told her eventually.

She sagged a little. “Arl Eamon should have mustered at Ostagar. If he’d been there…”

“Cailan expected him to come,” he replied. A sudden image of his half-brother, clapping a soldier on the back in praise of his courage, brought a sting to the back of his throat. “We can ask him when we get to Redcliffe – but first we have to get there, and for that we have to eat. Come on.” He nudged her with an elbow and stood. “The stew should be ready soon, and Nan did always say you can’t go knocking heads on an empty stomach.”

Her small huff of laughter warmed him as he helped her to her feet, though the sound lacked humour and she quickly pulled away from his grip. For an instant, foolish hope took root that she might lean into him, safe from prying eyes in the dark, but only until the dog shouldered him out of the way with a grunt to take pride of place at his mistress’s side. As he followed them back to the camp, he tried to convince himself he had no right to be disappointed.

She woke with a sword in her hand, fully armoured in her own plate. Blood splattered the front of it, though when she touched it, still wet as it smeared on her fingers, she couldn’t remember where it came from, who she had killed to become so filthy, and now shouting bubbled in the air around her, steel and the crashing of footsteps, until the door burst open and the servant’s warning died as the arrow pierced his throat. Shadows loomed in the world beyond – enemies she knew had to die. She charged, a battle cry on her lips, but though her muscles strained they would not move. Darkness sucked at her legs, rot that grew and spread along her armour, like moss, while the darkspawn grinned at her and the orange and white of the Howe Bear danced above them in the light of the flames. She struggled, snarled, struck at them all beyond her reach.

And then the world around her rumbled and the castle fell down in a cloud of dust as the great shadow loomed, a horned head and the leather flap of wings, a gaping maw and a belch of black, roiling flame –

The jolt awake tore at her shoulder. Sickened, she clutched at her arm with a grit of teeth to keep herself from crying out, all while the dregs of the nightmare scuttled through her bones and the scents of leaf mould and smoke coiled in her head to make her dizzy, lost in the battle to keep her stomach from overturning.

In the end, she barely managed to scramble out of the edge of the firelight before her guts heaved and she fell forward to empty her stomach. When there was nothing left, she sat back and found Morrigan watching her, like a hawk considering a mouse, as she pulled the stopper on the waterskin to rinse out the taste.

“Waste of a good meal,” she muttered. “No reflection on your cooking.”

“Then it must be something else that troubles you.”

The witch turned away to poke the fire, apparently satisfied in her scrutiny, and made no comment as Rosslyn eased herself down opposite. Faint snores carried from the depth of the shelter. For that, she was glad; experiencing such weakness was bad enough without having Alistair witness it. She had sat quiet through dinner as she processed his apology, trying to figure out the strange twist in her chest, startled up by his words like a flock of grouse flushed from a hedgerow. Did it even matter? If they managed to end the Blight and survive, fate would lead them down different paths, and already she could feel it tugging, laced with the dregs of the nightmare that crawled under her skin. She should have killed Duncan when Jory gave her an opening.

“No sign of darkspawn?” she asked.

Morrigan waved the concern away. “The wards Mother gave me will hide us for now. ‘Tis a good thing we are headed out of the Wilds, however.” She stiffened, as if anticipating disagreement.

“You seem to know your way well through rather well,” Rosslyn said instead, pushing away thoughts of Fergus.

“‘Tis my home.” The witch offered a shrug. “From time to time, I have travelled beyond its borders, to the village that is our destination. I have watched its people and pondered what curious beings they are, purchased goods from the merchants there. And now…” she added, with a purse of her lips, “Mother wishes me to expand my experience beyond that as well.”

For a long moment, Rosslyn studied her companion, the vulnerable way she hunched in on herself while trying not to make it obvious. She would have made a poor politician, far too transparent for one raised to the nobility, where every glance or twitch of a muscle could betray a person’s intentions. Unless nobody was looking.

She forced her fists to unclench.

“Before I was… recruited, I never travelled outside of Highever, except to go to Denerim or the Storm Islands to visit my mother’s people,” she said. “But I always wanted to see mountains.”

Morrigan tilted her chin, almost in a smile. “As do I – and to witness the ocean and step into its waters, and experience a city rather than just see it in my mind.” She paused, and her face fell into a scowl. “I suppose now I will do all those things… but actually leaving is harder than I thought.”

“Sometimes there’s no choice.”

No reply came, the words spoken with too much bitterness to defy the deep hour of the night with more conversation, and as the silence stretched and let Rosslyn nod once more, only the low hiss of the logs burning offered comfort to her drooping limbs.

#dragon age #dragon age fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #alistair x cousland #alistair x warden #warden x alistair #alistair theirin #cousland #warden cousland #rosslyn cousland #grey wardens #morrigan

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theunrealinsomniac · 11 months

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What are your wedding headcanons for SuiKa?

Suigetsu and Karin. My word lol.

Well, while there is a mention of them being a couple in an old SasuKarin headcanon I did a while ago that's about the long and short of it lol. But I can give you three small ones I'm sure.

A bit of background knowledge though for both characters in this world, at least for Karin.

Karin is Nagato's daughter, Kushina's niece and Naruto's first cousin. As she doesn't really appear in the story I've not fleshed out her family beyond the link to Naruto, that might change later.

She and Sasuke were a couple while they were both criminals, and they ran in a gang that included Suigetsu and Jugo. Karin has one son by Sasuke, his name is Ren Uzumaki.

Karin didn't realise she was pregnant until Sasuke and her had already split and Sasuke was in prison. It put Karin back on the straight and narrow and she reconnected with her family. There is no contact between Sasuke and his son in this universe. Quite deliberately.

Got it? Cool!

SuiKa Wedding!AU Headcanon #1:

Suigetsu and Karin met up again a few years after Karin's son was born.

They became an item very quickly and while their relationship can be quite acerbic it is also very loving. Ren thinks of Suigetsu as his dad to give you an idea of how close those two became.

They go on to have two more children, a son and a daughter. I don't have names for them.

SuiKa Wedding!AU Headcanon #2:

One of the people Karin reconnected with the most out of her family was Naruto.

They were close as kids and while they drifted apart as teenagers, they became very close again after Karin reached out to him. It was Naruto she reached out to first after all.

And Naruto is very much who Suigetsu was most nervous to meet. Especially because how he met Naruto was ... interesting.

Naruto showed up at his door unannounced within a week of Karin telling him she was seeing him. Naruto didn't say anything threatening but Suigetsu got the message.

Fuck around, and Naruto would help him find out.

Suigetsu was a little afraid of Naruto specifically for a solid decade.

SuiKa Wedding!AU Headcanon #3:

Karin and Suigetsu live on the border between Fire County and Whirlpool county, in a nice little suburb and while their house is by no means a mansion, it's much bigger than either of them ever thought they'd live in when they first met.

It's a very welcoming home and they live in it for the rest of their lives.

And there you go, hope you enjoyed them.

#ask theunrealinsomniac #suika #suigetsu hozuki #karin uzumaki

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rubykarelia · 1 year

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THE ARSONIST (short story, comedy, 2022)

When Blythe was Sal’s best friend, he loved to introduce her that way. There was something so special in knowing that someone met the requirements of the ‘best friend’ title and felt comfortable using it on him, too. No one else ever had. Nowadays, if you were to ask, Sal’d probably say that his Nana is his best friend. If he’s feeling generous, he’ll throw in Alyssa from work, who’s only a true contender on the days she buys eclairs for the whole office or compliments his shoes. But, for a long time, there was no doubt about Blythe. Even on the night they met back in college, Sal was somehow already so sure that Blythe would be his best friend for the rest of his life. He could’ve professed it right there and then, in that crooked bathroom line-up of a downtown haunt, where the ground was sticky, and it smelled like battery acid, that there had been a name written in his fate, one he had never been able to read, but suddenly, for whatever reason, he felt so clear that that name was hers. He was wrong, of course.

Blythe was a softy, and everyone seemed to know it—especially her. She was a self-diagnosed empath. Sal didn’t know what this meant, but upon a cursory Google search he learned that an empath tries to fit into other people’s shoes as often as she can. Blythe wore other people’s shoes more often than her own, it seemed. She had big dreams of anonymously donating hospital wings, and she often posted photos of herself without makeup on in a self-proclaimed pursuit to ‘inspire other women to embrace their natural beauty.’ She gave her leftovers to the homeless people outside of their favourite restaurants, retweeted links to GoFundMe pages for the underprivileged. Sal didn’t admit it to himself until later on, but his favourite charity she ever donated to was him. Her presence felt precious, made him feel valuable in turn. She offered pithy sentiments whenever Sal confided in her about something that was bothering him—the fear of being alone, mostly—and when he cried, she frowned, lips aquiver, glossy-eyed, bowing her brows to her side bangs.

The incident, as it were, happened last November. It was Thursday, and Blythe and Sal were on the scenic route to work, strolling down a street off of Canal with baked goods and coffee in hand, scarves tucked into sherpa coats. They walked to their respective offices together every day. It was a talent that the pair were always able to weave their commutes together like a French braid—regardless of where either worked, they always seemed to meet in the middle. At the time, Sal was a Business Development Associate for a Manhattan furniture designer, and Blythe was the Social Media Manager for a wellness podcast. It was a remote job, but she rented a space a couple blocks from Sal, and that’s where she did all of her work.

They’d stopped for lattes at one of their favourite shops. Because of that acerbic New York chill sneaking in through the door, the entire store was nice and foggy. Sal always loved that winter couldn’t change the bakery’s eternal summer, when the inside air got warm and heavy with yeast and sugar. The condensation was especially thick that Thursday; Sal couldn’t even see through the display case, return the sentiment to the croissants smiling up at him.

Blythe asked him what he’d done the day before. He had gone on a date with a guy named Lucas but decided quickly that it would be their last encounter. Lucas had spent too much of the meal talking about how cool his big brother is.

“I don’t think I should keep using these dating apps,” Sal moaned to Blythe. “These guys I match with are so boring. I would be humiliated if one of them murdered me. If someone murdered me, I’d at least want him to be interesting.”

“It’s cool that Lucas’s big brother is training for the marathon, though.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Sal eyed each baked good as if he was a detective behind a two-way mirror—he loved taking breakfast seriously. “By the way,” he continued. “Have you seen that new thing on Netflix? The docuseries? I was gonna save it for Sunday, but I couldn’t sleep last night and needed to watch something.” On Sunday evenings, Sal would go over to Blythe’s apartment, and they’d watch something scary while cuddling up under a big duvet. He loved cuddling her and that she cuddled back.

“Which one?”

“It’s about this psychopath who kills his parents for their life insurance.”

“Oh, no, I haven’t seen that one yet. No spoilers.”

“It’s meh,” he observed. “And—I know you’ll understand—I find it so corny when they turn it around at the end of a documentary, and the guy getting interviewed looks at the camera and asks the audience something like, ‘Is the murderer to blame, or are we all to blame?’” Blythe rolled her eyes knowingly—cheesy film clichés were among the many cherished faux-pas that they collected to complain about together. Their best times were spent commiserating. He admired that Blythe could always pinpoint exactly what to hate and why.

“The aunt gave an interview, though,” he continued. “She was so cute and old, and she reminded me of my Nana. She was so, so sad. It was tragic.”

“I just wish these shows would show more reenactments,” Blythe remarked. “I think I’m one of those people with that condition where you can’t conjure pictures in your mind. Picture an apple. Do you see an apple?”

Sal closed his eyes and thought about an apple. He quickly decided—as if there was a strict invigilator supervising his mind’s eye—that the apple was red, a fuji. Pristine, plump. No bites. Waxy.

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes still shut. “A fuji.”

Blythe didn’t reply. He opened his eyes, and she was busy ogling the pecan tarts through the foggy glass.

“What about the fuji?” he asked.

“I can’t just hear stories from interviews, I need to see it all happening. Especially the crime. I hate it when they rely on interviews to tell the story. Like, hello? Actors exist. Do a reenactment, for god’s sake.”

“You want to see the murder?” laughed Sal, shuffling forward in the lineup.

“Yes,” she answered. Her voice was dampened by the strange cocktail that Sal had learned to expect of her tongue: acrid, bitter, somehow sweet.

Sure, Blythe was an empath, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t joke about dark things. Her sardonic side wrapped all the way around. Not many people could crack through such an exterior and understand it as wit.

“That’s so messed up.” Sal forced out a snort. “Don’t worry, I’ll get your latte.”

“It’s just so interesting to me, you know? How could a person do something like that? Kill someone?”

“Ouch!” Sal’s hand sizzled when he reached for his latte. “Careful. Grab a cozy for your cup.” He winced and held his right hand with his left.

“Oh, Sally!” Blythe kissed his scalded hand, her lips leaving a burgundy print on the ripe skin. “Poor baby.” Sal smiled as she took over for his left hand.

They’d just stepped outside when they found themselves inadvertently joining a puddle of onlookers. The crowd was murmuring to one another, and Sal immediately sensed the despondent weight of their whispers. Blythe lit a cigarette and sipped it along with her coffee. She nursed the hot latte slowly—she always took a long time drinking so as not to smudge her lipstick.

“Holy shit,” Sal said, interrupting Blythe. She had been insistently retelling the previous weekend’s festivities like it was sacred lore. She held out the cigarette to him, probably thinking he had asked for a puff.

“Look over there,” he clarified.

A motorcyclist was frozen on the ground, draped upon his fallen steed as if he was lolling on a beach chair. Passengers had fled an adjacent M15 bus—a headlight was all smashed. The driver was shouting obscenities at the unconscious biker, flailing his arms.

“Oh god,” said Blythe. “This is a lot.”

“One day, you’re just going to work, riding your scooter. Next…” Sal shook his head, taking off his baseball cap to pay his respects. It started off as such a normal day, Sal lamented. That’s how most true crime documentaries like to preface tragedy, with a plea for the audience to trust in the morning’s banality.

“I’m so emotionally congested right now,” Blythe rasped. “I don’t know if I can handle this today.” She drank from her cup but squealed as the hot coffee touched her tongue.

“Have you eaten yet? Have some muffin,” Sal suggested, keeping one eye on the crash. He couldn’t stop looking at the body, all limp and twisted, not like a body at all yet still, tragically, human.

“Is anyone calling 911? Like, anyone?” he called out, looking around at the crowd accusingly. “Maybe someone knows CPR?”

“It’s too late for CPR.”

“How do we know that?”

“I don’t know. I forgot to mention,” Blythe mused. “Hailey was there on Saturday. Bleh.” She contorted her face as if she’d tasted something horrible. She laughed with herself—it sounded half-hollow, as though she thought Sal would join in and fill the gaps she left in her breaths. He turned to her, mouth agape, eyes still dilated in disbelief at the fallen biker. She still wasn’t done.

“And she hasn’t seen Ash since the breakup, which we all know, so it’s incredibly awkward. She was obviously so timid and out of place, and she kept asking me for a sip of my drink or a cigarette, which you know I hate. I think she was nervous. And I’m still annoyed, right, because I keep telling Noah to, you know, phase her out of this friend group. It's the nice thing to do. For her sake and our sakes. Like, just stop inviting her…”

Sal felt his heart do an unfunny rimshot in his chest. Her droning started to hurt his ears and then every inch of his body, impairing each sense, like when a sound is so loud you can’t see what’s in front of you, or when a light is so bright you can’t hear the world anymore.

“I’m so surprised you can even think about anything else right now.” Sal couldn’t soften his exasperated expression. He hated confrontation of any kind, but this was a life-or-death situation, he decided. “We basically just watched someone die, and you're still talking about Saturday.”

It was the first time in which Sal consciously wished Blythe would go away, continue the commute without him. This sensation was foreign to him—he always hated being away from her. Sal always dreaded the Uber rides home from her apartment: the lonely backseat, the awkward silence, the theatrics of a passing skyline. And he always cursed the tragic early morning of each Saturday night when the club closed, and Blythe had run off with a handsome stranger, and Sal had to baste in the cold, silent dark of his studio apartment where coming down from their chosen high reached a new profundity. He hated saying goodbye when she had come for just a quick visit, and he'd have to stand at his lobby door and watch her clop down his stoop, spill onto the sidewalk and disappear. Each time, he’d shut the door and think of her, miss her in a way that felt like mourning. Sal didn’t mind being alone, but he hated being alone without her.

“I’m sorry I’m not processing the trauma the way you think I should.” Blythe still didn’t get it, which was made clear by a defensive twitch to her eyebrow. Her face never moved too much, but she still managed to be hauntingly expressive.

Sal felt conflicted as to where his eyes should look—the fallen motorcyclist or the best friend. Both appeared wounded. Thankfully, sirens sounded, and Sal craned his neck towards an incoming blitzkrieg of ambulances and flashing lights. Emergency workers emerged from their vehicles, rushing to their tiny missions, intuiting where they were most useful—it was like a carefully choreographed ballet. He almost considered asking them if he could be of any assistance. They might have been able to use his scarf as a tourniquet, or maybe they needed an extra man on tourist detail.

“God, this is brutal. It looks like that time at Coachella when that guy got stabbed,” Sal gasped. Some onlookers left, probably late for work, but, in classic Manhattan fashion, the empty spots were quickly preempted by looky-loos. There was an audible, collective whimper from the crowd when the bus driver’s head fell in his hands—some type of concession statement. Sal couldn’t watch any longer; he crouched down in disgust, making the cold dregs of his coffee spill a little, and his heavy sighs formed clouds in the cold.

“God.” He looked up to Blythe. Her eyes were fixed on the bus driver.

“Look at him crying. His life has changed forever.” She scoffed, unfunny, and took a careful sip of her latte.

“His life’s changed forever? I mean, this guy’s dead.” He stood up, exerting a pout as his eyes found the man again. “This is too much, I mean.” He put his cap over his eyes and tried to cry because he felt like it.

“Are you mad at me? I feel like you are.”

“No, why?” Sal asked from behind his cap.

“Nevermind,” Blythe surrendered. Sal’s stomach twitched—he wondered if his answer would've passed a polygraph test. Blythe's brand of empathy meant that she could always tell when Sal was lying, how he was feeling, how she could make it better. He began to wonder if this was because everyone else’s ailments were so much more exciting than her own. Once, after the pair had seen an indie movie about a little paraplegic girl, she spent all afternoon walking around with a slight limp. At the time, he thought it was endearing. The image—Blythe clutching his arm as they stumbled out of the mall movie theatre—flashed in his head as he watched her brow nest into its comfortable furrow, and she was no longer endearing, but heavy. Too much of not at all.

“Sal,” she erupted. “Sal, look, he’s alive!”

He emerged to the sight of an EMT hooking an arm around the biker, guiding him back onto his feet. He was groggy, and his leg looked a bit mangled, but he was moving.

Sal instinctively began to cheer, clapping his hands and whooping.

“That’s enough!” a police officer barked in their direction. Sal’s celebrations were premature, and EMTs leered at him, but he didn’t care about anything else other than the man and his beating heart. He threw his cap in the air like it was a graduation.

Sal’s cap fell from the sky, right towards Blythe's cup. The onlookers, who’d begun resuming their commutes, stopped abruptly as the cardboard cup cracked loudly upon impact. Shrapnel of soy milk sprayed in every direction but only grazed the close bystanders—a teardrop of latte landed on Sal’s cheek—as most of the liquid coated Blythe’s hand. For a moment, Sal silently mourned the staining of his designer baseball cap, but then Blythe shrieked in pain.

“What the fuck!” she screamed. Her hand turned a fiery shade of red, and as Sal reached for it, she swung it away in a panic. He tried to say something that would comfort her, assure her that it’d be alright, but she kept crying dry tears, looking around for someone to care.

Some onlookers outstretched napkins. Sal grabbed a few and wrapped them around Blythe’s wound, and she let out a cry as the paper made contact with the fresh blister on the back of her hand.

“Should I get an Uber to the hospital?”

“No!” she insisted. “You’ve done enough.”

Stray ambulances that had come for the motorcycle man began peeling away from the main street. Blythe waved one of them down before it could hurl away towards another damsel—when an ambulance stopped, she hopped in like she was ducking into a cab, not before she looked Sal’s way, shaking her head, eyebrows bowing to one another.

As the ambulance turned on its siren and hurried away, Sal was lost in a perplexed daze. What did she mean by that, ‘You’ve done enough’? His aimless gaze suddenly focused on the bus driver, explaining the incident to an officer, smiling to himself because he hadn’t killed anybody.

As Sal walked on, he texted Blythe, but she never replied. When he got to work, he discovered she’d posted an Instagram picture of her bandages from the emergency room, and underneath, she was replying to her followers’ niceties with pink hearts. By lunchtime, he went to check the comments again but couldn’t access her page—‘User Not Found’, it said. He knew Blythe, so he also knew it was likely she’d blocked him. She was constantly blocking or reporting people—it was usually done in good fun and without much of a motive, like that time she blocked a girl who didn’t invite her to her 12th birthday party years back. He couldn’t surrender to the possibility just yet.

He checked to see if her page had just been deleted, because she did social media cleanses often, especially when she was emotionally backed-up. Sal logged into another Instagram account on his laptop, which he had snuck into the office bathroom. Blythe was public, still alive, but wounded. She was taking to her Story to respond to any inquiries. Sal could barely listen to her, because it was so too strange to hear Blythe’s voice tell lies—her usual rasp was once so raw, but now it sounded like she needed to clear her throat of phlegm. He started pacing in and out of the stalls.

“I’m trying to process what just happened. Without going into specifics,” Blythe explained. “My friend—now ex-friend, I guess—poured hot coffee on me, and I had to go to the emergency room for a first-degree burn.” Sal had to Google whether first-degree burns were the worst kind—he always got them confused—and even though they turned out to be the most benign, she punctuated the medical jargon with urgency as if she was terminal.

Immediately, Sal was a pariah. Blythe stopped inviting him to things—that Sunday, he waited for his phone to buzz for an invitation to movie night, but it never did. On the eve of his upcoming dinner party, most of his guests sent him cancellation messages. Each had plucked from a jar of banal excuses: some were sick, some were working early the next morning, and everyone was so sorry that they couldn’t make it. They had scrutable alibis, but Sal felt strongly that the coffee spillage was a possible motive. It was a lonely process, being phased out.

Blythe texted Sal a few months later. She didn’t say anything about the coffee incident, just admitted that she missed him and needed the name of that dermatologist he’d recommended last April. Sal knew that was probably quite hard for her to do—and he felt bad for gatekeeping Dr. Hyun from a prospective patient—but he kept her number unsaved and never replied.

“So, yeah,” Sal sighs. “That’s what really happened. I’m only telling you this because I know we have friends in common, and I wouldn’t want you to hear about it from anyone else.”

“I understand.”

“Anyways, it’s been pretty weird, so I redownloaded Hinge, and voila, here we are.” Sal stirs the ice in his coffee with a straw. “I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Javier.”

“Right. What was your major again?”

#fiction

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variousqueerthings · 3 years

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sort of a musing on Amanda LaRusso

Amanda was never good at “caring” the way people expected a good little girl to care. She got bored with other peoples problems quickly.

She was biting too. Never good at pretending. Always got to the point. Realized early on that you were a winner or a loser, and that she hadn’t been born on the winning side. It wasn’t until she started to get older and figured out how to tailor herself to others’ expectations - a bit of wit, a tight dress, a smile to mitigate the sting of her words - that she began to change all that.

It was wrong, anyway. All those people who thought she was cold or whatever. Women were meant to be emotional and empathetic and she wasn’t those things, but she did care. She cared about not fitting in, she cared about making something for herself, she cared about smoothing down her rough edges until they were invisible, unless she wanted to cut you. Sometimes she even cared for whatever boyfriend or girlfriend she kept around for longer than a month, extended her little bubble around them until they burst it and she had to excise them.

And she cared about Daniel. She hadn’t even wanted to care about Daniel, but he got under your skin in some incalculable way (she’d learn years later just how many peoples skins he’d gotten under, so she could be forgiven for falling into his endearingly unintentional trap).

She’d started out competitive, thinking about all the ways to win, but she was always practical. They worked better together. Best sales team in the valley. Getting married made sense. He was on the way up and so was she. They’d pull each other up. They were attracted to each other (he was a giver from the beginning - a rare gem amongst men). And she cared about him. That made him practically unique until the kids came along.

Mr Miyagi was an odd, but welcome addition. That was another thing about Daniel. Apart from the family he didn’t bring any baggage with him (she thought back then). Amanda could deal with the fact that his mom and her didn’t like each other too much. Daniel was all hers. Miyagi was unobtrusively present in everything that Daniel did. He grounded Daniel into something less flighty than Amanda suspected he would be if left to his own devices.

Amanda did the rest.

Smoothed out some of his rough edges the way she’d smoothed out her own. Best sales team in the valley, best dealership in the valley, a perfect couple. A kid was an expectation too, to cement that picture; one that she felt fine about, because Daniel wasn’t the kinda guy who’d push her into some mothering, “caring” role once the baby was born.

Not that she didn’t care.

From the moment she saw Sam, she thought: This one might be yours, but I’ll make sure she doesn’t get hurt like me. She’ll learn to smooth out her edges much quicker, be the kind of girl who doesn’t get left out. The kind of girl who doesn’t make the mistake of trying to be too much herself. She’ll be fine.

I won’t let anyone hurt her.

#is this kinda aromantic amanda?#what I'm saying is that daniel might have A Type and that type has at some point fantasized about squashing him like a bug #I have Opinions about some of amanda's Opinions esp in season 1 - she cares about status - she hints she was an outsider #she doesn't recognise the red flags of sam's friends or kyler #she doesn't have a lot of patience for daniel's various crises (to some extent understandable but also I'm not sure she always listens #when what he's saying is the truth.. but vice versa daniel's truth is often obfuscated so... two way street right)#she doesn't appear to have any friends -- much like daniel #unlike daniel she ALSO doesn't seem to have family?#once she realises that *this is serious* it's like a facade is dropped in terms of her going over to hit kreese #amanda larusso #ck #cobra kai #fck i forgot to add those tags earlier #anyway - point being her concern is with appearances a lot of the time #but she's got an acerbic shortness to her as well #I hc she's wearing a respectability mask under which is a much more feral girl #also I want to see much more amanda and sam -- sam is a daddy's girl 100% but amanda's brand of parenting is interesting to dig into

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radiantsouth · 2 years

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the protector

Susan was relieved that, for once, she wouldn't be tucking Lucy into bed alone. Heaven knows Edmund would never do it with her—he would simply hover in the doorway like an apparition to say good night to their younger sister, and he was much too squeamish to let Susan tuck him in, too. Well, when he was awake, at least; he couldn't protest if she crept to his room while he was asleep, just to make sure he was alright.

It was Peter who drew the blanket around Lucy's shoulders tonight. There was almost no reprieve from the moment he arrived—only a too-short breakfast, then it was off to the council room, fighting exhaustion as his generals debated and his siblings watched, hoping he wouldn't fall over then and there.

His eyes seemed especially sunken and bloodshot in the candlelight, bending down to kiss Lucy on the cheek.

“Good night, Peter.” Lucy looked expectantly at Susan, who relented and kissed her other cheek. “Good night, Susan. Night, Ed.”

“Night, Lu,” Edmund called out from the foot of the bed.

Peter turned to him with an impish smile. “Does Edmund want a good night kiss as well?” he teased.

“I'm alright, thanks,” Edmund protested, backing away from the bed, but Peter was quick to chase him and lift him up kicking and screaming out of the room. “Please, stop,” he whined as Peter nuzzled into his neck, laughing at the ticklish feeling.

Susan shook her head as she followed them, closing the door to Lucy's room behind her.

“Susan, help, he's torturing me,” Edmund wheezed between tickles.

“Come on, Ed, your brother missed you,” Susan said with fake sympathy. “In fact, I think you deserve a good night kiss, too—”

Edmund slipped out of Peter's grip and scampered to his room. “Good night!” he called out hastily. “See you tomorrow!” The door slammed shut.

Peter chuckled. “He'll miss this when he grows up.”

“I think we'll simply have to smother him until he's sick of us,” Susan agreed. “You off to bed, as well?”

Peter shook his head. “Don't think there’ll be any sleep for me tonight,” he said lightly.

“Oh honestly, look at the state of you—”

“Don't mother me, Susan, I know,” Peter sighed. “Believe me, I want to sleep.”

For once, Susan bit her tongue. Five hundred men lost, each one a weight on Peter’s conscience. The younger ones might have made him forget, just for a little while, but not Susan. Never Susan—it fell to her, all the bleak responsibility that came with piecing Peter back together. She was a reminder, not a distraction.

Sometimes she wished that she brought joy, like Lucy. Even Edmund's acerbic nature proved to be a worthy diversion. But this was her, and there were four thrones to be filled. This was all she had to offer.

She trailed after Peter into his bedroom, and he let her. When she closed the door, Peter was sitting cross-legged in front of the lit fireplace, staring into the flames.

She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry,” she began softly. “It must have been difficult.”

“Yes, well,” Peter agreed, though his voice was sour. “Does it ever get easier?”

Silently, Susan sat beside him. “I think if it got easier, you wouldn't be as good a king as you are now,” she said.

This, at least, got a half-hearted laugh out of Peter. “You know, you're infuriating when you're making sense.”

“I know. I must resign myself to your hating me forever.”

Wordlessly, Susan laid her head on his shoulder. She felt the tension leech from his body, and was comforted that he felt some form of relief in her presence, just as she did with his. All of them were happy that he was home, but maybe her most of all, even though she showed it least. His absence meant that Edmund and Lucy turned to her, a responsibility much more familiar to him.

He was only one year older, yet she still remembered how determined he would be to lead the way. When she was four or five and Edmund couldn’t walk yet, she had broken one of their crayons in half. They shared everything, then, because there simply wasn't enough to go around. Susan had started babbling nonsense about how she was sorry—she hadn’t wanted to cry, but she did, and that made her even more upset.

Peter sat beside her, spreading more newspaper on the rickety dinner table. “They still work when they're broken, see?” he’d said, grasping the crayon half in his hands. “And look, now we can both use them. Don't cry.”

From the moment she was born, Peter never had anything that wasn't shared: clothes, food, toys, attention, all of which he gave to his younger siblings freely. The only thing that was truly his was—well, her, Edmund, and Lucy.

But this... this burden, Susan was determined to share with him.

“You know what I thought of, when all the fighting was over?” Peter said. “That Edmund and Lucy will have to see it with their own eyes someday. We can't protect them forever.”

Susan pursed her lips. She’d thought of it, too, how fast they were all growing up. She’d thought that at least in the Professor’s house, Edmund and Lucy could be made to forget, to play and be the children that they were. They couldn’t avoid that here.

“We prepare them for the inevitable,” Susan said eventually. “It's all we can do.”

“Right as always, Su,” Peter sighed. “You did well, holding down the fort.” The younger ones, the castle, the country—Susan knew he meant them all.

“We both do what we do best.”

His eyes fell on Rhindon above the mantelpiece. “I should tell you... next time, we might need you out there. Five hundred men aren't easy to replace, but with you there...”

“I understand.”

“I’m sorry to do this to you. I know you hate it.”

Susan sat up and hugged her knees. There was nothing but regret in Peter’s eyes; as much as she hated going to battle, he hated having to send her. “It makes no difference. I'll be where I'm needed.” On the battlefield, at Peter's side, whichever he meant. “I can handle myself,” she added, tacking on what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

“And don’t I know it.” Peter reached out to squeeze her hand once. “Thanks for everything, Su.”

Susan knelt, placing a kiss on the crown of his golden head. “There’s no need to thank me. What you do need, though, is a good night’s sleep.”

“Yes, mum,” Peter said with another long-suffering sigh, but he smiled up at her all the same. “Good night, Susan.”

“Good night, Peter.” Tomorrow would bring a whole new host of problems, but for tonight, she could sleep knowing that her job was done.

#can you tell who my favourite characters are yet #peter pevensie #susan pevensie #the chronicles of narnia #narnia #tcon #narnia fic #book:lww

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monstersandmaw · 4 years

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Male drider x reader - Part Four (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

I think the previous parts have had a female reader, but I left it ambiguous/gender neutral in this one, even in the nsfw bits, mostly out of habit.

It's 8000 words, with a bit of angst, a good dose of fluff, some recognition of unhealthy attitudes, and a slightly messy nsfw scene at the end...

Hope you enjoy!

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

Gilvas waited until you’d closed the matching panel at the other end of the secret passage, and then turned away.

While you worked on the catalogue, you couldn’t shake the vulnerable look on his face as he’d told you about his late wife and as you’d stared at her vivacious features in the portrait. In the nine years since her death, he’d become a shadow, haunting this creepy old mansion and drifting from one day to the next, and it broke your heart. Gilvas was clearly a gentle soul, though his fuse was short at times, but you had begun to suspect that it was more of a defence mechanism than a character trait.

As evening billowed around the stone walls of the enormous house at the end of the day, with an awful lot still swirling around your mind, you nearly walked straight into Naril who was loading his last pile of autumn leaves into a wheelbarrow by the back door. He called your name just in time and you sidestepped with a bashful grin.

“So is it true?” he asked almost immediately.

“Is what true?”

His ears waggled and he laughed as he dumped the leaves into the barrow with a little flourish. “You and the master…?”

“Me and the master what?” you snorted, crossing your arms. “You make it sound like we’re school kids caught snogging behind the bike sheds! He showed me the portrait of his wife and told me a bit about her, that’s all.”

Naril shook his head expressively. “We’ve had people here on the estate before, you know? None of them ended up strolling the corridors with him.”

“How’d you know about it anyway?” you asked instead, resisting the urge to flick him in fond reprimand on his large ear.

“Chiara came in and started talking to my dad about it. I couldn’t believe it, and neither could they. The master doesn’t ‘chat’ with anyone…”

You shrugged. “Well, if he’s happy talking to me, I’m happy enough to listen. He seems nice, once you get past the way he likes to bark at you.”

Two days later, while you were stooped over the working version of the catalogue, scribbling something down in the margins of your cataloguing notes, the shadows moved in the recesses of the library, and Gilvas emerged. You looked up and smiled. “Hi,” you offered.

He nodded curtly at you and began to pace.

Setting your pencil down a minute or two later, you asked, “Everything… alright?”

Gilvas turned, apparently on the point of snapping something acerbic and defensive at you, but he caught himself in time and paused, throat working. The dark red birthmark on his neck moved and shifted like ink in water. If asked, you’d have said he was nervous. “I… I was wondering if you would take tea with me on the terrace today.”

You froze. Of all the things you’d been expecting from him, that had not been it. “Uh…” you began artlessly.

“Or not. You don’t have to,” he blurted, turning away. “Stupid idea anyway.”

“Wait,” you laughed, relief washing through you. “Wait. I’d love to. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

If you’d been surprised, it was nothing to the expression on Chiara’s face when he summoned her to the library with a little bell pull that you’d not spotted before.

“You… You want to take tea… You want to take tea outside…?” the harpy repeated, looking unsteady on her clawed feet.

As if he’d just realised how unusual it was, his expression went blank, his four ruby eyes going dull, and he seemed to deflate. Gone was the intimidating, sharp-edged lord of the manor, and in his place you saw a vulnerable, shattered widower, with no one to talk to and rusty social skills.

Reading her master well enough, Chiara schooled her features into something resembling their usual sternness, and she nodded. “Of course. I will have it set up for you and…” she looked at you with her golden eyes and you tried not to shrink away. “For the both of you.”

“Thank you,” you said, and she nodded, departing.

“I think I gave her quite the shock,” he muttered, half smirking.

With a snort, you said, “We’re just going to have to find more ways to surprise them.”

“Them?”

“Your staff,” you said. “It’s clear that they all respect you, and they enjoy working here - well, obviously I can’t speak for all of them, but I have supper with Mr. Ambleside and his son almost every night. I don’t get the impression that they’d object to seeing a bit more of their mysterious master from time to time.”

“It’s been so long,” he croaked. “I… I’ve hidden myself away up here. I… I don’t remember — I mean…” he broke off and you noticed how glassy his eyes were.

Cautiously, you approached him and laid your hand on his foremost right leg. It was smooth like glass, and cold. It felt extremely brittle, though you knew the chitin was pretty tough. Your eyes nearly drifted to the empty stump on his right side though, and you suppressed a shiver. It wasn’t that tough. He shuddered and you nearly retracted your touch. “Sounds like you could use a friend to take tea with every now and again…” you said gently.

“I’d like that,” he said. “If… If you could bear it.”

“Bear it?” you repeated. “Please. I wouldn’t have accepted if it wasn’t something I didn’t already want to do.”

Gilvas fixed you with a piercing red gaze, making the blood-dark streak of his hair and the swirling birthmark stand out in vivid detail. “No,” he mused slowly, his legs and spider body relaxing a little into your touch like a great machine coming to rest. “I don’t suppose you would.”

Tea on the terrace became a daily fixture, weather permitting, and on the first day it was rained off, he asked you into a small drawing room on the ground floor that you’d never been in before.

Four and a half months into your stay, he leaned over the table and poured you another cup with shaking hands. He always shook, you realised, though the tremors worsened when he grew agitated or emotional. If Naril was right, he was about ten years older than you, and while at times he seemed youthful and almost playful when you got him talking about one of his interests - mathematics was a particular favourite of his - there were times when he seemed stiff and tired, and much, much older than you; and older than he truly was. He carried the weight of his grief around with him everywhere, dragging at him like chains, rattling in the quiet corridors of his mind and reminding him of his heartache. He never went too long with a smile on his face, the expression often shattering or sliding off his face to leave a brittle mask behind.

“Gilvas?” you asked as he set the teapot down on the tray with a rattle. “Everything alright?”

“You’re too perceptive by half,” he grumbled. “I wanted to ask you to dine with me tonight.”

“Oh,” you breathed, taken off-guard.

“You sound disappointed,” he said a slight huff to his tone.

Conflicted, you said, “It’s Naril’s birthday. He’s celebrating with the rest of the staff and some of his friends tonight, and he asked me to join him…”

“Then you must go, obviously,” he said. After a pause he added, “Naril is the one who tends to the gardens, is he not?”

“Mmm. He’s a firbolg.”

“My father always hired firbolgs for their way with nature. I’d forgotten that Ambleside has a child. How old is he?”

“About my age, I suppose?”

Whether or not he was aware of it, Gilvas’ face shuttered at that. With a sigh, he shifted his already vague gaze to the huge patio windows beside you and stared out at the gardens beyond. It had been raining earlier, but it had cleared up now to leave broad puddles flashing in the sunlight on the terrace. “I think I will go for a walk through the gardens this evening before sunset…”

“You want some company?” you asked, but he shook his head.

“No. Thank you.”

Naril’s party was just rowdy enough to be fun without straying too far into unruliness, and you stayed up late in the kitchens, laughing and joking with him and his father, who, it turned out, had quite the sense of humour with a few glasses of wine in him. Eloise, the maid, also joined you, and a few friends of Naril’s who lived in Starfall Springs. The laughter continued long into the night, until his friends from town announced that it was time to head back just shy of one in the morning.

Waving them off at the end of the night, still buzzing with the unusually vibrant evening, you and Naril turned from the upper gates and walked back to the house. In the dark, the firbolg could see much better than you, so he let you loop your arm amicably through his to stop yourself stumbling on the uneven driveway.

Just as you stepped back into the kitchen, he cracked a good-natured joke at your expense, recalling a moment from earlier in the evening, and you nearly fell about laughing. “Oh my gods,” you wheezed as you clung to his arm to stop yourself tripping up the step. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Nope,” he said, popping the plosive consonant with a chuckle. “You’re far too easy to tease. I —” he cut off suddenly, expression falling. His eyes were wide and he was staring at a point on the far side of the kitchen.

You looked up and found the hulking shape of a drider standing silhouetted in the dark doorway. “Forgive me,” Gilvas said stiffly, jaw working. “I came for a brandy. I thought you’d all turned in for the night.”

You blurted, “Gilvas?” at the same time as Naril whispered, “My lord?”

“Forget it,” he said, turning abruptly in the wide doorway. “I hope you enjoyed your evening together.”

Even after the door slammed behind him - the gesture leaving a sour taste in your mouth - neither you nor Naril spoke.

Finally it was Naril who broke the silence. “I’ve never seen him before…” he murmured, awestruck at the encounter. “He looks dreadful. Perhaps he is sick after all?”

“He doesn’t look as dreadful as he looked three months ago,” Chiara’s unexpected voice said tartly from the pantry to your left where she’d apparently been occupied, stowing away the remnants of the uneaten food.

You swallowed. “Well… I… uh… I guess I’d better head back. Thanks for tonight,” you said, hugging Naril briefly. “Happy birthday. I’m sorry I didn’t have anything to give you… It’s not as if I can go into town or anything from here…”

“Couldn’t you ask your friend to pick you up,” he said. “You know, the one you phone every Friday?”

Despite having phoned Damien every week since arriving, you’d never even thought of asking him to drive all the way out here and pick you up for the weekend. He’d probably do it though if you asked. “I guess I could…”

The idea took root in your mind, and as you took your break the next day, you used the house’s landline to call Damien’s shop since he’d be at work too.

“Hey!” he chuckled. “You don’t normally phone today. How’s things at the Spookville Court?”

“Don't call it that,” you scoffed. “It’s fine. Listen, I haven’t got long, but I was wondering if maybe you’d be free this weekend…? I know it’s not exactly a short drive, but I’d kind of like to get out of here for the weekend…”

There was a pause while he checked his calendar. “Sure,” he said. “I can pick you up on Friday night if you like?”

“You don't have plans?”

“I was gonna grab a beer with Sarrigan since he’s in town,” he admitted, “But maybe if you can get away early, we could go together?”

“I don’t see why I couldn’t…” you said. No one was monitoring your hours after all, and it wasn’t as if you hadn’t made huge inroads into the project already.

You grinned and practically flung yourself at him when Damien’s truck drew up outside your cottage on the far side of the courtyard. The wide expanse of gravel sat on the side of the house with the servants’ entrance, and was overlooked by the back of the mansion.

“I missed you!” you laughed, letting the colossal orc spin you easily in a circle. “You still smell like chocolate,” you said as his immensely long, black plait caught you in the face.

“Just proves I’m sweet,” he joked, and you groaned, smacking him in the chest with the back of your hand as he set you down.

“That was a bad pun, even for you.”

“You ready?” he asked.

“You don’t want to stretch your legs first? You’ve literally just got here.” He shook his head, but did nip inside your apartment for a drink of water and a bathroom break. While he was gone, you leaned against his truck and looked up at the trees above you. The height of summer was fading to the bronze of autumn now, and a few coppery leaves rained down around you like confetti, spiralling through the air that promised a change of season soon.

“Ready?” he asked, swinging your overnight bag easily into the truck and helping you up the enormous step into the cab.

As you drove away, you glanced up at the house and caught the glint of sun on a window as it closed on one of the upper storeys, but you soon forgot about the house as Damien began to regale you with stories of your friends’ antics.

With Widowsweb Court in the rear view mirror, you sighed and settled into the comfy seat, letting Damien talk as the house dwindled to nothing behind you. It felt good to be away from the limited confines of the estate, but as you looked forward to a weekend in Starfall Springs with your friends, something nagged at the back of your mind, like a caught thread pulling in the sleeve of a favourite sweater…

Your whole weekend in Starfall Springs was like the first breath of fresh garden air after a day spent in the dusty library of Widowsweb Court.

Damien had taken you to the Inglenook Inn that first night, where he, Sarrigan, their respective partners, plus a mothman named Merritt whom you’d met a few times before, and a couple of your other friends were gathered, and the lot of you talked late into the night. There were a lot of questions about Widowsweb Court, but you mostly focused on the work and describing the house and gardens to them. Somehow it felt disrespectful - an invasion of his privacy - to talk about Gilvas much.

As you left the pub to walk back to your modest apartment at the north end of the town, Sarrigan caught up with you. As he scuttled up to you, you were struck suddenly by the difference between him and Gilvas. Sarrigan Silkfoot’s silver-banded fur rippled in the moonlight, ruffled by the night breezes, where Gilvas’ spider body was black, hard, and shiny as black lacquer, and where Gilvas’ legs moved like articulated, curved daggers, Sarrigan’s were chunky and muscular and unbelievably fuzzy, ending in a little hooked and almost dainty talon. Gilvas’ legs ended in wicked points, sharp and slender as paring knives, and his fangs probably carried a deadly venom, where Sarrigan’s smile held only jollity. Gilvas also had no mandibles, where Sarrigan’s hardware clicked and chittered with his emotions.

“Listen,” he said as he fell into a near-silent step beside you. “I know you’ve not got any reception up there at Widowsweb, so I haven’t been able to get in touch by text or whatever, but I just wanted to ask you - away from the others - how it’s going. With my family’s history with theirs, I did some digging into the Widowsweb estate and the family…”

“You did?” You weren’t sure whether to be offended or curious, but in the end, the latter won out. “What did you find?”

“Just tragedy. Lately anyway. Earlier generations seem to have done ok, but… you should look him up.”

“Who, Gilvas?”

He nodded.

“You mean the fire?”

Again, he nodded, shuffling nervously. “The police think he started it, but they could never prove it.”

You scowled, horrified and hurt. “Sarrigan, I’ve met him. He doesn't seem like the type to murder his family - and his unhatched children too?” You shook your head, appalled, stomach roiling. “He’s devastated… rarely talks about them, and when he does… he’s close to tears. I think he lost a leg in the fire too.”

Sarrigan’s handsome face remained harsh and he clicked his mandibles pensively. Finally, he sighed. “Just… be careful, ok? The articles I found all said he had a nasty temper, and that since his wife’s death, he fired all the staff and turned into some kind of recluse…”

“They’ve got the last bit right,” you said, “But not the first.” He did have a short fuse though. “Thanks for looking out for me, Sarrigan, but I’m not worried.”

He nodded once. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

You shook your head and parted from him with a warm hug. “I appreciate it, but trust me… Gilvas isn’t some cruel, violent lunatic. He’s an isolated widower who’s never learned how to move past his grief.”

To your relief, Sarrigan seemed to take you at your word, and left you at your door looking happier for having aired his anxieties, and in turn having had them laid to rest.

The remainder of your weekend passed without incident, but you couldn’t get Sarrigan’s words out of your head. If he’d been painted by the press at the time as some kind of violent monster, it was no wonder that Gilvas had hidden himself away on his estate and never spoke to anyone.

On the Sunday of your weekend away, you met up with a few friends at Damien’s cafe for breakfast, and spent the better part of the day while the sun was out browsing the marketplace. As you passed a carpenter’s stall, your eye was drawn by a number of carved, wooden puzzle boxes. The satyr who had made them was demonstrating how one of them worked to a small crowed of fascinated onlookers, and when he finished, finally sliding the last section of wood free, the lid sprang open to reveal the empty chamber inside, and everyone applauded.

Fascinated, you realised what a tactile thing the boxes were, and suddenly thought of Gilvas. With his reduced sight, he relied a lot on his sense of touch. On a whim, you bought one and had it wrapped neatly in brown paper by the satyr. Thanking him, you headed home and packed up, bringing with you a few new clothes and a few more things to occupy your evenings.

Bouncing back up the driveway in Damien’s truck that evening, you couldn’t miss the looks the orc tossed you sidelong, and as you drew to a halt in the courtyard again, he stayed put in his seat and asked, “Are you really alright here? It’s so remote…”

“It’s fine,” you said. “I love the work, and the people are kind. I promise I’ll ring you the moment I’m unhappy, but for now, I’m honestly loving it. I’ve never had a better or more fulfilling job, Damien. I can’t believe I’ve got so little time left really…” You paused and sighed. “I almost don’t want to leave.”

He bowed his head and backed off, though not without pulling you half into his lap for a bone-crushing hug first. “Take care, OK?” he grunted before releasing you.

“You sure you won’t stay for some supper?” you asked as you slithered out of your side of the cab and landed on the gravel. “I bet you’d love Naril.”

“I can’t,” he said with a regretful grimace. “I need to get back to prep the shop for next week. Another time?”

You nodded. “Drive safely.”

For the entire week following your return to Widowsweb Court, you didn’t see even the slightest glimpse of Gilvas.

There was no trace of his having been in the library at all, and the secret panel at the rear of the room stayed firmly shut. You didn’t think it was your place to go wandering the corridors again, and although you continued to take a mug of tea out onto the terrace every afternoon, it was hardly the spread of High Tea that you had shared with him every day for months. The whole place seemed empty without his presence now, reminding you of your very first week there, when every shadow and doorway had loomed ominously large before you.

Finally, at the end of the week, you ran in to Chiara on your way back down and you paused to let her past with an armful of linen. “Chiara, is… is Gilvas around? Is he alright?”

She narrowed her eyes and tutted softly at you. “None of your concern,” she snipped at you before bustling off.

You stood there, mute and surprised.

It definitely didn’t sound like he was alright, but what were you to him, really? You thought of the box stowed away in your room, waiting for the right time to be brought out and given to him, and suddenly felt foolish. You’d known him for a matter of months. He was a lord, with land and a title; he had a whole household full of things already, and you were just there to reorganise his library. He’d probably already forgotten about you.

You worked solidly through the morning again the next day, but didn’t feel hungry enough to go down to lunch. You continued on through the day, pausing only to sip from your water bottle before heading back up the ladders time and time again with armfuls of books. It was exhausting. There was no trace of the webbing he’d used to catch you, and since there was also no sign of him, you made sure to take extra care going up and down.

With a sigh you finally set down the last of the hagiographies at eight o’clock that night, and put your hands to the small of your back, grunting. Dusty, tired, stiff, and still oddly demoralised, you thought you heard the creak of a door from the back of the library, but you’d barely dared to hope before the main doors opened and Naril stumped in, looking terribly out of place and awkward in his gardening overalls. He had mud on his trousers, but his boots had been scraped clean.

He sighed your name in obvious relief when he spotted you. “You ok?” he asked.

“Fine, why?” you frowned as you turned to face him, still with your palms pressed to the small of your back.

“You didn’t come to lunch, and you missed supper as well. I was worried about you.”

You smiled and dropped your hands to your sides. “I’m fine. I just… haven’t felt like myself lately. Thank you though.”

An awkward silence hung between you, and he scratched the back of his head. “Right. Well, there’s… uh… stuff in the larder and fridge if… if you get hungry. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t been crushed by a ton of books or something.”

With a chuckle, you said, “This isn’t The Mummy you know? People do actually secure their bookshelves…”

He laughed briefly and headed for the doors again. “Seriously though… Are you sure you’re ok?” he asked, ears waggling.

“I’ve… I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

“Ok,” he said, green eyes wide and glassy. “Well, you can always talk to me. What are friends for, right?”

“Right. Thank you, Naril.”

He nodded, and left.

In the silent stillness of the library, you sank with a heavy sigh into one of the nearby chairs and let your palm cradle your chin, with your elbow planted on the wood of the table. When had this place started to feel so sad again? It was as if the gloom was seeping back into the fabric of the place like a sponge soaking up ink.

About a minute later, a familiar movement caught your attention and you looked up to find Gilvas standing beside a bookshelf. He was tilting his head in that way that meant he couldn’t see you in the dim light, but he knew you were still there.

“I’m here,” you said quietly, hardly daring to move in case he scuttled away.

Locking onto your voice, he moved with expert familiarity round the library and came to a halt near your table. The only light now came from a lamp one shelf over. “I… I overheard…” he began stiffly. His red gaze sailed right over your head, so it was clear that he couldn’t see you, even this close up. “Is… I mean… Are you alright?”

“Could ask the same of you,” you said wryly, eyeing the dark shadows under his eyes and the tightness around his mouth. “I haven’t seen you in ages.” He looked dreadful again, as if he’d hardly eaten anything in the interim.

“Been better, I suppose,” he said. “The firbolg said you haven’t eaten today… is that right?”

“Mmm.”

“Should we raid the kitchen together?”

You smiled. “You haven’t eaten either I take it…”

He shook his head.

Standing, you swayed as a head rush washed over you and you let out a tiny grunt of surprise, grabbing the back of the chair.

With a scowl, he stepped closer. “Alright?” He steadied you, his hand finding your waist and lingering there.

“I missed you,” you breathed unthinkingly as you stared up at him.

Gilvas froze and then let out a rough exhale, withdrawing a few paces. “You did?”

“Mmm. I have something for you too, from Starfall, but it’s back in my room. I… I’d started to think I wasn’t going to see you again…”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his fingers curling briefly into fists at his side. “I… I rather let the melancholy take over again.”

“Why?” you asked, stepping closer to him. His ear followed you and he narrowed his eyes. You got the impression that you’d just stepped into his limited field of vision and he could now make out your silhouette in the shadowy library.

The lord of Widowsweb Court gave a bitter, brittle laugh and turned away, legs moving in sequence like a windup toy. “I think I misled myself,” he said eventually.

Your brows knitted and you closed the distance between you, laying your hand boldly on his cool, obsidian foreleg again. As before, he shivered, but he didn't pull away. “What do you mean?”

“I suppose I got carried away - this past month in particular,” he said in his rough baritone.

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” he said, that cut-glass edge returning to his voice. “You don’t know what it was like before you came here; before you —” he stopped himself but then took a breath and continued in barely a whisper, the consonants softly articulated. You had to lean in closer to hear him. “Before you brought the light back to this place.” His voice cracked as he added, “And you took it with you.”

“Gilvas…” you gasped, shocked by his tone.

“I know,” he growled. “It’s inappropriate of me, and melodramatic. You were only gone for two days. But it’s the truth. I got so swept up in spending time with someone again — in… in enjoying myself — that I somehow forgot that you have a whole life outside of our brief interactions here, beyond these walls…”

“Naril's birthday…” you breathed and he nodded. He’d stumbled upon you and Naril sharing a laugh and a close touch at his birthday and had assumed from the physical closeness that there was something more than friendship between you. That had been the last time you’d seen him.

Then he shook his head in disgust and sneered self-deprecatingly, “It’s as though I became a teenager again - spoilt and sour and… everything I loathe about myself.”

He backed away out of your grip until his huge carapace nudged against the shelf behind him and he went still again. Trapped between you and the books, he breathed heavily for a moment through his aquiline nose. Your heart was beating in your throat but you kept quiet.

“I have a nasty, possessive side,” he said, scowling. “I’d almost forgotten about it, but as — I hesitate to call it a friendship… I’m not sure what we had between us — but whatever it was grew, I came to think of you as… mine. And then I saw you laughing with him and… I remembered that you’re not mine at all. I have no right to make those kinds of disgusting demands or claims. You’re not mine — you’re not anyone’s but your own person. I forgot myself, and I hated myself for it.”

He was jealous.

Gilvas was jealous that you’d been laughing with Naril that night. Despite the anguish on his face, you had to smile. When he heard you chuckle softly, he growled at you again, deep and rich and animalistic. Defensive. That was all it was; defensive bluster.

“It’s true that Naril has come to be my friend here,” you said, moving carefully closer to him now that he couldn’t back away any more. “But I thought about you all weekend while I was away. I couldn’t get you out of my head. When my friend Sarrigan —”

“— Silkfoot?” he interrupted with a sneer. “‘Sarrigan’ is an old Silkfoot name…”

“Yes. Sarrigan Silkfoot is a friend of mine,” you said carefully, noting the lingering displeasure in his features. “He’s currently dating a human, and my best friend, Damien, is also very much in love with a human. If you’re worried about what previous generations of Silkfoots thought about relationships between species, you needn’t worry. The current heir to the family - Sarrigan’s older brother - has even recently married a human. Things have moved on since the founding of Widowsweb…”

His chest heaved and he sank lower so that his pendulous spider’s body was only a few inches above the ground, and his torso and head were almost on a level with yours. “I’ve hidden myself away too long,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

Taking a final step over to him, you stood in the space between his deadly front legs. It felt suddenly intimate in the extreme, and you reached your palm out and laid it on his chest. He flinched, but let you talk.

“Sarrigan told me a bit more about the papers said… about the circumstances of the fire… about what people believed at the time…” you said carefully, and Gilvas’ face darkened dangerously. “But I got to know you before I’d heard that, and I can’t believe you would have started it. I can’t believe anyone thought that of you.” You placed your left palm to mirror your right and felt the way his chest heaved with emotion as he listened. “You’re a good person, Gilvas. I told my friends that, and they believed me. And I think you’ve suffered alone for long enough.”

Gilvas’ expression shattered and he leaned forwards and drew you into his arms. “I don't want you to leave…” he whispered into your hair as he held you close. He smelled like books and sandalwood, warm and comforting, and you let your arms snake around his waist.

“I don't have anything else lined up for after I finish here,” you said without letting go. He was gently inhaling the scent of you, you realised, and you let him hold you, drawing comfort from the warmth of your body. “And I told you there’s a lifetime’s worth of work to do on this library…”

“I could renew your contract,” he said. “Or… Or you could… No. I don't want you to feel… obliged…” he said, swallowing thickly and drawing sharply back from your embrace as if you’d burned him. “If I’m paying you —” his face buckled into a sour grimace and he lurched slightly further away from you. “I don’t want to pay you to stay here…” he spat as if the idea thoroughly disgusted him.

You laughed. “I own my apartment in Starfall. I could rent it out for some income, and come and live here with you. That way… there’s no imbalance…”

“Yes,” he nodded breathlessly, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. “Yes, that’s… that’s good. And if you still have your apartment, you can… I mean… there will be somewhere for you… if… if you decide…”

“Stop,” you said. “Don’t push me away again.”

The drider took a huge inhale and nodded. Then he licked his lips nervously and said, “You know, we were going to raid the kitchen before we went down this path. You shouldn’t make any rash decisions on an empty stomach.”

“An excellent point,” you said with mock seriousness. “Let’s go.”

Over a rather strange and cobbled-together supper of leftovers scrounged from the pantry, eaten at the scrubbed wooden table in the kitchen, Gilvas stayed almost completely silent. At first, you thought he was just concentrating on eating, being particularly careful about his movements since he didn’t see as clearly as you did, but after a while, you discovered the crinkle in his brow and noticed the tremor in his fingers again.

“Wait here,” you said, pushing back from the table and touching the back of his hand briefly. He was always so cold.

“Where are you going?” he barked, tense.

With a giggle, you said, “Trust me. I’ll be right back.”

And with that, you vanished out of the back door and scuttled over the gravel to the little apartment above the old stable block where you’d been staying for the past few months. Minutes later, you returned to find him exactly where you’d left him, scowling at his food.

He looked up sharply as you reentered, and you watched his shoulders drop with relief a split second later when he figured out that it was you.

“Here,” you said, holding out the brown paper parcel to him, touching it to the back of his fingers in case he couldn’t see it.

In moments, it was obvious to you that he couldn’t, because his fingertips trailed along the edges, looking for a way into the parcel. “What is it?” he asked warily, shifting his head from side to side.

“You’ll find out. I saw them being made in the marketplace, and I think with your sense of touch you’ll probably have an advantage over someone with sharper vision…”

At that, his frown deepened, though not from discomfort. He was openly curious now, and he got to work on the wrappings, abandoning them to one side. “A box?” he murmured when he’d run his fingers all the way around it. Watching him, you suddenly felt a thrum of desire go right through you. You wanted him to do that to your body, to explore you by touch, and you barely bit back a moan as the force of it swept through you.

He paused and turned his face towards you expectantly.

“Yeah,” you croaked. “It’s a puzzle box. It’s all inlaid with different types of wood, and there are a few panels and sections that you have to slide in the right order to open it.”

At that, his face cracked into a gorgeous, open, delighted grin and your heart slipped sideways in your chest at the youthfulness it lent to his features. “I used to love these as a child,” he said. “Thank you.”

He moved then, obviously not having been sitting on a chair like you, and found his way faultlessly around the kitchen to where you were seated opposite him. The little inlaid box lay to one side on the table while he took your hands in his and squeezed your knuckles fondly, earnestly.

“Thank you,” he rasped again.

You raised your chin and he let go of you with his right hand and brought it up to cup your left cheek in his cool palm. His thumb traced an arc across your skin and you shivered, exhaling and breathing hard. “Gilvas…” you whispered, want burning inside you inside you like a flare. You didn’t want to push him or rush him, but if he didn’t kiss you in the next three seconds, you thought you might just wither up and die on the spot.

Mercifully, he leaned down, tilting your chin upwards to meet his lips. His kiss was soft, his lips cool and hesitant, but the moment you let a little moan of pleasure escape you, he deepened the kiss. His long fingers scrunched in your hair and he closed his red eyes with a flutter of long lashes. His two forelegs rose up slightly for balance as his body rocked downwards and he pulled back with a gasp, chest heaving again. “I want you,” he whispered hoarsely, looking suddenly shy.

You grinned and stood. “I want you too…”

Gilvas led you through the house, pausing with endearing frequency to kiss you breathless against almost every spare surface that wasn’t covered by paintings or suits of armour or priceless vases on precarious pedestals, and finally he backed you up against the double doors to a bedroom on the fourth floor, and picked you up so that you had to latch your legs around his waist at the point where his humanoid torso met his spider’s body. You ground yourself against him as he kissed you over and over, his long hair falling around your face in a black and red curtain.

With one foreleg, he delicately pushed the handle down and nudged the doors open. Still holding you, he drew your top off over your head, discarding it to one side as he carried you across the room and deposited you onto a massive bed. It bounced and flexed beneath you, and as you looked around you discovered that it was not a bed, but a thick and intricately woven web slung between the two perpendicular walls of the far corner of the room. You leaned back into it, feeling the soft silken strands flex slightly beneath you, and looked up to see Gilvas’ silhouette in the darkness of the room.

The moon shone through an open window to your right, painting fine silver highlights to the gleaming lacquer of his carapace and needle-like legs, and in the moonlight, you saw that he was dripping webbing onto the floor from the gland at the tip of his spider’s abdomen. You knew enough about driders to know that when they got really aroused, they often leaked webbing like this. Male driders did not mate the way many other beings did, but that didn't put you off. You wanted him - his pleasure, his ecstasy, his noises, his joy…

It did make him suddenly nervous though, as if he’d only just realised that you might be expecting him to penetrate you, and with his anatomy, he couldn’t.

“Gilvas?” you asked, reaching up for him where he still loomed hesitantly above you. “Come here… let me take care of you…”

“I…” he began, but he let you draw him down onto the soft, smooth webbing. His legs ended in those dazzlingly sharp points, and he seemed to dance across the webs like a circus performer on a high wire. He lowered himself down atop you and you kissed him again. His hands skated over your hips and he drew the rest of your clothes off to abandon them beside his bed.

Seeking friction, he carefully slid his slick abdomen against your legs and shivered, moaning. “You’re so warm,” he whispered, head bowing forwards as he rested on his elbows, one on either side of your body. “I can’t believe how warm you are… it’s… it…”

“Does it feel good?” you asked, raking your fingers through his long hair and he nodded wordlessly. “Can you roll over?” you asked.

“Oh gods,” he gasped, clearly aroused by the idea, and nodded.

It wasn’t the most elegant manoeuvres, but once he was on his back with his legs curled upwards like a black, clawed hand, you sat in the gap where his one missing leg should have been, and ran your hand over the smoothness of his underbelly. In no time you discovered the slit in his lower body that was leaking slick, pearlescent fluid all over himself.

“Oh!” he yelled, spine curling and legs twitching as you traced your fingertips around the softer inner walls of the slit. Where the rest of his body was cool and hard, there he was almost searingly hot, the inner walls silky and slick. “Oh gods, oh gods… oh gods…” he chanted in time with your motions, his whole body twitching and making the webbing rock beneath him.

The tendons of his neck stood out in glorious contrast beneath the watercolour birthmark as he clenched his jaw and rammed his eyes shut, lost in the sensations. His fingers scrabbled at the web of his bed and he rocked and shivered and arched into your touch as you worked him closer and closer. You knew he was going to make a mess when he came, and you felt your whole body flush hot at the thought of finally getting him to let go of all his tight control and insecurities, to give himself over to the simple, honest pleasure you were offering to give him.

The thought of that was almost enough to make you come yourself, but you focused on him until he growled softly.

“I want…” he began but cut off as you grazed a spot inside him unexpectedly with a fingertip that made him bellow wordlessly. “Fuck…” he hissed when he’d recovered, head lolling back again, and you grinned at the curse on his aristocratic tongue. “Wait…” he panted. “I want… I want to touch you… before I… before you make me…” he growled again in frustration. “I’ll only be able to… to… come once… please… let me…” Hearing him lose control of his words like that in the face of his arousal only made it all the more endearing.

“You can touch me,” you said coyly without changing anything, but when he genuinely snarled, sounding more like a werewolf than a drider, you laughed and leaned closer to him.

His cool fingers dug into your arms as he tugged you tight against his body, pulling you down to lie atop him along the length of his belly and humanoid stomach, and you ground yourself against him for a little relief. His hand slid down your body, down your side, and before you could think, he was pleasuring you. “Let me,” he hissed when you tensed a little, revealing his venomous fangs as a flash of white in the dimness when you tried to pull back to finish him.

“But I wanted to make you come,” you pouted, and he actually laughed at that, four red eyes closing and crinkling softly in the corners with genuine amusement at your disgruntlement.

“Too bad,” he groused. “I want to watch you first.”

“Fair enough,” you grunted as he caught you just so and you rocked against him. “I’m so close…” and you really were. His touch was relentless, demanding your pleasure in return for the sensations you’d just given him.

“I know,” he snarled right in your ear, teeth - the non-venomous ones you hoped - just grazing the shell of your ear. “I can smell it on you.”

And with that, you came unexpectedly hard, crashing into your release and clinging to him. He eased you through it and when you lay panting and spent on his chest, he moved his hand to his mouth and cleaned himself luxuriantly, obviously enjoying the taste of you on his skin.

After that, he seemed softer and more relaxed, and when you’d recovered enough to get your legs back under you and return your attentions to his body, he finally seemed to have allowed himself this connection to another person. His body heaved and rocked rhythmically, his legs knocking nonchalantly against each other as he spasmed and moaned, and as he grew wetter and slicker around your hand, and his inner walls began to clench and shiver in a distinct cadence, you knew he was getting close. He was also giving you the most delicious sounds; gasping and cursing, grunting and even wailing softly at times when you slowed your touches to a barely-there whisper against him.

Eventually though, he began to rock against you in earnest, and you felt his release coming as a rapidly-building wave, gathering momentum until it finally ripped through him like a wildfire. White release gushed from his entrance and covered your hand, rolling down the sleek, shiny carapace to soak into the webbing while his body heaved and convulsed with pleasure. He made no sound, his face contorted in a rictus of pleasure as he gave everything he had to you, his hands gripping the webbing as he released in messy waves all over himself and you.

Finally as the pleasure faded to something gentler and less intense, he lay back, motionless on his bed, muscles completely slack, face soft, breathing quiet.

“Gilvas?”

“Mmm?” he hummed without moving.

“You alright?”

“Mmm.”

Weak and completely spent, he lay there unmoving for a long time while you gently trailed your fingers around his still clenching slit as aftershocks of pleasure rippled through him. Eventually, you wiped your hand clean on the webs beside him and shuffled up to lie beside him. He still looked absolutely exhausted and drained, and you sat there a long time just watching him.

After a very long time, he mustered the energy to open one arm to you and you nuzzled in against his bare shoulder. His breath hissed softly through his slack jaw and he pressed a shy kiss to the top of your head. “See why I wanted… to make you… to make you come first?” he whispered, words heavily slurred and indistinct.

You nodded and shifted to drape your arm across his chest and draw idle patterns over the bare skin of his white torso.

His skin was starkly pale in the moonlight, and as you stared at him, you realised he’d probably relied solely on touch for the whole time you’d been in the room. You smiled and pressed a kiss to his jutting collarbone, making him inhale sharply.

He was still too thin, still obviously not taking care of himself properly, but, you thought, if he’d trusted you and let you in to this extent, perhaps you could both take care of each other now.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he whispered after another long while of silence and closeness in the dark.

“Just thinking how good this feels,” you said honestly. “And how I could lie like this forever… Or at least… until you’re ready to go again.”

He snorted, taken off-guard. “Won’t be for a very long while,” he said bashfully. “Driders don’t recover quickly. Not the male ones, anyway.”

“I’m in no rush,” you said, laying your cheek back down on his cool skin and shivering as goosebumps rippled up your body.

He fumbled around on his other side and drew a large blanket up and over his body, careful to avoid the mess on his carapace, and let you snuggle up beneath it.

You’d have to wait for the dawn to go again though, because you were asleep in his arms in minutes.

___

Maybe we'll get to see more of them in the future, but for now, this four-part story is over. Thanks for your comments and enthusiasm for the cranky spooder boy!

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I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

#drider #exophilia #male drider #male drider x reader #drider x reader #monster boyfriend #drider boyfriend #male monster #gender neutral reader #female reader #(technically - although the reader in this part is gn)

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guiltysecretpasttime · 3 years

Note

bumi + lin getting caught or how everyone found out about their relationship :-))))

Title: Discretion

Note: Here’s what I have for this particular Lin/Bumi II prompt. Hope you enjoy 😊

· Pairing: Lin/Bumi II

· One-shot, post-series AU

· Rating: Teen

-----

Bumi was whistling as the hustle and bustle around Air Temple Island continued in preparation for Varrick’s wedding. Why they allowed the wedding and the party on the island, he had no idea.

He watched the tired teenagers who were hovering excitedly around the affianced. He supposed they all deserved some sort of merrymaking after what he had dubbed in his mind as the Kuvira Incident. It also was not a bad idea to have them use this time to work out their romantic entanglements, he thought as he eyed the various couples gravitating toward each other.

It also gave him a lovely excuse to meet up with his ownromantic entanglement.

The former military man faced the city pensively.

He frowned as the water lapped against the shore. The sun continued to shine brightly even as the buildings at the island across showed devastation, some still slightly smoldering days after the attack.

The Kuvira Incident did put things into perspective.

Well, that went dark quickly.

He blinked away grim thoughts and focused instead on the fairy lights being hung around the courtyard.

As he decided earlier, they all deserve some merrymaking.

---

“What are you doing skulking around?” Bumi asked the lady in green, who was looking down at a kebab that had seemed to have displeased her.

Lin Beifong scoffed. “I am not.” And continued to examine the mystery meat on the stick.

Bumi sauntered closer to her, standing at her side, joining her quiet observation of the party. “What on earth did that kebab do to you?” He waved his free hand to said meat on a stick; his other hand occupied with helping him take a swig of whatever fruity punch Varrick was serving.

She bit it furiously while rolling her eyes. “It’s a bit tasteless, if you must know.”

Bumi bit back a laugh and just hummed.

While she could eat instant noodles as well as any cadet living off rations, Lin did have her snobby side to food when it comes to social events thrown by the upper-class.

“Then again, Varrick is tasteless when it comes to most things.” Lin added, her scowl scaring off a Nuktuk-attired waiter who had the misfortune of glancing their way to offer more refreshments.

This time, Bumi let out a laugh, earning him a smirk from the metalbender.

“Well, that’s true. Let me join you in disparaging the libation too – not a single touch of alcohol in this drink.”

They stood there, at the fringe of the party crowd for a while – he sipping the vile drink, she chewing the tough meat.

“They allowed you to wear that?”

It took Bumi a moment to understand she meant his uniform. “I am a retired commander after all.” That and because he did not want to be dressed in formal wear that was almost identical to what his brother was wearing.

Lin swallowed her food. “Hmm, I've been thinking of that too…”

“Me in a military uniform?” Bumi waggled his eyebrows and received a smack on his arm. “You in my uniform?” Another smack.

“Retiring.” She said it so quietly he thought he must have misunderstood her.

He briefly wondered what could have made her arrive at a such a life-changing decision. Then again, if that meant that she would be closer to safety than danger…

“I don’t see why not?” He tossed back with a grin, noting the veiled concern on Lin’s face, worried about his reaction. “As long as it’s what you truly want.”

Lin’s posture relaxed after that.

They continued to sip and eat in silence.

They saw Rohan running at the other side of the court, weaving through the people who were starting to go to the dance floor. Huan was noticeably dragged by Ikki to dance (“Kid takes after her mother, doesn’t she?” Bumi murmured in jest, only to get an elbow to his side as Lin shook her head.).

As people went over to the dance floor, it would not be long before someone noticed the lady beside him. Chief of Police or not, she always did strike quite a figure. Without all the armor (literally and figuratively), it could be easily argued the Lin could be approachable.

He stood closer at her side. He twitched his pinky finger to touch hers.

Her eyes darted to him.

The mood of the party was happy and hopeful. He knew this feeling. He had seen this before. The sigh of relief and desperation for something good after a long hard military campaign.

His face remained cheerful and proceeded to talk about everything and nothing.

Lin’s expression softened. “Want to leave the party?” Her pinky finger hooked around his.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

As always, Lin was the only one who saw through him.

---

Propping himself up on his elbow, Bumi watched her sleep.

Lin had always been a light-sleeper. He got that – living with a constant threat hanging at their back or having a long career that required alertness and rapid reaction time does that to you. That was why it never ceased to amaze him that the metalbender manages to have long uninterrupted sleep whenever they were together.

Spirits knew how much she deserved to sleep in.

He had sighed in relief when Lin said she had lied last night. She had not just been thinking of retiring from the police force – she had already filed her retirement to both President Raiko and headquarters. And, in true efficient Beifong fashion, she had secured approval within days. He did not think she had fully recovered and taking a break (albeit a permanent one) was more than needed.

His eyes traced the dark eye bags and pale complexion. The rebuilding efforts and the ton of work post-Kuvira Incident took a toll on her.

Her skin, already marred with various scars and marks throughout the years, was much too pale. Each imperfection was linked with a story. Each story building up to who Lin was now today.

Her ankle had a small scar, almost invisible unless you knew where to look, from her childhood escapades.

There was the jagged scar, stitches very much apparent on her calf from her earlier days as a beat officer.

A smattering of bruises at her lower back was still present, souvenir from being tossed off the colossus.

Her shoulder, while exhibiting any outer trauma, was still healing from being dislocated from the same scrimmage with death.

There were more across her body, but the most recent ones were those that hit Bumi the hardest.

He was the one who found the Beifong sisters unconscious in the arm of the mecha giant.

He had been beyond terrified until found their respective pulses.

He feared it would have been too late for him, for them. Then Lin fluttered her eyes open, and, despite her shallow breaths, managed to croak out in a less than acerbic tone to help her down.

He mused now in the pale daylight that he ought to have done something then, said something then. He decided to rectify that now.

Before he could even reach over to wake her up in that delicious manner he was planning, several loud knocks beat at his door. He subconsciously tightened his grip around Lin’s waist.

“Bumi? Bumi!” Tenzin.

“We know you’re in there.” Su. “Open up!”

Bumi threw a worried glance at Lin, but she was still asleep and simply buried her face closer to his chest, ensconced under his fluffy comforter and buried under his equally soft pillows. He leaned back and closed his eyes, willing their unwanted siblings away.

Maybe if I pretended to be asleep, they would leave us alone…

Knock-knock-knock! A pause. Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock!

“Bumi!”

He closed his eyes tighter.

Knock-knock-knock!

“Wait a minute, maybe it’s unlocked anyway…”

What are they talking about?

Bumi found out soon enough when the sound of the door sliding open reached his ears.

“Bumi – I can’t find -!”

He sat up quickly, making sure Lin was comfortable and quite hidden from view.

His visitors stopped at the doorway, enough to trespass but not enough to take a full scan of the room.

“Ohhh, I’m – we’re – sorry –.” Tenzin stammered, quite apologetic for bursting in his brother’s room.

Su did not have the same misgivings. “Bumi has a lady friend!”

“He does?!” A new voice called out with shock.

Tenzin and Su, he can tolerate but having the kids over – Bumi decided he drew the line there.

Fight shock with shock.

He stood up quickly, unmindful of being seen in his birthday suit.

“Oh sweet Spirits Agni! Bumi! Cover yourself!”

“My eyesss!”

The Avatar and Bolin immediately shouted over gasps of shock.

Bumi stretched languidly, pretending that nothing was amiss. He will not be embarrassed. That was their problem, they were the ones who were invading his privacy.

To be fair, he had no issues about his nudity so it was not really a big issue. It was just that with Lin in his bed – well, the situation was a bit tricky. Fortunately, her face was still hidden under the comforter. He pulled it higher, never mind that part of her leg is still visible.

“To what do I owe this wake-up call?” Bumi scratched his beard, acting as though this was a normal occurrence. He did delight in making his brother uncomfortable. They became closer in the latter years. Old habits die hard though.

“Bumi, we apologize for barging in this morning.” Tenzin was looking over his shoulder. “But could you – at least -.” He waved at the general direction of the naked man.

Bumi took his sweet time going around the room to pull on some clean shorts.

Su took this opportunity to push out the kids out of the room, who he now saw included both pro-bending brothers, Asami, Opal, and the Avatar.

“Why is the entire cavalry here?” Bumi sauntered to the door, blocking everyone’s view of the room and angling his body to stand in the way of the bed. “What’s up?”

“It’s Lin.”

A beat.

“What about her?”

“She’s missing. I didn’t know when she went home last night.” Su wringed her hands in worry. “I called her house, no one answered. We went over and she wasn’t there.”

It annoyed Bumi how they were suddenly on Lin’s case when they barely said two words to her the night before. There was bound to be a hidden agenda to this sudden worry.

“Your sister is a grown woman and she's been taking care of herself without you lot for more than a decade now.

He scanned the faces around him.

Postures stiffened, Tenzin flinched, eyes avoided Bumi’s.

Yeah¸ that’s what I thought.

Su stomped lightly. “Regardless of that,” The woman was adamant and would not back down. “We intend to go to the station to report her missing, with or without your inputs.”

Mako looked downright uncomfortable, Bumi thought the boy genuinely cared for his mentor.

“Boy, anything you’d like to add, detective?” Bumi nodded at the firebender.

“We can’t file a missing person’s case unless the person has been missing for more than 24 hours.” Mako shifted his eyes.

“There you go. Drop the matter, Su. I’m sure Lin is fine.”

Su looked like she was about to argue and Tenzin was about to say something but Mako beat him to it.

Still not catching anyone’s eyes, Mako started. “And well, what if the Chief also had a lady friend like Bumi? Or a gentleman friend?”

Bumi almost snorted.

Gentleman friend, what?

The detective was looking ill now but props to the boy.

“Lin with a special friend is highly unlikely.” Lin’s sister said decidedly, waving off Mako’s theory.

Bumi snorted now. “Right, because you’d know, ain’t it right?”

“I don’t see why not?” Suyin frowned, crossing her arms.

Moments like this Bumi was reminded why Lin still held some form of dislike towards her sister.

Asami tried to mediate. “I don’t think Chief Beifong would appreciate her private life being discussed like this.”

Bumi knew he always liked the Sato girl, he nodded and added. “Please don’t do this to try to assuage your…guilt.”

As expected, there were reactions from Su and Tenzin.

“We are not -!”

“Nonetheless, Bumi, Lin is…” Tenzin’s words trailed off and color drained from his face as he continued to look over his brother’s shoulder.

Bumi knew the moment Tenzin realized who was in his bed. He quickly slid the door closed. He tried to meet his brother’s eye, but the man was resolutely looking away.

“Safe.” Tenzin managed to choke out. “Let’s go everyone, I’m sure Lin is very safe.”

Su turned on Tenzin, obviously shocked by his sudden change. “What are you talking about, Tenzin – we -.”

“If Bumi says Lin is okay, then she probably is.” Was the simple yet shifty response.

“But we need Lin to -!”

Opal elbowed her mother gently, asking her to drop the issue. It did not escape Bumi’s notice.

There was the hidden agenda – Su needs Lin for something.

The group scurried away as both Tenzin and Mako helped herding them away from the bedrooms.

---

Bumi figured it was too early to be dealing with anything.

He rejoined a sleeping Lin in bed, who in turn, burrowed into his side.

He will deal with the real world later. For now, he will enjoy this.

---

Ignoring Suyin who was still chattering about one thing or another (in all likelihood berating him for not supporting her call to search for her sister), Tenzin mulled over his earlier discovery.

Lin and Bumi are together.

Not just together but together – together.

He wringed with his hands as they walked to the dining hall.

How long have they been together?

He had thought that this knowledge would bother him – well, it did, he reconsidered, but not for the reasons he might have initially thought of.

It was bothering him the same way it would have bothered him to see any woman sleeping with his older brother.

He had reconciled with his siblings and the Beifongs in the recent years, but some things should have remained private between them.

Like Bumi’s sex life.

Like Lin’s sex life.

Like their sex life.

Oh, how he wished he gone back to the past few minutes when he was still blissfully unaware. Or he hoped he would have already forgotten the markings and scars on Lin’s legs in order to not have recognized her in his brother’s bed.

Ah well, Tenzin eyed Lin’s family, the Avatar, Bolin, Asami, and Mako walking beside him, here’s hoping they not find out soon.

He doubted greatly that Lin would enjoy her relationship being disclosed before she deemed it necessary.

He recalled Bumi’s stance earlier, how protective he was of an unknowing Lin.

End of the day, Tenzin just wanted both of them to find happiness. He had did them both wrong in their lifetime and was at a loss on how to rectify it. The airbender had been trying in the past years, but there was only so much he could do.

Too little, too late, he always thought.

Tenzin waved at the acolytes that were leaving the dining hall. Pema sat down beside him and smiled as she handed him the platter of food. He smiled back, thinking still how lucky he was to have her by his side.

And now, by some peculiar twist of fate, Bumi and Lin found each other.

And, if, they make each other happy and content, then, Tenzin decided then and there, he will support them in any way that he can.

---

“Bro, are you going to eat that last piece?”

Mako was shaken from his reverie. Bolin stabbed the food on his plate at his head shake.

“Are you alright, Mako?” Asami was always the sensitive and observant of the group.

The firebender tossed a look at the Avatar chatting with Bolin and Opal at the other side of the table. After making sure that they were preoccupied, he turned to Asami.

Asami raised her eyebrows at him. “Well?”

“I think I know where the chief is.” He could not help but dart a wary glance at the Beifongs. “But it’s not my place to say.” Mako quickly added.

Asami leaned back at her seat and looked at him quizzically. “How did you know where?”

Mako dropped his utensils on the plate and covered his face with his hands. He was not one of Lin’s proteges for nothing.

One of his strengths as a detective is his keen eye for detail.

And details did not evade him in that brief view of Bumi’s bedroom.

It was quite obvious to him that the strewn pieces of clothing belonged to someone he had seen in attendance in the wedding reception earlier.

And that someone is his commanding officer.

---

Said commanding officer made her presence known at the lunch table that noon, surprised at seeing everyone still on the island.

That Chief Beifong was not expecting that there were still other guests at the residential area of Air Temple Island was fairly obvious, as Bumi was walking beside her, whispering at her side with a smile.

The plan was, actually, for most of the guests to have already gone their own ways but that morning’s excursion to Republic City made everyone’s itinerary delayed and their breakfast turned into brunch.

She exchanged a look with Bumi who shrugged and tried to sit at one of the empty tables unnoticed.

Now, while Mako might have been blessed with a sense of discretion, the same cannot be expected of his brother.

This became much apparent when said brother had gaped and thoughtlessly exclaimed, “Lin! We’ve been looking for you all morning – at what corner of Air Temple Island did you sleep at? I doubt this is the walk of shame.”

This pronouncement drew the attention of everyone in the hall – attention at her (their) very late entry and at her clothes which were clearly too formal for the day.

No one dared speak up as the metalbender simply glared at the earthbender, not responding.

There was complete silence in the dining hall.

…until comprehension dawned on Suyin Beifong’s face.

Then all hell broke lose.

---end---

Note: That could have probably gone better but let me know what you think. Anon, hope that worked for you (feel free to leave a note/msg :) ) Hope everyone is doing good, at least.

#linumi #linumi fanfic #toccatina's fanfics #toccatina completed #lin x bumi ii #bumilin #bumi ii #lin beifong

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pillage-and-lute · 4 years

Text

The Courting Ways of Wolves

This is Geralt struggling heavily with emotions. He’s a little dumb but he’s got the spirit. Fluff. Geraskier, platonic Yennalt and Yennskier with a healthy side order of Geralt’s brothers and Good Mom! Yennefer, who deserves all the nice things.

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Epilogue

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After the mountain, and finding Ciri, and tracking down Jaskier and Yennefer both, and dragging them up to Kaer Morhen, Geralt had looked forward to a nice, relaxing winter. His brothers and Vesemir would train Ciri, Yennefer, with whom he had come to an entirely platonic understanding, would recover from Sodden, and he had Jaskier back.

His apology had been poor, and he knew it, but Geralt had rescued him from the clutches of Nilfgaard and had bought him new lute strings and a notebook to boot.

The strains of Her Sweet Kiss drifted through Kaer Morhen regularly, because his whole family, and yes, Ciri and Yennefer included, kept requesting that damn song. He hated it, Jaskier’s voice broke singing it and his scent was still sad, although less so than it had been the first few times Geralt had heard it.

Amazingly, the sadness had disappeared for the most part after one time, when Jaskier played the song after dinner, Yennefer had looked up from her book and said, cool as an icicle,

“For Melitele’s sake you melodramatic bastard, I’m not dating Geralt and I never want to again.”

And now everyone seemed to want to hear it. Kaer Morhen’s training had not included music or poetry comprehension, so he was unsure why everyone kept looking at him oddly whenever the song was played. As far as he could tell, it was just another tragic love song. When Ciri started requesting Her Sweet Kiss after supper, and eyeing him while it played, he gave in. He cornered Eskel, the most book smart of the wolves beside Vesemir, who he suspected would be just a bit too acerbic, and asked him what was up.

“He’s in love with you.”

“He’s not.”

“You’re an idiot,” Eskel said. “And a stubborn one to boot. He didn’t like Yennefer when you two were sleeping together, but they’re the friends now, right?”

“They’re not,” Geralt said, brow wrinkling. This was treading much too far into the realm of human emotions, which Geralt had never been good at, but they snarked at each other all the time still and bickered like children. Eskel rolled his eyes.

“They are, its just sparring, but with words not swords. You see?”

That made sense, words were Jaskier’s weapon, and Yennefer’s too, to some extent, and they did both seem to revel in creative insults.

“They’re friends,” Eskel said. “Now that Jaskier isn’t jealous anymore. Do you see where I’m going with this?” He could apparently tell from Geralt’s expression that, no, he did not know where Eskel was going with this.

“Her Sweet Kiss is about Yennefer, who Jaskier thinks you love, and it’s about you, who Jaskier loves, and it’s about him, when he says ‘I’ as in “I am weak, my love’. My love is you, do you understand?”

It was dawning slowly in Geralt’s mind that he had definitely missed this, rather spectacularly, because now it was very, very obvious. He was glad he hadn’t gone to Vesemir, who would probably have given him a cuff ‘round the ear for being stupid, and it would have been deserved.

Eskel, always so much better at reading emotions said, “Ah, you’ve got it, good. Now, what are you going to do about it.”

“I don’t know.”

Eskel rolled his eyes so hard that Geralt hoped he detached a retina. “Of course you don’t.” His voice softened. Eskel had always been the one Geralt turned to for emotions. He knew Geralt didn’t get them, but wanted to understand and tried so hard that it hurt. Apart from a fair amount of good-natured ribbing, he always helped Geralt with the trickier bits of the human (or mutant) heart.

“Let’s start small, do you love the bard?”

That wasn’t small. That was a very, very big question, but Eskel had settled back in his chair and looked prepared to wait for Geralt to figure out the answer.

Did he love the bard? Geralt didn’t have anything to compare it to except Eskel and Lambert, and it certainly wasn’t like that. Except sometimes it was, like Eskel, Jaskier helped Geralt with reading when his head flipped the letters all around. Like Lambert, Jaskier fought anyone who insulted Geralt. But those were the actions of someone who loved Geralt, that was how Geralt could know (or could have known, if he’d been paying better attention) that Jaskier loved him. But how to know if Geralt loved Jaskier, not as a friend, but like a ballad, like the ‘my love’ in the song. But Geralt did love Jaskier like a ballad, because the songs always compared some lady to a bunch of other things. Geralt did that. He saw bright silks in a market and thought of Jaskier, if there were buttercups on the side of the road he thought of Jaskier, he heard a lute and thought of Jaskier, washed his hair and thought of Jaskier. Everything in his life made him think of Jaskier.

And it wasn’t like seeing a goat headbut a farmer and thinking of Eskel and his goat from hell. It was also not the same as using a bomb and thinking of Lambert. Those were everyday things, as commonplace as thinking of Vesemir’s training.

“I love him.”

“Yes,” Eskel said, “You really, really do. Now you just have to court him.” He sat back as if satisfied with a job well done.

“Right, and how do I do that?”

Eskel looked stumped. “I don’t know,” he said. Courting wasn’t part of the Kaer Morhen curriculum.

“Do we ask Lambert?” Geralt asked, feeling a little panicky because now that he realized he loved the bard he wasn’t about to not court him.

“Of course not, he’s the least romantic bastard in existence,” Eskel said, rubbing a thumb over the scarred part of his lip.

“Not true, he reads romance novels,” Geralt said, proud to introduce this new and frankly hilarious bit of information.

“No.” Eskel’s eyes were wide.

“I found it in his pack last week, when I was looking for a sharpening stone, it had a picture of a lady in a torn dress and a shirtless man almost kissing, and the title said Tortured Hearts.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“I’m not,” Geralt said huffily, “I read a bit of a page too and it mentioned a lot of throbbing.”

Eskel cackled and, over come with mirth, fell from his chair. That set off Geralt and they both howled with laughter, wiping a few stray tears from their eyes when they heard the door creak open.

It was Lambert.

That set Eskel off again, which made Geralt laugh too, and Lambert just stared at them.

“Did you two get into the vodka again?”

“No,” Eskel said, righting himself in his chair, “We were just discussing your reading habits.”

Lambert turned pale, then pink, then pursed his lips and turned up his nose haughtily. “Shows what you two know about literature. It’s a fine way to pass the time.” His cheeks were still a bit pink.

“All jokes aside,” Geralt said, when he’d stopped snorting, “I need to know how to court the bard.”

“Ah, finally pulled your head from your arse then?”

“It was me that did the pulling,” Eskel said. Lambert sprawled onto the couch next to Geralt.

“Of course you did,” he said. “What you gotta do,” he paused. “No that’ll never work.” Geralt scowled at him.

“No really,” Lambert said, “It’d never work.”

“Try me.”

“Lambert, c’mon, we’re really stumped,” said Eskel.

“Well...”

“Yes?” said Geralt, leaning towards him a little.

“In the books the man always writes her a poem, to proclaim his love, you know? Or failing that he writes her a letter, all curly writing, maybe some pressed flowers.”

“Oh,” said Geralt.

“Oh,” said Eskel. “Yeah you’re right that’s really not gonna work.”

“Jaskier’s all courtly,” Geralt said. “So I should do it, you know, courtly.”

“Ciri’s royalty,” Lambert said. “She might know, and Yennefer spends a bunch of time with nobles. They could help.”

“You said his family’s kind of old fashioned,” said Eskel. “Vesemir’s really old too, so he can help.

And that was how everyone in Kaer Morhen, except Jaskier, who had been distracted by Vesemir showing him a room with a nice echo, met in the library to begin plan Court the Bard. Eskel was scribbling ideas onto a sheet of parchment.

“You should kiss his hand,” Ciri said. “And say please and thank you.” She thought of her grandparents. “And tell him how beautiful he looks when he’s covered in blood.”

“Kill things for him,” Lambert chipped in. “Show’s him how big and strong you are, makes him feel safe.” A few curious eyes turned to him. He shifted uncomfortably. “One of the books was about a hunter and and a dairy maid. He killed a bear for her.”

“Always ask before you hold his hand or kiss him,” Vesemir said, seemingly unfazed by Lamberts reading habits. No reason he should be, Geralt thought, we all know he has a stack of romance novels by his bed. “Take it slow, Geralt, be patient, and put in the work, he was patient for twenty years, repay it now.”

Yennefer spoke up. “You don’t have to stop being sarcastic with him, he likes it, but compliment him too. Tell him how much you like his music. He likes music, so you like music because it makes him happy, understood?”

Geralt nodded.

“Good,” she said. “And dance with him. He’d like that. Also get him flowers.”

“Not just flowers, get him stuff,” Eskel said.

“I bought him lute strings and a notebook,” Geralt said.

Ciri wrinkled her nose. “Yeah but those were apology gifts, these are courting gifts.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Not much,” Yennefer said, “Lute strings and notebooks are good because they’re useful and they show that you know what he needs, but courting gifts should also be more...” she waved a hand vaguely, purple sparks twirling about her fingers.

“Romantic,” Eskel said.

“Pretty,” Ciri said firmly.

“They should be able to show you can provide for him,” Vesemir cut in.

At the end the list was short and confusing, but at least they had a plan. In the spring Ciri would go learn about magic with Yennefer, and Geralt’s heart swelled at the way they both glowed with excitement at the prospect. Geralt would then be back on the path alone with Jaskier and he could court him.

The list said, in Eskel’s simple, neat hand, Number One, kiss his hand. Number Two, use manners. Number Three, compliment him (his music, his features, how he looks after a battle?) Number Four, kill things and bring them to him. Number Five, bring him gifts that aren’t dead things. There was an asterisk by number five and it said, gifts should be useful, romantic, pretty, and provide for him.

It wasn’t much, but it was a plan.

That night at dinner Jaskier wondered why everyone kept looking at him and Geralt. He figured he had stew on his face, there was some in Geralt’s hair. Geralt wondered why Jaskier kept swiping his face with a napkin and why Ciri kept pointedly running fingers through her hair.

He couldn’t figure out all of human emotions, but he was going to defeat courting, once and for all.

#geraskier #fluff #geralt is bad at #courting #emotions #reading #geralt is dyslexic #yennefer is a good mom #eskel is a good brother #lambert is also a good brother but an asshole too #ciri thinks her the way Eist flirted was normal #real men tell their partners that they look good in the blood of their enemies

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elderbwrry · 3 years

Text

Girls' Night

tags: the knights of ren, All Women Knights of Ren, Girl's night, Girl's Knight, haha please like me, Fluff and Humor, Adversarial Kylux, Very much a WIP, Kylux, although fair warning it might not be that relationshippy

Read it on ao3

Summary: Hux is surprised by what the Knights of Ren get up to in their free time - it's strangely humanising. Unfortunately, Ren is still being the Lord of all Assholes. Hux needs a way to get back at him. It gives him an idea.

Hux marched down the corridor in the Finalizer's quarters deck, the section dedicated to command personnel. The immaculately tiled and polished floors glinted as he whipped past them. He was walking a little faster than usual, he noticed with distaste, but it wasn't surprising; this was his last task before he could officially count his shift as “over” and, instead of standing stiffly on the bridge checking reports, he could settle down to checking them in the comfort of his quarters. His sofa beckoned, along with another three hours of beloved admin, then five necessary hours of sleep before his next shift.

Moments ticked by as he had to pause and wait for a security door to open, and he felt his frustration manifesting itself in his brow. He was currently delaying himself by heading approximately six minutes out of the way of his own quarters, all to give Ren little more than a telling off. This wasn't the first time the glorified poser had caused him this kind of issue – trust Ren to get in the way, he excelled at it – but it was the first time Hux was personally carrying the message round to his quarters that he needed to file a report for the mission he returned from over a week ago.

Hux had tried the usual ways of getting hold of Ren; on his return to the ship, Hux had informed him a report was due; an automated reminder had been sent; a follow-up reminder had been sent; Hux sent a reminder himself. Today, when his agenda noted that Ren still remained unresponsive, Hux hailed him over internal comms. No reply. He called Mitaka in, intending to send him to Ren's quarters, but the poor man had paled at the knight's very name. So, Hux had dismissed him, and undertaken to deliver the message himself.

Hux didn't bother to wonder the reason why Ren wasn't completing the report – undoubtedly it was because he was irresponsible, disrespectful, possibly illiterate – he only amused himself to wonder what foolish excuse would be employed this time. “Meditation,” Hux's mind supplied in a mocking approximation of Ren's voice without that ostentatious helmet, “important Force matters,” “training,” “I was just really tired and forgot :(”

He was just shaking his head disapprovingly at the imagined pout as he drew up outside the door itself. He pressed the button to request entry, pushing it harder than necessary until his thumb joint hurt, as if somehow that would convey through the automated, equalized buzz sound how annoyed he was with Ren taking up his time like this.

The door puffed open, and Hux's mouth was already opened to give Ren a piece of his mind when he realised that the person in front of him was not, in fact, Ren. Instead, stood before him was a woman nearly a head shorter than himself, her long, black hair piled on her head in a decidedly non-regulation messy bun, drawn away from her face, on which was slathered some kind of light pink paste. She was wrapped in a fluffy, pink dressing gown, under which appeared to be heart patterned pink pyjamas.

Hux's planned rebuke of Ren fell away into an, “Uh.” Usually, he had time to prepare himself for any kind of non-work-related interactions, but he had planned to go into this with a clipped, righteous annoyance and come out of it with a self-indulgent bit of riling Ren up, and now that Ren was not available for that, he had nothing.

“Yes?” she said, about as neutrally as Hux supposed anyone would, when called upon while attired as she was.

“I must have the wrong quarters,” was what he managed to reply.

“These aren't mine,” she explained, pointing behind her, around a corner which Hux couldn't see, “You looking for Kylo?”

“Yes,” Hux said stiffly, “is Ren here?”

The woman leaned back inside the door, around the corner Hux still couldn't see. “Kyle!” she called, “visitor.”

“He's not getting up, wet nails!” someone called back, another female sounding voice.

Just what was happening in there? How many women were there, and what were they doing in Ren's quarters, of all places, clad in such unofficial wear? Hux shuddered to think. Was he also going to have to remind Ren of the rules against fraternisation with inferior officers? That was sure to be a fun conversation of Ren not giving a kriff and Hux being able to do little but barb his words and maybe mention the situation to Snoke. Odd, though – Hux had never thought Ren had showed any preference for women... or perhaps that had just been wishful thinking.

The woman before him remained still for a moment, her brown eyes glazing over just slightly in a way which made Hux think she wasn't entirely mentally present. Then the look was gone as soon as it had come, and she frowned, annoyed. “He wants you to leave,” she informed him, “but he wasn't very nice about it, so you're coming in.” She turned and retreated back inside, beckoning casually for him to follow.

After a moment, once Hux's brain had caught up – Ren had just communicated with the woman through the Force, and now he was being invited in against those wishes. He slipped through the door, letting it puff closed behind him.

The first fact of the place was that Ren's quarters were larger than Hux's. Hux had known this, of course – he'd scoffed over the confirmation for the allocation when Ren had first transferred over, perfectly happy to take moderately sized quarters himself – but, as he walked down the grandly inlaid corridor from the entrance antechamber to what was presumably a living space, it contributed to the sense of an impending mystery as to what, exactly, he was about to discover. He hoped it was nothing too debauched.

“You're that General, aren't you?” the woman a step in front of him asked over her shoulder. “Hanks? Hugs?”

“Hux,” he corrected. He disliked intensely when people got his name wrong. He was the General of the ship they were all currently hurtling through space on, he was the General Starkiller – how could she not know who he was? “Who are you?”

“Ushar,” she replied easily. No rank, no designation of any sort, no actual deference to him as a General; all things Hux made a mental note of for later, when he could check the ship manifest.

“Might I ask what you're...”

Hux had begun to speak with an acerbic self-confidence – it was his ship, and he demanded to know what was happening on it – but it all became clear when Ushar opened the door to the central living area and the situation was revealed. It was the second time Hux had been caused to falter in his words in the last five minutes, and he didn't appreciate it. “What is this?” he asked, minorly horrified, as he took in the scene before him.

Ushar shrugged. “Girls' night.”

The room looked like some kind of stereotypical, tacky imitation of a Zeltronian spa had taken over. There were tall glasses of something bubbly scattered around, half-drunk, the bottle chilling in a bucket of ice on the coffee table, which was scattered with cosmetic items. A holo-romance was playing off to the side. Boxes of chocolates fountained forth crunched up wrappers. There were four women – two humans, a zabrak and a twi'lek – lounging around in the pit of cushions the room had been turned into. The cushions were allpink to match the identical pink bath robes and headbands and fluffy slippers the room's inhabitants were sporting. And, at the centre of it all; Ren.

“You...” Hux started, under his breath just enough that no-one would take notice of the stammering. He had certainly not expected this. “I...”

Ren, clad too in pink fluffy bath robe, seemingly with nothingunder it this time, finally took notice that Ushar had led Hux in, as he sat up quickly and angrily, removing slices of some green vegetable from over his eyes. The woman who had been painting his toenails – black, possibly the only thing that could reconcile the Ren Hux was used to with this strange, pink perversion before him – protested, but he ignored her, instead hurrying to his feet and wading his way out of the pillows.

“I told you to make him leave,” Ren growled at Ushar, but the effect was considerably diminished thanks to his appearance. The bathrobe he wore was the short, fun kind of style which only came to his knees; the pink headband kept all his hair back from his face gave him a kooky sort of bird's nest; his face was slathered with a light green version of what Ushar had on, all except for comical spaces around his eyes and lips.

Ushar glared at him. “You shouldn't have ordered me like that, then,” she said, going over to sit next to the zabraki woman, shuffling in closer than was strictly platonic and picking up one of the glasses. “I'm not some stormtrooper.”

“You're ruining the night,” Ren brandished the vegetable slice at her. It wobbled.

“You'reruining the night!” the woman Ushar was sat next to shot back. “He's here after you!”

“Yeah, Kyle,” the twi'lek said from the sofa in a tone that was very much mocking, but still friendly, popping a chocolate in her mouth. Who were these people, that they could speak to Kylo Ren like this and get away with it?

Ren turned back to Hux, glowering. The face paste made him look like a clown. The outside finally reflects the inside, Hux thought to himself while wondering if Ren had waxed his legs or if they were just like that naturally, and had to force himself not to laugh. He obviously didn't mask his expressions quite as well as he should have, however, because Ren seemed to sense that Hux was amusing himself at his expense. Seizing Hux's upper arm in a grip to rival that of a hangar-bay droid, Ren manhandled Hux back to the door of the room, away from the group.

“Unhand me, you oaf,” Hux admonished, shaking Ren off him and lowering his tone a little so as not to disturb the ladies, who, in their disregard of Ren's plumped-up edginess, had endeared themselves to him.

“Why are you here?” Ren demanded before he'd even finished speaking, also at subdued pitch.

“Why are you here?” Hux returned, hissingly. “Who are these people? Why are you not completing the mission report which you have had no fewer than five requests for? Why the hells are your quarters this gods-awful colour?”

Ren took a moment to glare at Hux.

Hux interpreted this as having the upper hand. “Well?”

“I'm not completing any more of your stupid kriffing reports,” he said as if it were obvious. “I told you that already.”

Hux cycled through his memory quickly. He remembered Ren slamming down the last report onto his desk and threatening something similar, but he'd disregarded it, because reports were Necessary, and it was not a possibility for anyone to simply not do them.

“You will do the report,” Hux replied.

“No.”

“You'll do it now.”

Ren snorted. “No.”

Hux bristled. “Ren, I have been forced to come down here – well out of my way – to extract this report from you, only to find you sitting around like some... pampered princess, when I could be-”

“Good point actually, let's return to it. What are you doing down here?” Ren frowned and crossed his arms, but his lips curled cruelly, ready, Hux was sure, to make some insult about his doing such menial work.

“That brings me to the next matter,” Hux plucked the opportunity of throwing in this additional argument, squaring up. “You have intimidated my administrative staff to the point where it is necessary that I waste my time in a way which is thoroughly unacceptable to me.”

Ren widened his eyes in mock sympathy. “Did you forget how to use a comm?”

This only pissed Hux off more, because something about the movement was ridiculously attractive. He wasn't sure whether it was the slight shrug which emphasised Ren's muscular arms, the fact that the pink really brought out the rich shade of his hair, or even the cruelty behind the act itself, but it could not stand.

“I'm quite familiar with the comms system,” he spat, “it seems that you are the one having trouble, since you failed to reply to my hails. As my co-commander,” (Hux had practised in his bathroom mirror not grimacing as he said this) “you are expected to answer your comms when I call. It is highly unprofessional of you to shirk your duty like this.”

Ren momentarily pursed his lips. His next words were caustic. “I don't intend to waste my life away at work like you do, slaving over a tablet until I look like the living dead. At least I know how to relax.”

Hux's eye twitched. “I know how to relax.” An imagined image of himself on his icy blue sofa in his black and red robe, his cat to one side, his data-pad in hand, appeared in his mind. That was relaxing.

“No you don't,” Ren scoffed. “You should see the bags under your eyes. You look more drawn out than all the Starkiller blueprints put together.”

Mentally, Hux's self-image adjusted so that his porcelain skin turned grey, the lines of his face more prominent, the room dark until only he was visible by the harsh light of the data-pad. It could not have been more different than his current surroundings of pink and fluffiness and companionship and soft lighting.

“Get out of my head, Ren,” he said, putting the warping of his imagined scene down to some Force meddling.

“I'm not in your head,” Ren replied, “you're just sad and lonely and jealous that you have to go do a report while I have a nice night with my knights – my friends. You,” he pointed sassily, “could never have this,” he pointed back to the ladies. “Now kriff off, I'm not doing the report. Maybe you should do it yourself, since you have such a boner for that kind of thing.” The door far behind Hux puffed open, presumably manipulated by the Force.

“I expect the report before the end of my shift tomorrow,” Hux said, voice dangerous and low. How dare Ren speak to him like that. How dare he judge what Hux did to relax, while he was being a layabout with these random, cool ladies... doing... fun things like... painting nails and getting tipsy... and watching holo-dramas... and... he wasn't jealous.

“Leave,” Kylo told him.

Hux narrowed his eyes. “You will regret this, Ren.” He turned on his heel and marched from the room, commenting to himself once more as the door puffed closed behind him, “You will regret this.”

[line break]

Kylo watched Hux retreat from the room, waiting until the door had closed to turn and make his way back to his knights. He flopped himself back down onto the floor, jostling Ap'lek's sofa cushions in the process.

“Ah kriff,” he complained as he saw his black-smudged toes stretched out in front of him, “he made me ruin my nail paint.”

“I'm not doing them again,” Trudgen said, tossing the little black bottle at him, shifting around to watch the holo and grabbing a chocolate. “You shoulda been more careful when you got up instead of rushing off to be a bitch.”

Kylo sighed over-dramatically and called out, “Cardo!” She and Kuruk were in the kitchen, probably making an unsightly mess of the place, but Kylo knew only she would be willing to finish the paint for him. Of course, he would have to take the chance that the stuff would end up even more smudged than it already was, and, now he was thinking about it, he would probably be better off just dipping his entire feet in nail polish.

A chocolate wrapper hit the side of his head. He turned to see Ushar had thrown it. “Just do it yourself,” she told him, “it's not like it's hard.”

But he wanted to feel spoiled, that was the whole point of this spa evening anyway. He called Cardo's name again, whinier this time.

“What?!” came the shouted reply, “We're making mug muffins!”

Vicrul frowned, straightening up a little where her arm was thrown around Ushar's shoulders. “In the microwave?”

“Yeah!”

“Huh,” Vicrul shrugged, settling back down again. “Good luck cleaning that.”

Kylo groaned, letting his head fall back onto the sofa cushion behind him. First Hux was on him about a report, then none of his knights would do his nails for him, now Cardo was splattering his lovely microwave with chocolate batter. This was all Hux's fault. Kylo wasn't sure how yet, but it was.

He opened his eyes to see Ap'lek looking down at him, where his head rested by her left elbow. “What's this about a report then?” she asked flatly. Kylo just groaned again and re-closed his eyes.

“You can't be procrastinating this stuff again,” Ushar nagged him over the sound of footsteps, accompanied by a smell of chocolate, and a thunk-clink of a tray with spoons being set down on the table as the cooks brought the muffins through. “Your job is important, here, Kylo. Snoke wants you to do well.”

“To hell with Snoke,” Kylo mumbled, hoping the crusty fart wasn't spying on his thoughts as they spoke. Paperwork was a fate worse than a fate worse than all the Sith hells combined.

“Then we want you to do well,” she continued.

“Plus we blew up so much shit on that mission,” Vicrul added, and Kylo opened his eyes to glare at her as she accepted a mug from Kuruk.

“You have to tell the General about that some time, why not put it in a report? You'd save him lots of time, probably. I bet he'd be so appreciative.”

Kylo accepted a mug proffered by Kuruk and waved it about a bit. “Since when do we care about saving Hux time? I meant what I said, he loves paperwork so much he probably,” he picked up a spoon and stabbed it into the fluffy top of the muffin, watching steam come out as he tried to pick a suitably ridiculous image of Hux. “He probably sleeps with all the files strewn over his bed and like,” he made a face, “rubs them on his body, gets all cozy with them at night. I don't know.”

“I'm pretty sure he does paperwork on his data-pad,” Ap'lek said, and she was right, though Kylo resented that she'd killed his roll.

“Just do the kriffing report, Kyle.” Trudgen hadn't pulled her attention away from the holo enough to face him as she'd said it, but apparently had been paying enough attention to comment, “Anything to stop him showing up and interrupting us. Girls' night is a no-business zone.”

Cardo chose that moment to vault over the back of the sofa and land heavily on the cushions. “Ooh, General Hux came over?” she asked cheerfully. Her hands were, predictably, still coated in chocolate powder. “I can't believe I missed him, I want to see if his hair is gelled that solid from close up.” She grabbed her mug and dug into the muffin.

“The General shouts too much,” Kuruk said, sitting cross legged on a cushion by the coffee table. “He should check his blood pressure, it can't be good for him.”

“Hey, a bit like you!” Cardo added, “You must call me through next time. He's cute.”

Kylo opened his mouth – partly to gape at what had just been said, and partly because the muffin was too hot and he hadn't had the impulse control to prevent eating a large spoonful. “Hey!” he started a few times, mouth full and burning. Finally, he was able to swallow. “He is not cute, and there will be no,” he wobbled his mug and spoon in a no-fingered version of quotation marks, “next time.”

“Then do the report,” Ushar shot back.

Kylo made a loud complaint noise.

“He's not gonna do it because he wants the General to come over again,” Ap'lek teased, and, to Kylo's horror, all his knights laughed. Traitors. He didn't want Hux to come over again.

“I don't,” he replied vehemently, “I want him to kriff off and stop annoying me.”

“I think that's against his job description,” Kuruk said, prompting further laughs.

“You should just do it,” Ushar said, getting to her feet after a moment more.

“Hey, where you going?” Vicrul asked sadly, not letting go of Ushar's hand.

“Babe, I gotta peel my face.”

“Wait, let me come with, it's really satisfying.”

The two disappeared off, and Kylo had to add 'his knights screwing in his bathroom' to his list of sub-par things to happen this evening. He wasn't going to do the report. He couldn't be bothered, he didn't want to, he hated writing things and making them sound 'formal'. No, tonight he was going to finish his mug muffin, paint his nails and fall asleep with his knights in front of a trashy holo-romance. Hux would get the hell in eventually and do the report himself. Give it a few more days, and Kylo was sure Hux would drop the issue.

#kylux #fanfiction #my writing #girls night #armitage hux #kylo ren #knights of ren #the knights of ren #star wars #star wars sequels

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dearest-kibble · 4 years

Note

yan kenma who has you locked up in his apartment- it’s been some time and you’ve given up escaping but you know he live-streams so you kind of start living small clues that you’re there in hope someone will figure it out? but instead of a viewer kenma finds out; and instead of stopping you he just decides to taunt you and play along to the point his viewers make it an inside joke- the emotional rollercoaster that would be? he wouldn’t have to punish you- the crushing despair is enough alone

This is so deliciously fucked up I love it,,, thank you anon, Kenma hits so different. I love him thank you so so so much. i am working on so much,,, thank you for being patient with all my uhhh lateness? this kinda became something a little different than the prompt but hopefully thats good?

Kenma Kozume x Fem reader

tw: Typical yandere-ness, humiliation? Sexism? Mentioned stalking, (If im missing anything please let me know my brain isn’t functioning rn)

You’re sitting on his lap, camera angled so that no one’s view is obstructed by your body, but so that all his views can clearly see you. You’ve been here so long, any hope of leaving, ironically, has left you. But, the thought crept slowly, surely, deeply into your brain and hasn’t left. You turn around on Kenma’s lap, straddling him and you’re sure the live chat is going a little crazy at the thought of Kodzuken having someone in his lap while he streams and he’s probably going to tell you to get off soon, but you’ve got the chat’s attention, and you are going to work with it. You tap Kenma’s cheeks, slight squish on them and you know he hates that it’s on camera all the same, you drum three fingers on his cheek, smiling at him for the camera as your fingertips meet his clammy skin. He doesn’t tell you to stop so across his cheek you swipe your thumb three times as tenderly as possible. As you stand from his lap, you pat his cheeks, three times delicately. You look into his eyes, still as calculating as when you met him, a deceptively warm amber with the tiniest hint of frustration (and somewhere inside, you know it’s probably with you but you can’t care.)

“I’m gonna sit on the couch, ‘kay?” You call softly, hoping you were subtle enough with your plea.

“Oh, okay,” And you think you’re free before he calls a “Wait! Come back for a little.” You’re even halfway to the couch before the words rope you back in. He beckons you to lean down, and whispers into your ear. “I noticed you trying to sign to get out. Morse code isn’t as subtle as you think, you might as well just ask them to get you out,” You chance a quick look towards chat.

“Was that morse code?”

“Holy shit! Yeah, I think that was SOS.”

“You think they actually need to get out or it’s one of those ‘my bfs terrible’ jokes?”

“You see the way they were straddling? Def not a hate my bf sorta thing.”

“See?” He’s still whispering into your ear, game forgotten in lieu of what might be called humiliation. “They won’t believe you because you want to be here. Regardless of what you say, you would’ve left already if you didn’t.” He smiles at you and affectionately pats your head. Like he’d pet a cat. The idea is still in your mind, though perhaps a little shallower. You glance at the chat once more, someone is still talking about it, but Kenma pushes you away with a “I’ll get you when I’m done, okay?” You end your night on the couch with Kenma. He smiles at you and puts your legs on his lap.

The next livestream is two days after the last one. You have something planned once more, hopefully more effective.

“I’m playing minecraft today, I could set up your computer, and we could play together?” His small smile is back. And though a kind gesture, all you can think about is how easily you could make a point.

“Okay!” The earlier plan is immediately forgotten, and thoughts of what you could do in a game, fills your mind. “Will I have a mic?”

“No, I can’t have you telling them can I?” And it clicks, because of course he’d taunt you. But it’s like your brain grew claws that cannot lose their hold.

“Will I have a camera?” And you know the answer, but Kenma might still surprise you. You’ve already had one shock tonight, maybe you’ll get another.

“No. Sorry. You have chat though.” He pats your head again, ruffling your hair. “I’ve already got you set up, c’mon.” He tugs at your hand, pulling gently.

“Thanks Kenma.” He’s put another computer across from his desk on a much smaller table made for playing cards.

“You’re all set up.”

“Yeah.” He clicks the mouse a few times, waves at the camera to his right. “Can everybody hear me?” He waits a few seconds for chat’s response. “Chat is saying yes, so let’s get right in?” He smiles sheepishly to his camera.

“Hi everyone, I’ m Kodzuken and today we are,” He pauses to look at you with honeyed amber eyes. “Playing Minecraft with my partner.” He nods in your direction. You just open the minecraft tab, the only shortcut that seems to be on the computer.

“It’s a LAN server, click that, okay?” So you click it and say nothing. You start to go through the motions of chopping a tree, making sticks, making a crafting table. Kennma is narrating what he does, and you’re not even sure where he is in game until you're knocked back and turn your mouse to look at him.

“Yeah, I know - she should be relying on me.” He’s responding to something in chat, he’s gotta be. You type a quick,

“What’re they saying?”

“Oh, that my girlfriend shouldn’t be so independent, you rely on me - I'm your boyfriend.” Kenma says it so casually, so acerbically that you immediately take off sprinting from the forest in game.

“She has these bouts - you saw them last stream - where she likes to try and ‘get away’.” Kenma laughs softly; little glockenspiel notes falling from his mouth. “It’s a really cute joke honestly! Anyway, I’ll put my minecraft bed next to hers later, right now...” You stop paying attention and start planning how you’d try to get your point across more clearly. You could make signs, say “Get me out!” Like Kenma suggested.

“Hey! He looks over the screen at you, piercing eyes staring right through you. “Don’t go off on your own, we’re staying together alright?”

“No.” He’ll have to deal with chatting, possibly hearing you by himself. And you continue through the coded forest. It goes pretty smoothly, though you’re sure Kenma is trying to find you, you’ve already created a mine for yourself, and made a little sign with instructions that reads: “Get me out!”

“Her voice is quite cute, isn’t it? I’ll get to hear it for the rest of my life.” He continues humming out yes’s and no’s to his audience that sit captivated in a land of blocks and pixels.

“Hey, I’m going to use the restroom, is it alright if my girlfriend takes over for me?” He stands, and waves you over into his chair that’s been made for gaming and padded with red accents. He watches you with his cat-like eyes as you sit down and pats your head. “I’ll be right back Kitty, behave.” And you hear his soft footsteps get farther away and the creak of the door twice before you finally look at chat.

Woa, Kudzu got lucky huh?

“Please,” You don’t sound nearly as someone might think you would. You’ve been here too long. “Get me out of here?”

Sure sweetheart, just come over to my place first.

“Just - get me away from him please!”

Girls are so whiny huh?

Hey man, its funny at least amiright?

“It’s not a joke -”

She’s really committed to this bit huh

Damn iim staartin to feel bad for ken

Me to :(

“I’ve been here for year and I don’t want to-”

Wow. what an ungrateful bitch.

Ikr? She’s got a bf and everything and she wants to get out?

“No- it’s not like that - he stalked me for months I-” And the familiar desperation you thought hoped beyond all hope that you had lost bleeds back into your voice all repression surfaces like the tide in your eyes.

Oh fuxxx we made her cry.

relax bet she’s just on her period or smth

“I am not!” A bubble of snot pops from your nose and mucus drips uncomfortably to your lips. “I just-”

What could you want that you don’t have.

“My house! My job! My friends!” And your voice breaks

She wants to go back to a job?

Crazy lady huh.

She wants friends when all she really needs is a man? smh.

“Kitten, what-”

“Leave me the fuck alone!” It’s an outburst that you’ll regret later, for one reason or another. But for now it’s a small comfort to speak your mind. With your voice wavering and congested, you choke out a “Let me go home.” Kenma’s eyebrows furrow but his eyes are still the calculating, cold amber they always are.

“Shh shh, it’s okay.” Instead of the quick pats he’s so fond of, he strokes your hair and massages the nape of your neck like he’s picking up a kitten who's gotten into a fight. “I’m going to cut the stream, okay?”

Who’d want to leave Ken, he’s cutting the stream short to help his gf.

…….yeah

I feel bad.

“You should. Please don’t make her cry.” A few clicks later and the stream cuts. “Do you want me to upload that one?” To get your message out? You’d do anything.

“Yes please…” Someone will have to see it. How miserable you are.

“Then it’ll go up, okay?” He pats your back twice, and he stands again to sit at the computer. Out of the blue he speaks again. “They’re right.” No no no no no. “I’m lucky, i’m so glad you're here with me and that you won’t leave.”

“I will get out!” The proof of your white hot anger is breaking the dam built in your throat.

“Where will you go? Your friends don’t know where you’ve gone, they won’t be happy with you coming back unannounced.”

“My parents-”

“You can rely on me, you don’t need anyone else.”

“But I-”

“Shhh kitty, you’re overreacting let’s get you to bed, you’ve had a stressful day.” And so he walks you back to the room you share that's covered in pictures, and he tucks you under the covers and dries your tears with a blanket. He whispers words to you, faint little nothings about games he’s going to play that you’ll enjoy watching and little bits of trivia about what “Kuroo” is up to. Eventually you fall asleep, with his hand in your hair and a chair pulled up close so he can stare. You both know it but no one will admit, some part of him will always enjoy how you lose hope so quickly.

once again! This should not’ve taken so long,,,, and it kinda deviates from request but! there we are! also,,,, you can’t tell me that like,,,,,,, kenma hasn’t been at least exposed to incels and or like,,,, really sexist guys he streams on twitch or youtube or something so- also thank you anon,,, i really like this one

#yandere x reader #yandere imagine #yandere #yandere haikyuu #yandere haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu kenma #kenma kozume #yandere kenma #yandere kenma x reader #hq kenma #kenma x reader #kenma kozume x reader #tw sexism

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elsanna-shenanigans · 3 years

Text

June Contest Submission #8: A Real Howler in July

Words: ca. 5,500

Setting: modern AU

Lemon: no

CW: none

Was there anything worse than inclement weather?

Anna didn’t think so.

Not at this very moment anyway, buried nearly up to the waist in snow as she was. She hefted her ski pole out of the drift behind her with a grunt and plunged it haphazardly into the snow ahead of her. The screaming winds cut through her hard shell jacket like it was made of tissue paper and Anna’s body locked up while trying to shiver violently at the same time. Slush had gotten into the boots a size too big for her, squelching against her socks in an icy, soggy mess. The forest of dark pines offered scant protection against the swirling flurries that obscured her vision in a confetti of white.

Snow, in July.

That was supposed to be a joke, just something people said— not a real thing. Wasn’t it? Anna was just grateful she’d chanced upon that bizarre store in the middle of the woods, otherwise she’d be doing this in jean shorts and a tank top.

Oaken’s Trading Post (and Sauna)— that’s what the sign had said. It looked like any other cabin, but inside was a shop, sure enough. Anna had been greeted by a large man behind the counter in a thick wool sweater, suspenders, and an impressive mutton chop-mustache combo. This was the titular Oaken.

The big, tall Norwegian in the loud sweater had given her a funny look when Anna explained why she was there and who she’d rented her cabin from. “Kristoff did not say anything when you booked those dates?”

Wait, he knew this would happen?! What the hell!

Anna shook her head, failing to repress a full-body shiver as the heat of the shop started to thaw her out. Oaken clucked his tongue. “I swear, that boy. If it is not ice he is very clueless. I told him, ja? I told him he should not put his place on the line for strangers to use.”

Anna pressed her lips together, fighting a smile at the term “on the line”. She eyed the brick of a monitor behind the register that looked like it might be a gateway computer, and wondered if he still had dial-up. Or internet, period.

Oaken caught her looking and shook his head. “No service up here now, phone or computer.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any winter appropriate clothing here?”

Oaken gave her a wry look and gestured to the back of the shop. Their “winter” selection looked very sad indeed. “Not many tourists come to the mountain. Even those in the town stay away in July,” he said as Anna surveyed her options in disappointment.

Well, fine. It wasn’t ideal, but Anna wasn’t about to give up. She slapped her wallet down on the counter. “Whatever you got? I’ll take it.”

The sum total of what Oaken had was a bright fuchsia hard shell jacket, boots in a size 9 (she was a size 8), blue ski pants, gloves, a wool hat, and five pairs of long underwear. She took it all.

Anna looked longingly at the sauna as he was ringing her up, but she couldn’t risk losing daylight. She settled for taking some extra time in the toasty changing room, putting on three pairs of long underwear (she couldn’t get the last two on without going up a size), and every other article of clothing that would fit under her new jacket. Everything else was shoved into her backpack.

Oaken kindly lent her his own ski poles, the caveat being that she return them on her way back.

Anna stood on the deck, looking out at the frozen landscape. She didn’t have much experience with this kind of weather, but that wasn’t going to stop her. One thing Anna wasn’t, was a quitter. She was going to find this damn cabin if it was the last thing she did.

What started as heavy snowfall soon escalated into a full blizzard. Anna kept herself going by composing a strongly worded review for Kristoff’s Airbnb in her head, one that got more acerbic with each step.

So. Here she was: three hours from Oaken’s, slush in her boots, pushing her way forward by kicking through the drift she’d sunk down. Anna could practically feel the blood freezing in her veins, suffocating the vital warmth that kept her functioning. She’d been seeing the markers Kristoff said would be there, but each one was taking longer to find.

Anna unstuck her foot from the snow and took a giant step, pitching forward heavily. That was a mistake. The drift crumbled beneath her and she went down, tumbling head over heels through a sloping copse of trees until she rolled to a stop in a small clearing. Face first, of course.

Weakly she pushed herself up, casting about for the ski poles. They had landed close by, and as she fumbled for them something caught her eye: a warm contrast against the frigid, grey landscape. There, at the edge of the clearing, was an honest to god cabin, with smoke puffing from the chimney and brightly lit windows shining like a beacon against the dark.

She’d made it.

Anna stumbled towards it, the tantalizing promise of warmth so close it made her whole body ache. The wind surged around her the closer she got, forcing Anna to swerve into it just to stay upright. She struggled up the stairs; leaning heavily on her poles. Leveraging herself onto the porch, she shuffled to the door, practically collapsing against it.

It was locked. No key under the mat where there should’ve been. Seriously? Anna let the ski pole dangle from her wrist as she raised her fist and brought it down heavily on the door. “Is anyone in there?” She called out. “Please I just need to get out of the storm!”

She couldn’t hear anything over the wind and no one came to the door.

Anna knocked again.

Nothing.

Anna continued knocking, and the blizzard grew stronger, as if it took personal offense to her presence.

There had to be someone in there— Anna was pounding on the door now. “Please open up! I promise I’m not a murderer or anything!” She winced. Great sell Anna, that definitely won’t creep them out, because real murderers never say that. “Please, I’m supposed to be staying in Kristoff’s cabin and this is the only one around, and I’m really going to freeze out here if you don’t—”

The door swung open and Anna almost toppled to the floor. She grabbed for her ski pole and braced it against the deck. A waft of warm air curled around her exposed face and Anna looked up to see who had come to the door.

Woah.

Okay so a model was using the cabin. Cool. Neat.

The woman who stood there looked like the poster child for Nordic beauty, with long, braided platinum hair and shocking blue eyes. She was dressed surprisingly light (or so Anna thought) in an oversized, cable knit sweater and black leggings, no socks. Anna guessed she was about her age, maybe a little older—possibly mid to late twenties.

The wind gave another disembodied wail, and Anna gestured inside. “Um, can I…?”

The woman stared at her, but after a beat stepped aside silently to allow her in.

Anna breathed a thank you as she trekked inside, basking with unspeakable relief in the heat and abrupt stillness from the absence of raging wind and snow. She turned around to find the other woman watching her from the door, leaning her back against it with one hand clasped around the knob. “So…who are you?”

“I believe I should be the one asking you that.”

The woman had a point, though Anna still wasn’t entirely sure whether or not this was the cabin she’d rented from Kristoff, and maybe he’d double booked it or something. She wouldn’t put it past him.

“Sorry— yeah, I’m Anna.” She gave her a big smile, but her companion remained poker-faced. “I rented a cabin from a guy named Kristoff Bjorgman, on Airbnb? He, uh, never mentioned I should expect snow, which seems like a pretty big oversight, all things considered.” She looked pointedly out the window.

The woman closed her eyes at that and sighed.

“I take it you know him?”

“Yes.”

“So…is this not his cabin then?”

“It is not.”

“Okay…”

The woman gave Anna a wide berth as she moved away from the door to the nearest window, peering out at the squall.

“You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t be here.”

“Well, yeah, of course I shouldn’t. I should be in my own cabin, the one I rented,” Anna said lightly, watching her reluctant hostess wring her hands. She seemed unduly nervous, even allowing that she’d been intruded upon by a stranger in the middle of nowhere.

“Could I…? I mean,” Anna let out a nervous little laugh, “you’re not going to make me go out in that and try to find my way in the dark right?”

She looked at Anna as if seeing her for the first time. The wind screamed, rattling the windows in their frames. “No… of course not.” She swallowed visibly. “I’ll…,” she gazed around the cabin as if it were the first time she was seeing that too, like Anna’s presence had thrown her whole life out of orbit and everything she knew was now foreign.

She took Anna in from head to toe— in all of her frozen, slowly melting glory. A trickle of thawed snow slipped down the back of Anna’s neck and she shuddered.

“You need to get warm,”she said gravely.

“Yes please,” Anna exhaled gratefully. “Um, sorry I still don’t know your name.”

“My name is Elsa.” She gestured over her shoulder. “I’ll run you a bath. You can leave your boots and jacket by the door.” With that, she was off down a hallway and out of sight.

“Thank you!” Anna called after her, quickly shedding her outer layers. Well, this wasn’t the worst development in the world.

Anna let out a dreamy sigh and sank lower in the tub. Steam drifted in lazy tendrils from the surface of the water and her eyelids were getting heavy. Before she fell asleep, Anna dragged herself from the bath and stuffed herself into her last two pairs of long thermal underwear. Elsa had graciously provided her a cable knit sweater and fleece joggers.

She came out of the bathroom and wandered into the living room just as Elsa finished tucking a sheet into the couch. She stacked an enormous pile of blankets on the cushions. “I would give you the bed, but I think you need the fire more. Hopefully it’s comfortable enough.” She looked up and stopped at the sight of Anna.

Anna ran a hand through her damp hair, suddenly nervous under Elsa’s attention. “I know, I look a little different when I’m not rocking the half-frozen rat look.”

Elsa’s lips curled faintly. “It’s not a bad different. And you’re not the worst half-frozen specimen I’ve seen.”

Anna chuckled. “Glad to hear it.” She collapsed onto the couch, sinking into the nest of blankets. Her body was utterly exhausted, but the physical exertion coupled with the muscle memory of getting warm after so much cold left her tingling pleasantly down to her bones. “Oh that’s nice.”

“There’s some hot chocolate, if you’d like.” Elsa indicated the steaming mug on the coffee table.

Anna almost lunged for it. She took a careful sip, and burned her tongue anyway. “Oh, you’re an angel.” For being so reticent to let Anna stay, Elsa was incredibly hospitable.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Elsa said. She turned to go but hesitated. “He really put his cabin on Airbnb?”

“Mhmm,” Anna hummed the affirmative as she took another gulp, watching Elsa’s face.

Elsa shook her head and murmured something that sounded like he should know better. “Perhaps he confused the dates.”

Again with the dates. It was starting to give her an inkling, like she’d wandered into an episode of the twilight zone. Her host was half way out of the room when Anna popped her head over the back of the couch. “Elsa?”

She turned back. “Yes?”

“Thank you, seriously. If I hadn’t found your cabin and you hadn’t let me in… I don’t know what would have happened.”

A look Anna couldn’t interpret passed over Elsa’s face. She nodded once. “Goodnight Anna. Sleep well.”

“Night,” Anna said to Elsa’s retreating back.

Elsa barely slept, too anxious and distressed by the foreign presence in her living room. There shouldn’t be anyone on this mountain right now, let alone someone a handful of meters away in her cabin. The night of tossing and turning, of pacing, had only made it worse and she was completely unsurprised, yet bitterly disappointed the next morning when she came into the kitchen and found the window half obstructed by snow. There was nothing she could do at this point to mitigate the storm.

They were trapped.

Elsa had no idea if Anna could survive the cold that was coming.

One coffee later Anna stumbled in, tousled and groggy. Elsa set a fresh filter in the carafe. “Good morning.”

“Is it?” Anna mumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She’d draped herself in a blanket, only her face peaking out. The effect was quite endearing, a little childlike, and Elsa reminded herself sharply that Anna was still a stranger, and her situation could soon be perilous.

“Well, you didn’t murder me in my sleep, so I think it could be worse.”

Anna cocked her head in confusion.

“You shouted yesterday while you were trying to knock my door down that you were not ‘a murderer or anything’,” Elsa clarified, pouring a steaming kettle over the coffee grounds.

Anna laughed sheepishly. “You heard that huh?”

Elsa allowed herself a small smile. “I did.”

“Well it’s true, I’m not.” She grinned, but it slipped off her face when she saw the window. “Oh my god, all that is from last night?”

Elsa clenched her jaw as Anna moved closer to it, gaping out over the white barricade to the sky furiously hurling snow. “Still coming down too…”

“Yes,” Elsa said tightly, pouring muesli into two bowls. “We won’t be able to leave the cabin until the storm is over.”

Anna sighed and sat down heavily in her chair. “There goes my deposit.”

After breakfast they gravitated towards separate activities. Anna returned to the nest of blankets on the couch and checked her phone, which was dwindling at 5% battery. When she asked about charging it Elsa informed her there was no electricity; the cabin was only equipped with a propane tank to heat the water, and power the stove and the fridge.

They were roughing it…sort of.

Elsa checked the cabin meticulously, fixing blankets over the windows for insulation, cataloguing her supplies, and lighting candles on practically every available surface.

It was quite cozy, and Anna was happy to doze intermittently while her body recovered from lingering jet lag and her frozen hike.

Conversation between them was sparse, but Anna put it down to Elsa’s clear anxiety over the state of things and decided not to take it personally.

—

Anna shuffled into the kitchen the next morning, wrapping Elsa’s thick wool cardigan across her chest, over the borrowed sweater. She stopped.

“Weren’t there five chairs here yesterday?”

“Hmm?” Elsa murmured absently while layering peppered salami on a tray next to a neat row of jarlsburg slices. Anna noticed she made sure to put the pickled herring with dill in a separate bowl; it turned out Anna was not a fan.

“The chairs,” Anna pointed to the empty side of the table. “Are we …missing some?”

Elsa glanced up at the breakfast nook as she plated a handful of rye slices. She turned to check on the potatoes boiling on the stove, brushing her hands on her apron. “I’m using them elsewhere.”

Anna shrugged and went to set the table. They only needed two after all.

By midday, Anna was getting a little antsy.

“If the snow wasn’t so high— and there wasn’t a raging blizzard, obviously— we could be building snowmen right now,” Anna said wistfully, holding aside the blanket to gaze out at the narrow strip of murky white sky. Only a few inches remained between the drift and the top of the window.

“I know!” Anna spun around. “Do you have any paper and something to draw with?”

Elsa looked baffled by the request, but retrieved a notebook and a couple of pencils for her. Anna tore out some blank pages, waving Elsa to sit down across from her. “Okay, so since we can’t go outside and build real snowmen, we can at least make some this way.” Elsa glanced from the paper to Anna, looking unconvinced. Anna shrugged. “We have to pass the time somehow right?”

“Alright.”

It took some doing at first; Elsa kept getting lost in the middle distance while she tapped her pencil anxiously against the table. With enough prodding from Anna though, she got into it and by the time dinner rolled around they had a small army of 2D snow people.

Anna’s second favorite was a delightfully monstrous snow creature Elsa had sketched with precise strokes and deft shading. Her first was undeniably goofy but charming; squat and awkwardly shaped, with big eyes and a bucktoothed grin. That one they’d made together, with Elsa illustrating while Anna directed her and offered suggestions.

They named him Olaf and Anna thought he was perfect.

After dinner they sat by the fire, sipping mulled wine Elsa heated for them on the stove. Anna was grateful for the added warmth and the pleasant buzz.

“It’s just so crazy you guys have a blizzard in July,” Anna said suddenly, voicing the thought that had been a constant, giant question mark. “Every year! What even is that?”

Elsa set her glass aside and leaned back in the chair, cradling her arms across her stomach. “It’s just something that happens here. Though, if it has to happen I think July is probably the best time.”

“How could summer be the right time for snow?”

Elsa shifted and bit her lip. “We already have harsh winters here, a snowstorm like this on top of that would be even more dangerous. Better one briefly interrupts July and then everyone has the rest of summer to enjoy, don’t you think?”

Anna could admit that sort of made sense. Still, it wasn’t any less weird.

—

On day three Anna was up to three sweaters, a blanket, and two pairs of sweat pants. Elsa was down to a fitted henley and jeans. She was beginning to wonder if Elsa would give her the last shirt off her back if it came to it, and that mental image got Anna flustered enough to feel like shedding layers instead of adding them.

She amused herself by exploring the cabin— at least, the areas that weren’t private. Elsa had a few intriguing nicknacks, but what captured Anna’s attention were the two bookcases next to the fireplace. Books of all kinds lined the shelves; in English, Norwegian, and other languages she couldn’t place. There were novels, and textbooks, and books so old she didn’t dare touch them.

Later, after Elsa had finished her bath, Anna persuaded her to read from one with a deep blue cover and silver leaf embossing. It was clear by the illustrations they were fairytales, though she couldn’t understand any of them. Anna quickly discovered she could listen to the smooth lilt of Elsa’s mother tongue forever, but before long her eyes had closed and the soft norwegian story trailed off with her consciousness.

When she woke, Elsa was still curled up in the armchair, reading silently. Anna stretched and plodded over to the fireplace. She grabbed the fire iron and prodded at the remaining wood, making sure it was all lit. One of the logs cracked and split in a pop of sparks, and something beneath it caught her eye. Anna leaned closer; it was oddly smooth and cylindrical, and just there was an intricately carved pattern like—

The chairs in the kitchen.

So that’s where they went.

Clearly Elsa had some strange immunity to the cold, and she hadn’t bothered to stockpile more wood for herself even though she new the storm was coming.

She’d been burning her own furniture to keep Anna warm.

Anna looked over at the woman, still completely absorbed by the book in her lap. Another small piece of the enigmatic puzzle that was Elsa fell into place; one that made Anna’s chest feel tight, and warm, and a little achy.

Elsa glanced up then and noticed her staring. She blinked. “What?”

Anna cleared her throat and stood up, brushing her hands on the back of her pants. It felt important to let Elsa have this secret. She put on a reassuring smile. “Nothing. Can I make you some hot chocolate?”

Elsa smiled. “Yes, please.”

That night Elsa actually joined Anna on the couch, curling into the opposite corner while they started their second glass of mulled wine.

“So why do you come up here all by yourself? And during weather like this, no less?”

Elsa’s lips twisted in a way that was difficult to read. “I’m not bothered by the cold,” she said, confirming the obvious. “And I’m not always good at being around other people.”

“You’re an introvert.”

“Yes, but it’s more than that.” Elsa swirled the wine in her glass. “After a while the world gets too loud and I need to be alone, completely. I come here to get away and try to let go of all the things that build up. All the reasons I can’t be…normal.”

Anna leaned her head back into the cushions, tilting her face towards Elsa. “Normal is overrated, and there’s nothing wrong with needing space. You gotta get those feelings out somehow.”

“Sometimes I think I feel too much.”

“Better than too little.”

Elsa hummed noncommittally. Anna could feel her starting to withdraw, and searched for some way to hold on to this unexpectedly open side of Elsa. “I think that was my ex’s problem.”

Elsa looked up. “Oh?”

“Yup,” she said, popping her lips on the ‘p’. “Too shallow. Took me a year to figure it out, and that was only as he was leaving me. It was a great reminder of why I prefer dating women,” she muttered into her glass.

She inhaled and continued past the bitterness. “It’s one of the reasons I made this trip actually— well that and the vet clinic where I work shutting down. A little hard to start your own practice in a big city that already has plenty. I guess I was feeling a little adrift, and my aunt and uncle always talked about showing me the place where they grew up, so I thought: why not? Though technically they’re from Fevik, not Arendal, but Fevik doesn’t have much to offer in the way of rentals.”

“Why would anyone leave you?”

Dammit. She was hoping Elsa wouldn’t focus too closely on her love troubles. Anna chuckled humorlessly. “When he broke up with me he said, and I quote: ‘Anna, you’re great, but you’re just too much’.”

She shrugged and took a liberal sip. It didn’t matter that Hans had casually flung her deepest insecurity in her face right before he walked out the door forever. Even if he hadn’t been the best partner, and she hadn’t been happy towards the end.

It was fine.

“You are a lot.”

Elsa quickly reached for her hand when she saw the look of hurt Anna couldn’t hide, surprising them both. For a moment it seemed like she might pull away, but she squeezed Anna’s hand instead. “I didn’t say you were too much. You are a lot of a good thing.” Elsa withdrew her hand and cupped it around her wine glass, staring into the burgundy liquid. “Some people don’t deserve that,” she finished quietly.

It must have been the alcohol sloshing in her stomach and the fumes muddying her brain that made Anna say, into a silence suddenly heavy with nebulous meaning: “Why do I feel like we’re not just talking about my ex anymore?”

Elsa sucked in a breath, as if she hadn’t realized her words would be so revealing. She set her glass down on the coffee table then tucked her feet under her, grabbing a pillow and holding it to her chest while she picked at the fringe.

Anna knew her brain had fully turned off her filter when her mouth continued to work, seemingly of its own volition. “Don’t you deserve good things Elsa?”

Elsa curled herself tighter around the pillow, her eyes seeking answers in the embers of their small fire. The cabin groaned as the storm surged around them. “I’m not sure I do,” she whispered.

Anna felt her heart break, just a little, at that soft admission.

“I think that’s bullshit.”

Elsa looked at her, startled. “You barely know me.”

Anna thought of chair legs and hot chocolate, of warm baths and borrowed clothes— of how she’d never experienced so much cold in her life, and she’d never felt so warm either. The way Elsa humored her, not because Anna was a burden or an obligation, but because she seemed to actually enjoy her company. “I think I know enough. And I’m sure anyone would be fantastically lucky to have you in their life. I know I am.”

“Why?”

“Well, for starters you saved me from freezing to death out there.”

Elsa shook her head. “You wouldn’t have been in danger of that if I—” she clamped her lips shut.

“If you what?”

“If I… had checked with Kristoff before he listed his cabin.”

Anna frowned. “That’s hardly your fault, Elsa. It was his mistake. Besides it’s not like you can control the weather.”

Elsa flinched. A thread pulled free from the pillow; she laid it carefully on the arm of the couch. “No… I suppose I can’t.”

“Hey.” Anna extended her leg across the couch and nudged the bottom of her foot against Elsa’s. “I’ve always wanted to experience getting snowed in. I’m glad it was with you.”

Elsa’s smile was bittersweet.

But still there, and Anna took that as a win.

They finished the rest of their wine in companionable silence as the fire burned down and the night grew deeper. Elsa got up to take the empty glasses to the kitchen.

“We’re out of wood.”

“What?” Elsa spun slowly to see Anna squatting by the fireplace. There was nothing left but ash. Elsa had been so distracted by Anna, the wine, and the conversation, that she’d forgotten to find more to salvage, and she’d left Anna without a source of heat.

This was what happened when Elsa wasn’t careful, when she wasn’t in control of herself —

“We should sleep together.”

Elsa nearly dropped the glasses.

“What?”

“Oh my g— n-no! Not like that!” Anna flushed scarlet. “I meant like, for warmth.” She pulled her blanket around herself and looked everywhere but at Elsa.

Elsa’s pulse slowed a fraction, and she tried to ignore the unexpected whisper of heat low in her stomach. It dissipated instantly when she registered what Anna was suggesting. “Anna, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’m not…I…I run quite cold, I’d probably make it worse—”

“Then I’ll just have to warm you up.” Anna stopped, her face burning again. “I meant like— oh whatever, you know what I mean.” She came and liberated the glasses from Elsa, setting them in the kitchen sink. Elsa protested weakly as Anna grabbed her hand and marched towards the bedroom, but it seemed she remained powerless to the force of nature that was Anna.

“Wait.” She tugged on Anna’s hand. “Let me at least get the blankets.”

While Anna got ready, Elsa layered back all the bedding she’d stripped away that first night, grateful Anna hadn’t commented on the fact that she’d been sleeping with nothing but a fitted sheet.

When Anna returned she quickly flung herself under the covers; Elsa climbed in reluctantly on the other side, staying as close to the edge as possible. After a minute Anna pushed the covers down and looked over at her.

“Okay, I’m not saying you have to spoon me, but it’s going to be a little difficult to share heat from way over there.”

Elsa bit her lip and slid closer, heart pounding. She felt like Anna was asking her to hand over a live grenade. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this close to anyone.

“Liiittle closer,” Anna coaxed. Elsa got as close as she dared, still leaving about 20 centimeters of space between them. She drew up the covers more securely, trying to insulate Anna against the cold, against her. As she tucked another blanket around them, her hand brushed Anna’s arm.

Anna shivered. “Geez you’re cold.” She latched onto her wrist before Elsa could react, pulling her closer. “You must be freezing,” she muttered, running her palm back and forth over Elsa’s forearm.

Elsa was frozen; her whole body had gone rigid, while her heart had leaped into her throat. Anna had pulled her closer as if that would bring them heat, and now she was worried about Elsa being warm enough. The irony was excruciating. But Anna’s grip was strong, and Elsa felt a twisted flair of hope; that perhaps, just this once, she might be capable of more than cold.

Anna shuffled back drowsily into her arms and Elsa held her breath, waiting for the worst. Minutes went by and nothing happened; Anna sank into the pillow with a sigh, still holding onto her. Tentatively, Elsa began to relax, as fragile hope turned to wonder.

Anna hadn’t turned away.

At every turn Anna had been reaching out, even when Elsa was reserved, or anxious, or closed off. Anna kept drawing her out, kept intriguing and surprising her.

Anna had felt the cold, her cold, and she reached for Elsa anyway.

In that moment it didn’t matter that Anna wasn’t aware of the whole truth— yet, because after the last few days with this woman, Elsa was confident that Anna wouldn’t have done a thing differently.

The last thing Elsa knew was a soft snore, and the feel of Anna against her, and then she knew nothing else.

—

The first thing Elsa became aware of, was warmth. Heavy warmth, and a body in her arms, and breath on her neck. She inhaled slowly, soaking in each incredible, hazy sensation. It took a few moments for Elsa’s brain to remember who was in bed with her, and who it was nuzzling closer with a sweet sigh. Her pulse jump started, and for once, not out of fear. It seemed Anna was fine—more than, in fact— and Elsa was greedy for every last moment before the inevitable.

After a few minutes the spell broke as Anna stirred groggily, pressing her face into the pillow with a murmur. One eye opened and landed on Elsa. It grew wider when Anna realized just how close they were and she quickly disentangled herself, cheeks flushed bright red. “Oops, sorry, I uh, I can be a little clingy when I share a bed.”

Elsa struggled with the near physical ache begging her to pull Anna back to her arms, a sensation as terrifying as it was foreign, as baffling as it was undeniable. “It’s alright,” she said softly, her own face feeling a little hot.

She watched Anna hop out of bed and go to the window to throw open the curtains, seemingly more out of habit than anything else.

Anna gasped. “No. Way. Elsa! You have to see this—you’re not gonna believe it!”

Elsa frowned and joined her apprehensively at the window. She peered out, and lost her breath.

Nearly all the snow was gone.

Only a thin layer remained on the ground, melting under the bright sunlight. Large swathes of grass were showing, triumphant and sparkling in the fading frost.

Anna bumped her hip against Elsa’s. “Isn’t this great?! We can go outside! We can stock up on supplies, I can wear my clothes again— not that I don’t like yours— Oh, we could have a picnic! Kristoff said there was a lake nearby, I wonder if Oaken has a boat…“

Anna continued spouting ideas as she left the room, and Elsa registered distantly that all Anna’s haphazard plans involved her. The sharp little anxiety at the thought of having to say goodbye died before it could take root.

Elsa remained at the window, dazed and transfixed by the landscape that had been altered so drastically overnight.

Or perhaps, had been four days in the making.

Anna rushed back in, finally having realized Elsa wasn’t following her. She grabbed Elsa by the hand and led her outside, where they came to a stop in the grass just past the porch. They stood, absorbing the sunlight, the gentle breeze and the birdsong. Anna still had ahold of her hand, and Elsa was content to keep it there for as long as she’d let her.

The sun blazed forth from behind a passing cloud, and Anna shaded her eyes with her free hand. “It seems like that freak storm really has passed huh?”

A smile pulled at Elsa’s lips and she looked up into the vivid blue sky. “So it would seem.”

#elsanna #submission #June 2021 contest #prompt: storm

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