#i have given up polishing/colouring art at the moment

[lumiink]

the girls are gossiping~

a cheeky sneak peak of a drawing i'm working on which is part of next chapter of my fic, but i was just too pleased with how my ladies turned out to hold onto it!

#(left to right) #Lianzhu #Chunchun #Dianshui #OCs #til our compass stands still by edenwolfie #i have given up polishing/colouring art at the moment #just enough to even try to draw #so it is what it is #lumiink originals

[theladyofbloodshed]

Part 6 - Azriel's leash is snapping

The precious sanctuary that they had cultivated withered with each nervous inhale.

Lucien’s face had faltered slightly when Nesta peeled back the door. He smoothed down his forest green cloak, shifting slightly on his polished boots.

‘I wondered if we could speak – at your convenience. Here. Elsewhere.’

Nesta let the moment drag on and on until her mind was screaming at her to do something rather than be this statue.

‘Very well.’

She held the door open for him. The male entered stiffly, quickly clocking Azriel also stood like a statue against one wall.

‘You’ve allowed the winter in,’ he commented at the sight of the living room windows wide open and the smattering of snow entering through them.

Azriel’s fingers had enclosed around Truth-Teller. She gave a subtle shake of her head. No, they did not need to dispatch her sister’s mate.

‘Would you like tea?’

Lucien’s eyes canvassed the gathering area; Azriel’s maps with notes scrawled on in his cramped handwriting spread across the table, his casual clothes and lack of shoes, his ruffled hair, her own dishevelled state including a dress that wasn’t laced up properly. The clever fox had earned his reputation.

Nesta kept her eyes on the pot, face scorching more with every passing moment.

‘Teaching Nesta the art of espionage?’

‘Trade routes to the Continent. I’m borrowing her knowledge,’ came the flat, almost bored reply.

Why now? Why Lucien? Nesta racked her brain for any misstep that might have given Lucien cause to suspect them.

‘How do you take your tea?’

‘A splash of milk if you have it.’

Nesta’s hand trembled as she poured milk into two cups. She had just scooped sugar into a heap ready to add it to Azriel’s cup when he said, ‘Sugar for me too, please.’

Right. He was also a guest. She shouldn’t be so familiar with the way he takes his tea. She dumped the sugar into her own – though she hated her tea sweet – then made a show of adding it to Azriel’s and asking if that amount was enough. The males stood at opposite ends of the living room. Lucien smiled placidly, gazing up at the cracked paint on the ceiling while Azriel had walled himself away with shadows. He seemed to be considering whether to leap out of the windows he had just closed.

‘Please sit.’

The red-haired male quirked his lips. The harsh scar that slashed down his face twinged from the motion. ‘Is there a surface that’s safe to do so?’

The colour in Nesta’s face deepened. She had likely turned purple. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘It reeks of sex in here. Is there anywhere in this apartment that you haven’t fucked on?’

Lucien seemed amuse by it – but Azriel’s face told a different story. He swept in front of Nesta, expression severe.

‘Enough vulgarity. Don’t speak that way in front of a female.’

The firelight shone in Lucien’ eyes as he settled in the chair. Every now and then he fought back a grin. Azriel had shown his cards. Nesta felt as if her armour was cracking. It hadn’t ever been something she had wanted to hide – she had never been ashamed of Azriel – but now that it was out in the open, it would be examined. Sensing her anxiety, Azriel moved. Just moved to her. He sat beside her on the couch, knees knocking together. His hand sought her own to give a comforting squeeze. Hazel eyes were trained on Lucien, but the shadows that usually fought his battles remained gently swimming around the pair of them protectively.

‘It’s not my business,’ Lucien said at last, leaning forward to retrieve his tea. ‘And certainly not the reason I sought you ought. You’re adults. Your decisions are yours to make.’

He smiled again. It lacked the amusement or sarcasm of his others; this one was genuine. His eyes landed on their hands. Azriel still clasped Nesta’s with his own rather than abandoning her at the first sign of trouble.

‘I should have liked to have spoken to you privately.’

‘Is it about Elain?’

The mere mention of her name hollowed out Lucien’s joy. ‘No. About you.’

The male weighed his options. Azriel was not in any hurry to depart – nor did Nesta want him to. Acknowledging that, he took a long gulp from his tea.

‘There is movement from the mortal queens. Briallyn – the one who willingly entered the Cauldron – has been vocal in her desire to seek revenge against you.’

Nesta wanted to ask what she had done – but she knew. When she had clawed at the heart of the Cauldron, she had made it bleed. In its wounded form, it had struck out at Briallyn, turning her into a crone for eternity.

The grip on her fingers tightened. ‘You’ve told Rhys?’

Lucien’s eyes ticked between them. ‘I decided to inform Nesta directly firstly then I will head to the Rive House.’ His words were measured carefully. ‘I wanted you to know the truth rather than a censored version.’

This male was decent, Nesta decided. For coming to her with the truth rather than letting Feyre and Rhysand pick and choose what Nesta was allowed to hear, he was decent – more than decent.

‘Thank you, Lucien. You are a good male.’

He had more information on Vassa’s keeper that he shared with Azriel. She had been held by a sorcerer at a lake. Other females remained trapped there as swans. The signs pointed to Briallyn colluding with him to exact her revenge on Nesta. His name was Koschei – and they called him deathless.

Not even a single shadow gave away Azriel’s feelings. His expression had not altered from its blank mask. The only tell were the feelings that brushed her skin as if they were in an orbit around her, always gentle, always comforting. It reminded Nesta of an agitated cat swishing its tail.

On his departure, Lucien’s eyes swept over them. ‘Far be it from me to cast judgement, but I believe that love tends to flourish in the light. After the war, I found happiness in an unexpected place and I am glad not to be the only one.’

At the click of the front door closing, Nesta’s body had turned boneless. Nausea lashed her stomach in churning waves.

Azriel’s arms came around her, rocking her slightly against her lean body.

‘Nobody will ever lay a finger on you. Not Briallyn, not Koschei. Nobody hurts you,’ he vowed, pressing his lips to her temple.

She knew his vow was true. Azriel protected what mattered to him. A queen out for revenge was not the reason why her heart still quaked.

‘They will all know soon.’

‘Lucien will not speak.’

How could Azriel say those words with such certainty? Nesta squeezed her eyes shut, burrowing her face into his neck. Trouble was coming their way.

‘No matter the storm, we will weather it together, Nesta.’

***

Tearing himself away from Nesta was difficult. Lucien, at least, had given them a warning, so when Rhys summoned him, they were ready. Azriel had untangled himself from Nesta in the bed, showered and pulled on fresh clothes from the drawer she had provided for him. He’d had to say a farewell without a kiss and hated it. Hated the farce of his dance as if they were doing something wrong, the dance to ensure their secret was kept. Hated to leave Nesta when she was in danger. Hated the fact he couldn’t shout from the rooftops that Nesta Archeron was his.

Azriel listened again to Lucien’s words – the exact ones he had shared with them a couple of hours earlier. Azriel perhaps needed to monitor Vanserra a little more closely as he gave no indication of his earlier activity, not mentioning Nesta’s apartment at all or that he’d even seen her. Maybe all of Beron’s sons had rigid defences to survive.

‘Give it time to develop,’ Rhys said at long last. ‘See if the queen comes out into the open then we can target her.’

It made sense but it made Azriel’s heart clench. Feyre said the words he was forbidden from saying himself.

‘And Nesta?’

‘Until we’re sure of the threat, she doesn’t need to be warned.’

A nod from Feyre and Cassian. Lucien kept his face neutral from years of practice. His shadows swarmed around him, outraged on Nesta’s behalf and that Lucien had been correct. Nesta would not received the intel that concerned her.

‘If Velaris is breached?’

‘It won’t be,’ Rhys replied to Amren, his snarl enough of an indicator that the accusation stung.

‘It has been,’ Azriel replied coolly. ‘More than once.’

Nesta had no wards around her building, no method of defending herself. There were elderly fae and children living in her building too who would all be at risk.

‘My city-’

‘Koschei is a death god. He will find no trouble with our wards if he wants to press,’ Azriel cut across.

‘We should tell Nesta,’ said Cassian. ‘She might want to move back here where it’s safer, so we can protect her.’

There was an agenda within his words. Terrify Nesta so that she’d come running back. Azriel pushed down his curses, pushed down his wrath that Cassian was already seeking a way to have Nesta closer rather than worrying for her wellbeing. Pushed down on the truth that Nesta was not ready for the world to know.

‘I’m inclined to agree,’ Feyre said. ‘If she finds out we’ve kept it from her, she’ll be furious.’

Across the room, Lucien gave him a knowing look. Their worry wasn’t for Nesta’s safety. It was for the anger she’d express. A shadow stroked against his neck, reminding him to keep calm.

‘We make her train her magic. She’s spent long enough festering in her hovel. It’s time she seized her abilities, Rhysand,’ said Amren, fingers clasping together. ‘With you and I training her powers, Nesta could be a force to be reckoned with.’

‘Nesta is not a weapon.’

It was rare for Azriel to ever take that tone with Amren – one laced with a final warning. The others knew it. Eyes turned to him warily.

‘Nesta is not your weapon. She did enough, gave enough, during the war. She deserves protection no matter where she lives or what she does.’

A part of him was forced to face an ugly truth: their love was conditional based upon usefulness. Especially where Nesta was concerned.

‘And we should let her fade away, wasting her powers, drinking herself silly like at the restaurant last Autumn?’

Lucien beat him to it, striking the iron before he could. ‘She didn’t drink a drop on Solstice. I visited recently to ask about her father’s business. It’s clean and tidy. She has employment. Just because she doesn’t work for you, does not mean she’s not living a worthwhile life.’

Gratitude flooded Azriel for Lucien giving voice to what he couldn’t. The lie was so smooth that Azriel wouldn’t have caught it otherwise. But a part of him hated that Nesta needed to be defended. Elain had struggled for months in Velaris; her every need had been tended to by a protective older sister who wouldn’t let a bad word be said about her. Even Feyre, when she first came to the Night Court, had been shy and bruised, but given ample time to recover. The same chance was never offered to Nesta who had suffered just as much, if not more. Now that Azriel realised it, his blood was boiling.

‘Put it to a vote,’ suggested Mor.

There were three who voted against informing Nesta and an equal number who voted in support. Azriel abstained, barely leashing his fury.

‘Break the tie, Az,’ Mor pleaded.

‘You act like it’s a decision about choosing a bottle of wine rather than Nesta’s life.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not voting.’

‘Fetch your other sister, Feyre,’ said Amren.

‘I’m not staying for this shit.’ Azriel stood. He spared a glance to his high lady. She might have voted to inform Nesta, but Feyre was more loyal to her court than blood. More loyal to Rhys than her sister. Nesta would never be a priority. She would continue to be punished for what she didn’t do as a child – an account that all came from Feyre’s perspective which they had all taken at face value and never questioned.

‘Az, where are you going?’ Mor caught him on the way out with an arm, brown eyes pleading for him to stay a little longer. ‘Where do you stay? We miss you here.’

‘I stay where I’m meant to be.’ Azriel winnowed out of her grasp.

Back at the apartment, Nesta had a pie in the oven, potatoes boiling in a pan, clothes hanging up to dry – his included – and the entire home was neat. The question bubbled on his tongue as she rose from the table where she worked to slink her arms around him.

‘I’m going to ask you something. You can’t get angry – that’s my only condition. You do not have to answer it. If you say no, we close that chapter and never look at it again.’

Nesta drew back so that she could examine him with a dizzying intensity. Her grey eyes were like the clouds that warned of an incoming storm. Azriel had always loved the rain.

‘Those years in poverty, why didn’t you hunt?’ He kept his voice as tender as he could manage.

Her brow furrowed. ‘How?’

‘How?’ He echoed.

‘Feyre spent the last of our coins on a bow. We couldn’t afford another. I don’t know how she learnt. I spent my life educated by tutors in preparation to make an advantageous match in marriage. I’m not brave or a fighter. More than anything, I wanted my weak-willed father to get off his backside and support his daughters like a father should.’

Pieces of a puzzle clicked into place: Nesta’s sudden stop as she entered the dining room on Solstice, the massive portrait hanging up of her father, and the lack of her own. How gut-wrenching it must have been to see her father favoured over her.

‘When Feyre returned to Prythian, to that mountain, my father did not even say goodbye to her. He’d hosted a ball, trying to get her married to a rich suitor, and spent her final day locked in his study counting the jewels that Tamlin had gifted her.’

Azriel held her soft body tightly. He knew that anger; it smouldered in his own veins like a hot coal about his own beginnings.

‘You cooked what Feyre caught.’ Nesta was a traditional female. She had insisted on cooking instead of the twin wraiths when they had first been turned, citing that she didn’t know them and didn’t trust them. Neither Feyre or Elain could cook, and Azriel doubted a mortal male who had been a powerful merchant knew either. She cooked, cleaned, scrubbed clothes and ironed them around the apartment. Nesta had even mended a tear in one of his shirts with neat sewing skills. Not once had Azriel ever seen the house in disarray. Whenever he moved to sweep the ashes of the fire, Nesta had already done it. She woke early every day, leaving him in bed to make tea or breakfast for them. ‘Why didn’t you say all the things you did do?’

A mirthless laugh left her lips. ‘I shouldn’t have to atone for what I didn’t do as a child. Everybody had already formed their opinion of me before they met me besides.’

It was unfair of Feyre to tell her story of a young girl forced to hunt to feed her family but neglect to mention how Nesta had carried the household. No mortal girl would have been able to carry a buck alone, let alone prepare it. Not one of them had given Nesta a chance. No matter what she did in the war, Rhys would never forgive her for not hunting too.

‘You are wonderful. I am so thankful you came to the restaurant that night.’

Her eyes widened. ‘When I lost my sanity, you mean?’

Azriel kissed her, savouring every moment of it. ‘You lost your sanity.’ Another kiss. ‘I gained mine.’ Another kiss. ‘I don’t think I will ever tire of kissing you.’

She smiled then and it was so beautiful. Those real smiles were like sunlight, warming every part of him.

'I want you to meet somebody. Somebody special.'

Her hands pressed against his crotch, mischief now spreading across her face.

'No,' he laughed, keeping Nesta's hand still. 'I want you to meet my mother.'

@mis-lil-red

#nesta vs the buffer #nezriel

[steamberrystudio]

11/07/2021 Devlog

Hey everyone! Time for our bi-weekly (sometimes tri-weekly) update to tumblr!

Summary:

More Maggie corrections

Pushed Caissa out for beta testing

Some Caissa corrections

Finished Lance flowcharts

Finished Jack's flowcharts

Wrote the Guides for Jack and Lance

Made corrections to Caissa's route

Corrected Magnus' route

Pushed out Jack and Lance's routes for beta testing

Completed 3 Ari CGs/CG sets

Completed 2 Caleb CGs/CG sets

Completed 1 Caleb mini-CG

Completed 1 Magnus CG set

Completed 1 Jack CG

Imported and coded most of these CGs

FINALLY coded the ending screens in

Planning for Quill's route

The Ramble:

Hey everyone! So since my last update, I finished up all the flowchart remakes and coded the remaining charts. I wrote up the basic guides for Jack and Lance's routes, then pushed those routes out for testing after making corrections to routes already out for testing.

With flowcharts done I've been working on CGs and got quite a few of them done this week. Though I don't expect to keep up that pace.

Some of the ones I completed this week were already partially completed for one. And, of course, some CGs are just more complicated than others.

I'm actually trying to not get all the easy ones out of the way first because I don't want to leave myself with a bunch of difficult ones to do. I want to be able to alternate between tricky and easy.

That said, a couple of the ones I did this week were a little on the easier side so that's part of why I got so many done.

CGs are currently around 40% complete based on how many I expect to have in the released base game.

I also got most of the new CGs coded which maybe doesn't seem like a big deal but given how much more complicated anything with Morgan is...

Is actually a big deal. LoL

A lot more work goes into the Morgan CGs than the others as far as the saving of the files and the set up so I'm proud to have just gotten them all coded successfully too.

Toward the end of the week I took a break from CGs and worked on some writing. I still have to solidify the synopses for Reuben, Yuu, and Quill. Particularly Quill.

Quill is the least planned and is also proving the most difficult. I know the general idea of where I want his route to go but I'm having difficulty putting all the pieces together. There are a lot of possible ideas that I can work in but it can be difficult to know what fits, what needs to be tossed, and what the progression of events will be.

I talked to a friend about it yesterday and kind of smoothed some aspects out, then today was able to solidify a few other elements. So I think I'll get the general flow of events and antagonist motivations worked out soon.

I'll be able to write up his basic synopsis and then from there, I'll work on everyone's scene-by-scene synopsis so the routes are ready to go as far as writing goes.

Sneak Peeks and Previews:

(CG sneakpeeks will always show Morgan's default colours, but her customisation is reflected in the CGs in game.)

Upcoming Weeks:

CGs, corrections, and maybe some route planning/writing.

While there are still a lot of little polishing things I need to get done (some non-CG or sprite art assets, SFX, glossary, etc), the last remaining BIG thing is getting all the CGs completed. Overall, the base game with the original six LIs is about 90% complete.

I've reconciled myself to the fact that each route is going to need 7 CGs or "CG sets" instead of the 5 I promised. The routes are just too long and there are too many key moments for 5 to be sufficient.

This is more work for me but I knew from the start it would likely be 7 and not 5 for this game.

And for Heaven's sake, I'm counting a set of CGs that illustrate a single important moment as ONE CG. 😒

I'm not counting it as two CGs because Magnus opens his eyes in one CG, resulting in two CGs that are almost identical except his eyes.

I realised this week how much I was stressing over whether or not to add those sorts of variations because people had complained in Changeling about some characters having "more CGs" than others due to these kinds of variations - despite that each route had either 5 or 6 CG moments illustrated regardless how many gallery slots they had in the CG gallery.

It occurred to me that something so petty should not be causing me to stress out so much about this kind of thing.

Anyway, I'll see you all in a couple of weeks!

#upcoming game #otome #amaregame #oelvn #english visual novels #gilded shadows #updates

[creativeashproductions]

When Fate Intervenes // Luke Patterson

IN WHICH: Fate intervenes with a trio of musicians on the night that was supposed to be legendary. Fate puts the reader with a special ability that may or may not be able to save them. Fate puts a clairvoyant, an accidentally upsized pizza and thirteen year old oddly obsessed with a rock band.

Warnings: Swearing, food poison, death, and fluff

Words: 2.8k

A/N: Time to get rid of some fic ideas from my TOO LONG of a list. It’s Julie fault, she keeps encouraging each fic idea I tell her.

TO BE TAGGED SEND AN INBOX/ASK PLEASE!

Masterlist

The Orpheum, 1995

The line up comprised of countless girls wearing homemade band shirts for the new band performing. Your little sister, at thirteen years old, had pleaded for weeks if not three months to go watch it. It was odd since she was more in the pop scene than the rock music. Your parents would never let her go to the rock show at night, so it was you or no show. It took a promise of doing your chores for an entire month and her dessert for two months. That was why you stood beside Harper among the fangirls while you clicked through the camera you’d saved up for years.

“I’m so excited.” Harper buzzed dancing on your feet as the time on her watch dwindled down more and more.

Your eyes flitted from the screen to the ball of energy you called your little sister, “I can tell. Which one do you have a crush on?”

“Reggie. He’s the bassist and so fucking-sorry freaking cool.” Harper gushed, “A good portion of the fans are obsessed with the lead singer Luke. Bobby is the rhythm guitarist, and he’s a ladies man, but he’s sweet about it.”

“And you’d know that how?” You questioned letting go of the camera around your neck. Your e/c eyes meeting her matching pair of irises; well yours were a bit more vibrant.

“I just know.” Harper retorted before beaming as she roughly poked the pin she’d made herself, “This represents all of them. Red for Reggie’s plaid shirt he always has, orange for Bobby’s love of oranges, yellow for Luke’s energy and pink for Alex because he loves the colour!”

The pin had their band design with Sunset Curve on it with the words outlined with a sunset made up of red, orange, yellow and pink just as Harper had pointed out. By far, it was her best work, but that was expected from an art student at Los Feliz High School. An art school for artists and performers. You attended for photography and creative writing just as Harper attended for art.

“That might be your best work Harps.” You complimented your little sister who shivered in the cool night breeze. You didn’t even think about tugging off your warm jacket to place on her shoulders.

You’d rather be cold than your little sister no matter how much you fought with each other, the Y/L/N siblings had each other’s backs no matter what.

“Thanks.” Harper murmured, leaning closer, “So do I meet Reggie?”

Your eyes widened slightly at her subtle goading to a part of your life was cinematic. It was a piece of you that very few people knew about, only your parents and Harper. Like most of the women in your paternal lineage, you carried the ability to foresee events in the future. A clairvoyant.

“Harper!” You scolded the young teenager who blatantly was just over-excited to see the band she’d been talking about constantly.

Harper’s cheeks turned a cherry blossom pink under the crappy lighting from the marquee sign. Even in the light, you noticed the changes in her face as she matured into a young woman, her cheeks while still full didn’t have that baby cheek look now. You saw a stubborn zit that you could see under the makeup that didn’t entirely match her skin tone. It caused an ache in your heart to know that soon she’d have the experience of heartbreak.

“Sorry!”

“You told me these guys are my age. Need I remind you that you are thirteen? If anyone older than thirteen makes an advance I’ll put my softball skills to the test.” You sternly informed the shorter girl with the pout that screamed rebellion, “Just be a kid Harps.”

“Like you said Y/N, I’m thirteen. I’m not a kid anymore.” Harper dropped the attitude to adopt a more mature soft tone. You could see the tinge of sadness in her eyes at losing the part of life where it was easy.

“I know. I can wish you’ll stay that annoying little kindergartener that stole my clothing.” You chuckled, “You’ll always be the Stephanie to my DJ.”

The two Y/L/N siblings momentarily glanced around before hugging as quickly as possible, they still had reputations to uphold. Had you been actually paying attention, you and Harper would have noticed the commotion from the people behind you.

As you and Harper had the sweet moment, the very band performing had raced out the alley into the street. What brought you back to the surroundings was the pizza boy delivering the pizza box to you. 

“Wait, we ordered a small!” You exclaimed finding the boy holding an extra-large pizza. You only received a shrug in response with the right change given back. 

Two things happened with this food mistake, you didn’t have to pay more than what you actually ordered, and you still got the larger pizza. However, the Orpheum didn’t allow outside food, meaning you’d have to force-feed yourself all the pizza or trash more than half. 

“We could shar-” Harper was cut off as a blinding white light became your focal point. Harper knew what was happening by the specific groan coming from your lips.

A nauseating scent of cheap meat, gas and chemicals flooded your sense of smell in the dingy alleyway. It was nighttime with a few people in the general vicinity with a dilapidated table and mismatched chairs on the walls’ edge. A poorly made sign with Sam & Ella’s and going by the vendor selling the hot dogs the name fit. Sam & Ella sounded like salmonella.

From a distance, you couldn’t quite hear the conversation between three male teens, but you had a bad feeling. They all migrated to a ratty couch that had been better days, a rat wouldn’t even crawl on it you swore.

The first boy had slicked back hair with rosy cheeks you dubbed innocent and cute that juxtapositioned his rocker attire. He had polished black leather shoes, pleather if his choice of food was an indication, a leather jacket and a red plaid shirt around his waist. His attention focused on the two guys beside him. In the middle, the boy had the blue hood of his sweater pulled over his messy brown hair as if hiding. Nothing stood out about him, and it seemed like that was intentional. On the other side, the last one was the tallest with his blonde hair hidden by the backwards black hat. A distressed dark grey jean jacket open to proudly display his pink hoodie. Each one wearing black pants and adorning rings.

“This is awesome, you guys. We’re playing the Orpheum!” The middle boy joyfully spoke head in the clouds instead of the questionable surroundings. He arguably had the loveliest smile you had ever seen, and his friends had nice smiles at that as well.

Yet even if this hadn’t taken place, however, it still felt like you were intruding on something incredibly private, “Why am I being shown this?”

Your question went unsurprisingly unanswered.

“I can’t even count how many bands have played here! And then ended up being huge!” He happily sunk into the back of the couch, thinking of all the bands he had CDs to in his room, “We’re gonna be legends!”

“Oh.” You breathed as you caught a whiff from the boys that quickly gave you the understanding of why you saw this. You could only smell what you had dubbed as death, the scent unchanging from the first time you’d encountered it.

The death stench accompanied a clairvoyant vision if the object of your vision was sick or about to die. The first time you encountered, it was a vision of two cars colliding, the sound of shattering glass and crunching metal, the scent of burning flesh overpowering the milder stench. The next morning school was cancelled after a teacher died in a car accident on the way to work.

“Eat up, boys. ’Cause after tonight, everything changes.” The only vocal one continued with his two friends silently listening. The trio toasted their food together.

“No!” You exclaimed as each boy took a bite. You held your breath, hoping that the inevitable in the vision wouldn’t occur.

Unfortunately, it was right away the warning appeared. The blonde one the most affected, “That’s a new flavour.”

“Chill, man. Street dogs haven’t killed us yet.” The leather jacket guy proudly spoke, the least one concerned. 

Even the guy in the middle was concerned but ultimately continued eating.

“Stop it!” You shouted, but it was no use. As with every vision, you had the potential to stop it from coming true, but while in the vision, you couldn’t interact with the people or surrounding. No matter how much you wanted to slam the food out of their hands.

But one thing sends shivers down your spine. The one in the middle made direct eye contact with you. Something that had never happened before nor to any previous clairvoyants. He kept eye contact as he slowly grew sicker and sicker.

The three boys had no chance as the ambulance rushed to the alleyway to save them. The paramedics weren’t as quick as the vendors who’d already packed and fled to protect their own hides.

You watched as the paramedics did everything in their power to save the young teenagers with everything possible. Just like Luke sang in their last song, the boys felt the darker version of an electric hammer to the heart. The clocks freezing in place as they each took their last breathe in the oddest of deaths. You saw the blonde guy die painfully first before followed by the formerly hooded one, the terrified cries of the last one haunting your phantom ears.

How did three healthy teenagers die on the same night of the exact nature within minutes of each other without one surviving? Maybe it had something to do with the hot dogs chilling in the liquid that was a cesspool of bacteria compounded with tained condiments from battery acid.

You roughly came out of the vision shaking and pale-faced frantically scanning the surroundings. Harper had a grip on the extra large pizza box while the other tightly held yours to ground you in the present.

“Are you okay?” Harper softly questioned with the panic hidden inside her body. Harper knew that this vision had been one of the bad ones. The haunted look in your eyes hinting towards death in the near future.

“We need to go.” You frantically replied, grabbing the pizza that would hopefully have a hand in saving three hopeful teens.

Your gym teacher would be proud of the distance diminished and speed you kept towards the area that would further shatter you. Foreseeing death and sometimes unable to stop it always had a nasty impact on you. 

“Where are we going?” Harper yelled, “We’ll miss the doors opening!”

“We’ll miss them if we don’t hurry up!” You shouted back at the disgruntled little sister but at the moment that didn’t matter. 

What mattered was three hungry teenagers about to gorge themselves on death dogs if you didn’t make it in time. It appeared for the first time you’d actually manage to stop the deaths, unlike the previous three times. 

“-tonight. Everything changes.” The chill-inducing rasp helped navigate you to the disgusting couch. Your cold hand slammed the hotdog from the blonde’s hand, the shocked reaction halting the other two.

“Don’t...eat...it.” You heaved bending over at the waist to catch your breath. Wheezing sounded from your little sister as the running and seeing her favourite band up close settled.

“Excuse me! I paid for that hotdog!”

“You’d be buying yourself death literally. Your dreams of playing the Orpheum would be extinct.” You sighed, chugging the water from the pocket of Harper’s backpack for a few seconds before the owner took it back.

“Okay, look I don’t know how you found us but-”

“You don’t have to believe me ’cause I sure as hell wouldn’t have but don’t jeopardize your dreams. Look my little sister wanted to see your show so I brought her and we ordered a pizza. They fucked up the order by giving us an extra-large pizza. We’ll barely eat a quarter of it, and the venue is strict on the rules.” You rambled using tour hands to elaborate the story before Harper roughly elbowed your ribs, “Ow!”

“Oops.” Harper faked a sugar-sweet smile for your benefit as the interaction with the three musicians slowly dove into embarrassment.

“-sorry. You’d be doing us a favour by not wasting our money and food. What do you say?” You hesitantly asked the trio who didn’t speak vocally; their eyes meeting in a silent conversation.

Reggie sighed as he begrudgingly dropped his hotdog in the bin near the couch, “Pizza outranks street dogs even if the dogs are heaven and to die for.”

“Literally.” You grumbled forcefully pushing the obscenely large pizza box into the middle one’s stomach, “I’m Y/N, this is my little sister Harper.”

“Hi.” Harper shyly waved with cheeks turning a dust pink concealed by the dark of the alleyway. The boys’ lips all quirked at the sudden contrast from the confident sister slamming her elbow in you to the bashful teen.

“I’m Luke. This is Reggie and Alex.” The hooded one, Luke, introduced his bandmates as best he could with his hands occupied by the pizza box.

Without the threat of death by the hot dog, you actually took the time to look at Luke with appraising eyes. His eyes were like oceans of blues, greens and even a brown that both exhilarated you; the desire of studying them not surprising. His smile outshone the sun on the hottest day in August.

“Nice to meet you.” You informed the trio with a beaming smile that matched your starstruck little sister. The interaction gave you the opportunity for immense and untiring future teasing on the teen that daydreamed of the bassist. 

You had to admit the trio were incredibly attractive.

“Come back to the dressing room. We can eat there out of the cold.” Alex courteously invited the two formerly strangers. His blues sharing his pure intentions to repay you for saving their lives and offering pizza. 

“Of course.” Harper nodded her head with her eyes barely meeting the ones of the boys. The shell was broken when Reggie piped up.

“That’s a really cool pin! Where’d you find it?”

Gated Community, Los Angeles, 2002

An off-tune humming filled the modestly sized home in the suburbs of Los Angeles, California with the sound of water splashing. Doing the dishes was a mindless chore that typically didn’t bother you, but the pain in your lower back protested. You’d have used the dishwasher, but the thing was perpetually breaking down. Didn’t seen essential to replace when washing dishes by hand was just as productive.

Or it was when you didn’t have the extra weight in your midsection, a symbol of your love with your husband. In fact, you would have avoided doing dishes if you hadn’t just used the last clean plate and glass at breakfast plus Luke hadn’t been home in the previous week.

Sunset Curve had gone on a press tour for the upcoming album and tour planned for next year.

“Oof.” You moaned as the little rascal once more hit your bladder, “Are you breaking electric guitars in there?”

“Not a soccer player?”

“With you as their father? Not likely.” You snorted as the sudden appearance of Luke became clear. You hadn’t been expecting him, “I missed you. We missed you.”

As had it since you first told him Luke’s warm hand came to rest on the front of your swollen belly. In a short month, you’d be cradling the newest member of the Patterson family with Luke singing the lullaby he solely made for baby P.

“Still haven’t given in?” The lead guitarist teased you with a beaming smile splitting his face, “Go sit down. I’ll finish the dishes.”

You didn’t need to be asked twice. 

“I’m not abusing my clairvoyance to foresee our child’s gender, name and appearance.” You pointed one finger in his direction, “I refused Bobby’s pleading to see which models he would bed. The only time I did something like that was to reassure Alex that he would fall in love with a lovely guy.”

Luke’s heart burst with sheer adoration at how easily you had sunk into the friendship with the band after that one night. A night that had given birth to a friendship that slowly evolved into a romance and marriage. To this day, the group got together as much as possible.

“I love you.” Luke chuckled, “Even-”

“-if I came into your life like a completely crazy person?”

“We’re all a little crazy.”

Your house surely would be when a little tornado with Luke’s energy took over the home you’d made with Luke. The very home you would have more children and grow old together until soon you held your grandkids on your laps.

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#luke patterson imagines #luke patterson x reader #julie and the phantoms imagines #luke patterson x y/n #julie and the phantoms #luke patterson #charlie gillespie imagines #sunset curve #jatp luke #jatp fanfic #luke jatp #caitsy and ash productions

[randomoranges]

so like ages ago i did this art and i was like haha idk if ill ever write the blurb that goes with it. and look at me now, i wrote the blurb!

My God You Look Beautiful [Nothin’ Fake About the Way You Bring me to Life]

 Étienne pulls on the shirtsleeve of the tunic he’s wearing and gives himself a once over in the entrance mirror. By all intense and purposes he looks quite lovely, but not for the first time tonight, he’s suddenly assaulted by nerves and doubts.

 Near him, Edward is putting his boots on, when he notices his boyfriend isn’t getting ready, or moving, for that matter.

 “D’you plan on getting dressed or are you going out in this frigid cold without your jacket or three sweaters?” He chides, knowing full well that his boyfriend doesn’t leave the house unless he has a minimum of seven layers on when the weather dips below -5 degrees Celsius. The man runs cold easily and he personally thinks it’s hysterical and a great opportunity to tease him mercilessly.

 “D’you think this is too much?” Étienne asks, still looking at his reflection in the mirror, ignoring Edward’s question. He puts up his hair for a moment, seeing if a bun would make his appearance seem more – conforming, before he lets it bounce back to its natural state.

 Edward stands up and walks over to Étienne, stepping in between him and the mirror. He places his hands on his boyfriend’s shoulders and looks at him in the eyes. “You look beautiful, sweetheart; promise.”

 Unfortunately, Étienne doesn’t look convinced and this isn’t the first time he’s asked him in the past hour or so. In fact, Edward wouldn’t be surprised if Étienne was to ask if he could go back to the bedroom for a quick change, but if he does that, Edward knows they’re going to be late.

 “Are you sure? Maybe I should have stuck with the button down instead...” He trails off, tugging at the fabric of the deep mauve tunic. He’d been quite excited, at first, when he’d pulled it out of the closet. The tunic had been a recent purchase and the colour complimented his complexion quite well, really. Not only that, but it was comfortable, fit his frame beautifully and went really well with his shiny leggings and his knee-high boots. It was a perfect ensemble and he’d matched it with the string of pearls his grandmother had given him, just last year.

 Edward thought – and thinks he looks lovely.

 Étienne’s mind, however, is set to play games with him.

 “I wouldn’t want your parents’ to – think it’s too much.” He says again and Edward chuckles softly. Leave it to Étienne to think such things.

 “Trust me, my parents will be fine with the way you’re dressed – and you’ve met them already. They like you.” He tries to reassure him, but Étienne is still not convinced. Granted, Edward’s parents are a little more on the conservative side, but they’re genuinely nice people and have no issue with their son dating men. In fact, his mother had taken a near instant liking to Étienne when she’d met him over the summer and every time they’d gone over since had been a very nice time. Even his father, who could need more time before he warmed up to people had needed little to no time to like Étienne. Then again, however, that was part of Étienne’s charm; he was very easy to like and he had a knack for getting people to warm up to him.

 “Yes, but – they’ve never seen me like this.” Like this is with his hair down and way past his shoulders. Like this is with a faint trace of makeup to his face and polish on his nails. Like this is with a tunic and pearls and high-heeled boots. He gestures to his whole ensemble and twirls the pearls around his fingers in a nervous type of way.

 Edward reaches for his wayward hands and gently unwinds them from the pearls, before taking them in his own. “Hey,” He starts softly, doing his best to get Étienne’s mind away from spinning, “They may have never seen you dressed like this, but they won’t suddenly hate you, trust me.”

 “How can you be so sure?” Étienne asks, small and frightened, and maybe a little petulant.

 Edward gives him a fond smile and takes his shoulders between his hands, “Because, I have it on good authority that my folks used to come – and still come – to my drag shows, so it’s chill.” He pauses, recalling the defiance with which he had told his parents that he was gay – that he did drag, daring them to kick him out, years ago. Instead, they had been supportive. His mother had even said she’d like to come see a show. His father had nodded, which might as well have been a soliloquy. He remembers those first few times and how – nervous everyone had been. Him, his parents – but it had worked out. His mother had done the utmost best to be encouraging; asking questions, trying to remember terms and names and learning along the way. It had been harder to understand how his father felt, but he showed up, show after show and never passed judgement.

 For the longest of times, Edward had thought that his father simply went for his mother’s sake, until one day, there’d been an incident at the club Edward had been performing at, and his father – all six foot two inches of him – had taken care of the issue. His friends still brought it up. His father had become a legend and an honorary queen. His father had said it was his greatest achievement. Edward has the photo.

 “Maybe, but this is your very tall and very strong father we’re talking about. The same very tall and very strong father of yours who goes hunting for fun with his friends.” Étienne starts, bringing him out of his reminiscing. “I’m just saying – maybe he had some other idea of what his son’s boyfriend should look like. Maybe he wanted you to date some strong, manly dude. A man’s man. Not – this.” He says, dejected, as he points to himself.

 “Shush, I like you this way. And I’m so proud of you for dressing the way you want.” Edward tells him, caressing his face. At least that makes Étienne crack a small smile, “And, I know my folks also like you, so it’s fine. Promise. Believe it or not, my dad actually asks about you, which is a big deal, considering my dad is a quiet guy who prefers to listen.”

 “Still... you told me your dad really liked your ex...”

 “Until the bastard broke my heart. Then my dad polished his hunting rifle.” Edward smiles at him, before he lets him go and resumes getting dressed.

 “Édouard!” Étienne bemoans, “You’re not helping!”

 Edward laughs and hands his boyfriend his scarf, wrapping it around his neck, “I know, but just be your regular self and everything will be fine, promise.” He reiterates and pecks his boyfriend’s nose. When he sees that it doesn’t do much to assuage Étienne’s fears, he pulls him in for a quick hug, “And, honestly, it really should be my sister you worry about.”

 FIN

#pc: montreal #pc: edmonton #edward murphy #étienne maisonneuve #au #fic #christmas song bonanza 2k21

[longing-and-heartache-and-lust]

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.III

[previous] [next] [Ao3]

A third chapter for my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang with the wonderful @gen-syz-art as my artist ✨

____________________________

It’s almost a month later that Geralt sees them and, despite himself, immediately thinks of Julian. 

He’s making his way through a crowded market early in the morning, trying to get to a tavern where he should be able to find the author of a contract he’d taken off the notice board, when his eyes catch upon a counter selling leather.   

Among the sheths and gloves, there is also riding tack and dog collars.

Geralt’s mind drifts to Asra and Lucio and he can’t help but think that the dyed purple leather of the wide collars would be a beautiful contrast to their winter-white fur. He knows that hunting dogs need special types of collars not to damage their necks, and the ones in front of him seem perfect.

It would be a nice way to thank him for the hospitality, Geralt thinks, Those dogs follow him everywhere.

And at the same time, somewhere deep in his mind, he knows that it’s an excuse to see Julian again, talk to him again. 

Which is, Geralt has to remind himself for what seems like the hundredth time in the last month, not something that he can indulge in.

Julian was simply a good host, it doesn’t mean that he wants to see the witcher again, even if he did talk to him like it didn’t matter who - what - Geralt is.

"I'm a hunter."

"A hunter with two swords behind his back and a silver medallion?"

"A monster hunter." 

"A monster hunter."

After so many years on the Path, Geralt has grown as immune to the hate as he was for illnesses but sometimes, when he would stumble across someone who would see at least a little past the witcher part of him, it was always harder to forget than the sneers and averted eyes, fear and disgust mixed in even proportions in them.

No, Geralt tells himself, almost aloud, No.

With an effort, he makes himself pass the stall without stopping. 

But in the evening, when the market is already closing and he has to pass through it again because he’s not familiar enough with the town to take a different route, the merchant is still there. He's getting ready to turn in for the day but the riding tack and the collars are still on the counter.

He must have noticed Geralt’s interest in the morning, for when the witcher passes by, he calls out to him and, before he knows it, Geralt finds himself standing in front of the stall. 

“What was it that caught your eye, Master Witcher?” the merchant asks with careful but practised curiosity of a salesman. “The dog collars?”

Reluctantly, Geralt nods.

This is a horrible idea, he tells himself.

“Ah!” the man smiles, following the witcher’s gaze and picking up one of the purple ones. “Exquisite, aren’t they? My daughter makes them. What kind of dog ya have?”

Geralt clears his throat, vaguely aware that he’s digging his own grave.

“Not mine,” he says in the end. “A-- friend’s.”

The merchant’s dark eyes light up with little sparks. 

“A present, then?” he asks.

“I suppose.”

The longer Geralt looks at the collar the merchant’s holding in his hand, the leather a beautiful, rich purple, the clearer it becomes that he’s not going to leave without it. The metal details, evenly spaced all around the middle of the collars, catch the light of the setting sun, almost hypnotising in their shine.

“It’s hunting dogs,” Geralt finally says, suppressing a sigh. “Two of them. Tall and slender, the bigger one can reach up to my chest with its nose.”

Maybe, he thinks, I can still get out of this because the collars are too small for dogs like this. He knows they're not but maybe the Gods themselves are going to preserve him from my own inability to think straight.

“Oh, don’t you worry, Master,” the merchant smiles, and Geralt’s last hope shatters. “These fit even the beast of a dog that my son has, so they will surely fit a hunting dog’s neck. Do you want them in different colours or both purple? There are some other colours under the counter, I can take them out to show you. Blue, red, maybe black?”

“Both purple,” Geralt says, accepting his defeat and reaching for his coin purse. “Identical, just like the dogs themselves.”

 ***

 “I’m going to give them to Arthur and we will be on our way,” Geralt tells Roach when they leave the town and turn towards Roggeven, where it will be easier to find their way to the mansion. “All I want is to thank him for his kindness, that is everything.”

Roach snorts at him, unimpressed by what they both know is a lie. 

“Well, it’s not going to be him that will come to open the gates, will it?” Geralt asks mockingly. “I will just give the collars to his majordomo and we will leave like we were never there. It’s a token of gratitude. Vesemir taught me that much.”

The mare just flicks an ear at him, uninterested and there is nothing Geralt can do but sigh and urge her into a faster gait with a whistle. 

Over the past weeks, he’d found himself thinking back on Julian a little more often than he would like to admit, even to himself. Especially to himself. 

Mostly because of a brush for Roach’s mane that he’d realised far too belatedly he’d taken from the stables in the mansion on accident. When he was packing the saddlebags before leaving, it was just there, right next to the riding tack, and he was still thinking about the stupid question he’d asked earlier to notice that it’s not his. 

When he’d finally realised, they were already three days away from the mansion. 

Well, yet another reason to return. Or so he tells himself. 

 ***

The road doesn't take long.

The mansion is only a two day ride away from Roggeven and, well, Geralt was meaning to head in that direction, anyway, the town and villages around the coast always generous with contracts this time of year. The warmer the water gets, the more monsters it seems to attract. 

But when he reaches the Duppa river, he turns east rather than west, and heads in the general direction of Gelibol, keeping close to the north bank. Soon enough, he’s in the town that had given him the nekker contract a month ago. 

The mansion is still a few hours away and the sun is starting to set, so, after a minute’s consideration, Geralt decides to stop for the night.

The town has two inns but he goes for the smaller one - the same one that he’d stayed at the last time. The quieter it is, the better. 

He can tell that he’s recognised as soon as he walks through the door but the innkeeper doesn’t say anything until later in the evening, when Geralt had already made himself somewhat comfortable in his rented room and has come downstairs for a drink. 

“Back so soon, Witcher?” the innkeeper asks, setting a tankard of ale in front of him. “Another nest of beasts somewhere?”

The inn is only now starting to fill up with guests and the dinner is just yet cooking, so it looks like the man has decided to pass time over a conversation. Strange, considering who Geralt is, but not so strange that it can be deemed alarming.

“Passing through,” the witcher says, taking a swig. The ale is just as watered-down as he remembers. “On my way to Gelibol.”

“Ah,” the man says with an understanding nod even though Geralt is sure that he had never been further than the croplands outside the town. “Not close.”

Geralt shrugs.

“Not far.”

He thinks about it for a few seconds but then decides that he’s not losing anything by asking. 

“The mansion a few hours away,” he starts, a little slow. “Who owns it?”

“Oh!” the innkeeper perks up like he’d been waiting for that question. “It’s a strange place, take my word on it, Witcher. There aren’t a lot of people from this village that go to those regions, mainly hunters and those that work on the croplands there, but some say that that mansion has been there ever since they could remember, some say that they’ve never seen it until about five or six years back.”

Geralt cocks a brow, indicating his interest and, when the innkeeper deliberately hesitates, rolls his eyes but throws another crown on the bartop. The man snatches it with a practised move and all of his attention is back on the witcher again. 

“And what about the owners?” Geralt asks, nothing in his voice to give him away. 

The innkeeper sets aside a tankard he’d been wiping and takes another one, shrugging with one shoulder. 

“I’ve only seen the mansion a couple of times with my own eyes but those who are in those regions more often say that they only see gardeners and stablemen working behind closed gates. On occasion they also see a man who they believe to be the owner,” he scoffs. “But from what I’ve heard, he’s way too young to own an estate like that, unless he’s Vizimir’s bastard son or someone. Cannot be older than twenty-five.”

An illegitimate prince? 

That would explain the size of the estate, Geralt thinks, And all the paintings, enormous beds and polished wood furniture. That would explain the giant garden and the stables with multiple horses. The way Julian dresses, those expensive silks that he wasn’t afraid of getting stained with blood when he was stitching the wounds on Geralt’s shoulder without pushing back the sleeves of his chemise. 

Suddenly, it all makes a little too much sense and Geralt is so taken aback by the thought that for a moment, he feels just as overwhelmed as he did that evening in the mansion, when Julian had invited him in. 

He could easily be Vizimir’s illegitimate son. The math is very simple. If Julian is twenty-five - and he cannot be older than that, by the looks of him - Vizimir had already been crowned king when he’d been born. 

How hard can it be for the king of Redania to send an illegitimate son away from prying eyes while still providing him with the comfort of what’s nearly a castle? Geralt had heard of monarchs that loved their illegitimate children just as much as they loved the heirs to the throne.

"Do you live here alone?"

"Depends on how you look at it. My majordomo lives here, in the mansion, and a little further into the garden, there is a house where the gardeners, the housekeepers and everyone else that works for me resides. So technically, no, I don't live here alone. But if you mean family, then yes."

Geralt shakes his head and makes himself concentrate on his ale. 

"What does an illegitimate prince want in these areas? Any major city is weeks away," he says.

The innkeeper shrugs and wipes his hands off on a dirty towel. 

"Who knows what's going on in the heads of the royalty?" he says. "It can be a summer house for all I know. But in this town, we all believe pretty much the same thing. No one has that kind of wealth unless they're close to politics."

Geralt hums, falling silent for a few seconds before asking:

“And you’ve never seen him in town?”

The innkeeper chuckles humorlessly. 

“What can someone that owns a mansion like that want from a place like this? I bet one room in that estate costs more than this entire town, twice.”

 ***

 After he leaves his place by the bar and makes his way up to his room, Geralt gets into bed as soon as he sheds his armour but finds himself unable to sleep. 

He knows he shouldn’t dwell on it, shouldn’t even really consider it an option, but the thought of Julian being a prince - legitimate or not - does not leave his mind. It doesn’t help just how much sense it makes. Geralt’s only seen interiors like that in castles, on those rare occasions that he’d set foot in them. 

But then again, all of those castles were nothing but displays of the monarch's wealth while as the mansion felt lived-in and loved. Like all the painting, all the sculptures and figures, all the velvet and silk had been hand-picked by Julian to accommodate to his own understanding of beauty. 

Geralt has never been the one to let any kinds of obsessive thoughts get the best of him but this one he just couldn’t seem to get out of his head. 

He’s not even sure he can make the rest of the way to the mansion in the morning. The idea of giving dog collars to someone who might be the son of Redania’s king suddenly sounds laughable. He’s probably got anything and everything he wants in that mansion and, surely, dog collars are included. 

But, well, Geralt’s already got them. He’s not going to carry them around in his saddlebags forever. 

The witcher curses under his breath, turning for what seems like the hundredth time of the night to try and finally settle in comfortably.

Making an effort over himself, he closes his eyes and clears his mind of any thoughts, sinking into meditation that will allow him to fall asleep peacefully. 

After all, he’s only going to give the collars to Arthur.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the drug the dark the light the flame #my writing #calton writes

[project-paranoia]

Let’s Watch - My Roommate Is A Detective Episode One

There's this interesting thing about discovering cdramas where you watch shows from the last twenty years interchangeably and as a result I had no idea that My Roommate is a Detective came out in 2020 until I pulled it up on iQiyi.  I usually watch on youtube for no other reason than it's easy, but the youtube version doesn't have the intro and I really love the intro.

In my experience, intros in cdramas either spoil the whole show, are a feels reel, or are artistic - in the West there are any number of title sequences that try to be artistic but miss the mark because they're so highbrow they don't really mean or do anything. These intros in cdramas however stay anchored with object, characters, and scenes that actually have an impact on the story - they just make them beautiful.

On another note, a lot can and has been said about whether or not BBC Sherlock's legacy in the West in constructive or destructive in the way that it inspired drama and mystery shows.  In China however there are a number of mystery dramas which take very obvious stylish cues from BBC Sherlock, but don't fall victim to its foibles. My Roommate is a Detective is one of them, it embraces visual elements and framing, but with a much warmer palette and the titular character never looses his charm to fall into viciousness nor does he overstep anyone else's personhood - for all that he is childish.

These dramas are sleek and saturated with rich colours, every object feels polished and arranged by the art department, and the sets are gorgeous.  The show feels beautiful and young, like the inside of an old fashioned adventure novel with all the hate trimmed out and tossed away.  It's short, fun and a delight I'm excited to write about.

- The intro song is also - as the kids say - a banger.  It's young and energetic and it's just a fun song

- I always get distracted at the beginning of these watchthroughs.  I'm very easy to distract.  Spoilers below!

- The way they handle the lighting and the characters alternates between making them part of the environment which makes them feel very big and doll like which makes them feel very small which given the themes of the show is very appropriate.

- I've watched almost all of these series before if you can't tell.

- The visual gag of what is ringing is a great way to show us the set and the characters personality, as well as a funny joke.

- (The blue robe and running music already has BBC Sherlock vibes if you want examples, this isn't a compare and contrast though, so this is the last mention of it.)

- The fact he's just running from the cops is great.

- So is that framing in the arches.  Can I take take a moment to cry for this great shot?

- So is that little whistle XD

- One thing I really like about the show is the little details they add.  The extras actually have acting direction and respond to the situation instead of just Walking Past.  It makes the actors seem more outrageous and funny and makes the world seem more alive.  Most directors avoid it because it takes extra time and effort.

- Fun fact!  The director - Zhang Wei Ke - mostly does movies including The Mutant Python 2 which is exactly what you would expect, but exactly what you would expect framed and filmed well. That's the way to do it; no matter what you do, do it well.

- Even small things like hearing the police whistle, seeing Lu Yao's face, and then seeing the police.  It's small things like that which lead to the emotional buildup for funny scenes.

- Also, honey no, what is that weird snake thing, I cannot watch ;-;

- Lu Yao is a goof and makes no secret of it.

- Also "deacon of UK's freemasonry" is an amusing thing to add for a lot of reasons

- The Mystery Begins!

- Some lines for the Common Lines Drinking Game

- This show moves so fast it's hard to write for ;-;

- Lu Yao is definitely a big goof he also uses that goofiness as a smokescreen for all the nonsense he gets up to, but it's real a lot of the time

- The First Clue

- Also, if they're rude to their staff they probably deserve the murder

- I love this bathroom, it's an artpiece and it's glam

- The Murder has arrived!

- Also the face work on these three is lovely

- The quick shots are great because they both show you everything you need to see and their speed distract you from thinking they're too important

- The scene of him vandalizing the car is so good, including the first try of bouncing the rock off the window, and the reveal of the night watchman

- Ah! Bai Youning is amazing and I love her.

- When you fun away from home and you go bother your friend at work

- The emphasis made on the blood like >_>

- The way the information was communicated about the murder is so smart on the part of the murderer

- Lu Yao pulling out his detecting skill, all his reasoning works particularly well because he uses multiple clues to come to a conclusion instead of just, there's ink on your sleeve, you went to Paris last summer

- Qiao Chusheng is so nice and patient with Bai Youning, he's a man who establishes himself quickly as being morally upright (considering his past) and someone who has filial piety

- Also, like, I get who Bai Qili is, I just love him and his birds and all the interactions between him and Qiao Chusheng

- Bai Qili also just has a lot of faith and fondness in Qiao Chusheng it's a really sweet relationship

- Uh oh Qiao Chusheng, you're about to bite off more than you can chew

- He thinking, he considering

- It's not easy to switch back and forth between being a bit silly and being a serious type police man

- And I do feel bad for not having more commentary, this show moves fast

- Lu Yao accidentally found another clue in the autopsy report

- Lu Yao's little face as he found a clue but doesn't want to give away the game

- As goofy as Lu Yao is, he does have moments where you can see a lot is going on below the surface

- Oof!  The facework!  The way Qiao Chusheng's eyes moved!

- It's smart for Lu Yao to play it so close to the vest, he doesn't know much about Qiao Chusheng's personal character yet and too much information too soon is like building a castle on sand

- Qiao Chusheng plays it so cool like he knew all along.

- He gets this little smile, it's great

- And that's it!  Thank you for joining!

#My Roommate is a Detective #watch through #民国奇探 #watchthrough

[wisteriashouse]

red lights, lilac eyes.

pairing: kamado tanjirou x sumiyuri hayami (oc)

genre: fluff, comfort

word count: 6612

remarks: this was a request by the lovely @hinokami-s​!! i hope you enjoyed it, and thank you so much for commissioning me! i really enjoyed writing hayami <3

Tanjirou is, to put it lightly, uncomfortable.

He can’t place his finger on what exactly it is about this place that makes him feel so. At a simple glance, he can tell that the flooring of the waiting room is made from expensive wood, its surface polished smooth by a carpenter’s hand and covered with a finishing layer of lacquer. Around him, rare pottery line the shelves and tasteful pieces of art decorate the walls, but the opulence of it all cannot hide the heavy smell of sex that lingers in the air, no matter how much incense the pleasure house burns in an attempt to mask the scent. Trying to breathe through his mouth as much as possible, Tanjirou forces himself to calm down, fisting his hands in the fabric of his hakama as he exhales slowly. 

Hayami will be alright, he repeats to himself for the fifth time. Tanjirou hasn’t seen her for days, and every second that passes his worry only grows. He knows that Hayami is strong, and he knows that she is more than able to take care of herself, but that knowledge doesn’t stop the unease that continues to linger -- he knows it will refuse to abate until he sees that Hayami is fine and well with his own two eyes.

A week ago, the kasugai crows had come to the two of them with a mission - to infiltrate the red light district of Yoshiwara. Several slayers had reported rumours of a man eating demon in the vicinity, and both Hayami and Tanjirou had been assigned to eliminate it. The plan had been simple, Hayami would infiltrate the red light district posing as a hopeful future oiran to gather intel about the demon, while Tanjirou would enter and leave the oiran house as a customer to provide backup as needed.

When they’d both heard about the mission for the first time, Hayami’s expression hadn’t changed much, but Tanjirou could smell the change in her mood almost immediately - the sour scent of deep unease and reluctance.

Tanjirou had instantly volunteered to infiltrate the red light district as a prostitute in her place (an idea which had been shot down by his kasugai crow in an instant), but Hayami had only managed a laugh, shaken her head at his suggestion and reassured him that she would be alright. 

She had asked Tanjirou to trust her, so Tanjirou must have faith in his friend and wait patiently - as much as he wants to search the oiran house for her right this instant, it would only compromise the mission. Furrowing his brow, Tanjirou lets out a slight sigh - even if he has full belief in Hayami’s strength, he can’t help but worry. After all, he-

“The shinzo Hanamurasaki will enter now.”

Tanjirou’s back straightens in an instant at the voice outside the door, the leather of his concealed sword sheath bumping against his back. He can think about his feelings later. Right now, he needs to focus on the mission at hand - eliminating the demon before it can take yet another life.

The door slides open.

Quickly sliding a smile onto his face, Tanjirou turns towards the doorway to greet the woman. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he begins, but then his eyes widen in shock when he takes in the sight of the person in the doorway. “Haya-”

“No, it is my pleasure to be able to entertain you today.” The courtesan before him - no, Hayami - bows slightly to him, a finger raised subtly to her lips which are painted pink with shimmering gloss, reminding him of the cherry blossoms that bloom in spring. The long platinum hair he’s only ever seen in a high ponytail is done up in an elaborate up-do, carefully waxed and adorned with tortoiseshell pins, not a single strand out of place. He can’t tear his eyes away from her. “I am a courtesan in training,” she gives him a slight smile, chaste and alluring, looking up at him shyly from under her lashes. “You can call me Hanamurasaki.”

It takes only two simple sentences, said so sweetly, for Tanjirou’s cheeks to burn as if they’ve been set alight. Embarrassed, he ducks his head to the side in an attempt to hide his flush. “I will.” He says, not trusting his voice to say any more than that.

“Come with me, I’ll bring you to your room.” Hayami waits for Tanjirou to rise before following suit, hands delicately clasped in front of a colourful obi. The two of them make their way down the winding corridors, and it’s only when Tanjirou no longer picks up the scent of any other people nearby that he whispers, out of the corner of his mouth, slightly confused. “Hanamurasaki?”

“The pseudonym given to me by the brothel owner,” Hayami murmurs in reply, maintaining her graceful, sweeping gait. Tanjirou glances up at her when he picks up a familiar scent of unease coming off her, sees her mouth pulled into a tight line. “I didn’t want to leave my real name in a place like this.”

The scent thickens, and Tanjirou’s brows furrow in worry. Although Hayami has never explicitly mentioned anything about her childhood, he thinks he picks up enough - the familiarity that Hayami has with the Floating World of Pleasure that is Yoshiwara tells him all that he needs. Reaching over, he places one hand on Hayami’s - the only exposed skin that isn’t hidden away by layers of brocade and silk - and squeezes it lightly in an attempt to comfort his friend. 

“Do you want to stop the mission?” He asks seriously. When Hayami frowns, opening her mouth to reassure him that she’s alright, Tanjirou continues. “I know that you’re more than capable of succeeding, Hayami. But I don’t like the fact that you have to stay in a place that makes you unhappy.”

At Tanjirou’s words, Hayami’s steps falter, before she comes to a standstill. “Unhappy…” She repeats the word slowly, and then to Tanjirou’s surprise, she huffs out a little laugh through her nose, the action completely at odds with her elegant attire and so much more Hayami that Tanjirou can only stare for a moment. “Well, I wouldn’t say completely unhappy. It just brings back some bad memories that I’d rather not think about.” With a smile, she squeezes Tanjirou’s hand in return. “But the fact that you’re here with me makes me feel a lot better. So thank you, Tanjirou.”

Tanjirou’s breath catches in his throat for a second before he manages a slight cough, shaking his head. “It’s nothing.” He says, feeling his cheeks burn pink again and Hayami giggles slightly. “Don’t laugh at me! It’s not my fault that you look so beautiful!”

“Alright, alright.” Hayami’s lilac eyes dance with amusement and Tanjirou breathes a small sigh of relief, she’s smiling for real again. “On the bright side, I don’t think I’ll have to stay here for much longer. I have an idea of how the demon has been eating the girls here unnoticed.”

“Oh.” Tanjirou sucks in a breath, eyes widening as he looks up at Hayami. His hand subconsciously brushes the sheath of the sword on his back. “How so?”

“Its Blood Demon Art is likely the ability to shapeshift, it assumes the form of different men for each woman.” Hayami explains, her eyes narrowing. Tanjirou can hear the clear disgust in her voice when she speaks. “The demon treats the prostitutes gently and showers them with gifts, promising them that it’ll run away with them and free them from the brothel house. The stories get spread between the girls working here, so no one really suspects a thing when a prostitute goes missing entirely after a night.”

Tanjirou frowns, anger mounting in his chest. Giving the girls false hope of escaping this life only to devour them, that’s far too cruel. “What about the owner of the brothel house? Won’t they care that the girls are running away?”

“The house owner doesn’t report it because it gives the brothel house a bad reputation, so the disappearances are never made known to the public.” Hayami answers. Tanjirou can see the way her hands clench into fists under the elaborately embroidered brocade of her obi. “As long as it doesn’t result in a significant loss of money, the house owner won’t care in the least. The women here are just money making objects to them. The demon is careful to eat mostly lower ranked prostitutes, ones that the brothel house haven’t invested much money in training, so their deaths just end up swept under the rug.”

“That’s awful.” Tanjirou says softly. Hayami nods in agreement to his words, before she lets out a pained sigh. “Sorry, I got a little emotional there. Well, as much as I’d like to, I can’t save every woman here from this place.” She looks so crestfallen that Tanjirou feels his own heart throb in pain.

He pats her hand. “There’s no need to apologise for being upset about the unfairness of the world, Hayami.” He tells her firmly. “Let’s focus on what we can do instead, such as making this place a little safer for them by taking out the demon. Alright?”

Hayami takes a moment to compose herself, taking a deep breath before she nods. “Okay.” The determination burning in her eyes is hard to look away from, Tanjirou thinks to himself. “Let’s head to the room first, I’ll tell you more about the different brothel houses I think the demon may strike tonight-”

All of a sudden, a choking, rotten scent fills Tanjirou’s nose and he immediately claps one hand over his mouth, trying not to gag. Hayami’s eyes widen, before her expression instantly turns cold.

“Demon?” She whispers sharply. Tanjirou nods, urgent.

“It’s approaching. Do we engage it?”

Hayami shakes her head immediately. “We don’t know enough about its abilities in combat to take it on right here. The corridors are narrow and it’d be difficult for you to swing your sword.”

The sound of wooden geta clicking against the flooring grows steadily louder, and to Tanjirou’s surprise, Hayami quickly tugs him into a small alcove in the wall by the sleeve. It’s clearly too cramped for two people, the top of his head brushing against her chin and his hands braced on either side of her to prevent himself from being pressed up against her. “Wait, wait, what is it?” He tries to keep his voice level even as his heart thumps rapidly in his chest. This isn’t the time to be embarrassed, Tanjirou!

“The demon might be suspicious of me. It’s probably caught wind of me asking around about the disappearances.” Hayami mutters under her breath, looking over Tanjirou’s head. This action only serves to press Tanjirou’s face into her neck, his nose suddenly filled with the heady scent of floral perfume. Head spinning, Tanjirou tries to keep his composure by holding his breath, doing his best not to inhale the intoxicating scent. “By my estimates, the demon should have headed to one of the other houses tonight, not come back here. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s trying to find out how much I know.”

“What do we do then? It’ll be bad if we lose the advantage of surprise.” Tanjirou tries his best to extricate himself from Hayami without too much contact, but it’s far too cramped in the alcove to do so. Hayami ponders this for a moment, before she suddenly looks down at Tanjirou with a slightly flustered expression on her face.

“Tanjirou, forgive me for this,” one of her hands cup the back of his head firmly, the other tilting his chin up so he’s looking into her delicate purple eyes, “but I’ll explain later.”

Their faces are so close that he can count every fine eyelash, her breath warm against his lips. His heart is beating far too hard at the proximity for it to be healthy for him, and it takes everything in him to maintain his Total Concentration Breathing. “What for-” He barely manages to get out without stuttering, but before he can say another word, Tanjirou feels a pair of soft lips pressed against his.

“Mmph!”

Her lips are soft. That’s the first thing Tanjirou registers when Hayami kisses him for the very first time, his knees suddenly weak, fingers clutching at the heavy kimono around Hayami’s shoulders. The second thing he notices is that they taste sweet, like the candy that Tanjirou used to buy for his younger siblings every New Year. For a moment, he wonders if it’s simply the lip gloss that Hayami wears, or if her mouth has tasted like honey from the very beginning. Curiosity has him leaning in instinctively to press his mouth harder against hers. More, his heart and mind echo, and Hayami tugs him closer so that their bodies are pressed flush against each other, her fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck as she hums lightly against his mouth.

She’s too close. All Tanjirou can think about Hayami, his senses driven into a frenzy by her scent, intoxicating-

When she tugs, Tanjirou’s mouth parts with a little gasp, his own fingers scrabbling weakly for purchase on the smooth brocade of her kimono. Something wet flicks against his lower lip - the tip Hayami’s tongue, he realises, and the shock of that is enough for his mind to return to him at once.

He pulls away with a gasp, both hands clasped over his mouth as he stares at Hayami with wide eyes. The pink on Hayami’s lips are smeared slightly across her mouth, and when he subconsciously licks his own lips at the sight, he can taste her lip gloss still lingering on his mouth. 

He can’t seem to catch his breath.

“The demon seems to have left.” Hayami says, glancing over his shoulder as she straightens her robes, her voice only a little shaky. Thoroughly embarrassed, Tanjirou presses both hands over his cheeks in a futile attempt at hiding the flush burning at his cheeks. He’s still struggling to form coherent thoughts when he catches sight of Hayami’s ears, the tips bright red. 

Did she… perhaps like it too?

Not quite meeting his eyes, Hayami reaches out to wipe at the corner of his mouth with her sleeve. His lips, still sensitive from the kiss earlier, tingle at the sensation, pinpricks of heat dancing under his skin. “You have a bit of gloss here.” She murmurs, and Tanjirou wonders if her cheeks are just as warm as his under the layer of white painted on her face.

“O-oh.” He wonders if Hayami knows that she’s the one who has taken his first kiss. “Uhm…”

Hayami ducks her head, straightening out her robes. “We should go.”

“Oh, right.” Slapping his cheeks lightly, Tanjirou forces himself to refocus on the mission at hand. The demon is still here! He can think about the kiss later. When he turns back to Hayami, she’s tugging at the elaborately done obi around her waist before her hands fall to the side in resignation. A groan of frustration leaves her mouth. “This outfit is going to take at least an hour to get out of.” Hayami shakes her head. “Tanjirou, do you think you can deal with this demon on your own?”

Tanjirou nods, pulling out his sword. Its weight is comforting in his hands, and he shrugs off the drab brown overcoat he’s wearing to free his arms before glancing up at Hayami. “Let’s go.”

Hayami takes him by the hand, leading him down the hallway with quick, hurried steps. “The demon should be having a meal now, entertained with a few other courtesans in training, just like me. You take on the demon while I evacuate the rest of the women in the room.” They stop just outside a sliding door, and from within Tanjirou can hear the chatter of the women, completely unaware of the true nature of the creature they’re dining with. 

Tanjirou readies his sword in his hands, but he can’t help the worried glance he sends towards Hayami. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

Hayami nods, sending him a warm smile that has his heart stumbling a beat in his chest. Taking a deep breath, Tanjirou throws the door open with a violent bang.

“Evil demon! For your crimes of devouring humans and taking the lives of innocent people,” Tanjirou declares, leveling the point of the nichirin blade right at the demon. Although it may take the form of a human, the pungent, sour smell of blood and rotten flesh that clings to its form is something the demon cannot hide. “I will destroy you right here!”

The courtesans next to it scream at the sight of his sword, an item forbidden to carry about in Yoshiwara. They’ve probably never had one pointed in their faces before, and Tanjirou internally apologises for frightening them out of their wits. The demon scowls, baring its teeth as its face begins to shift and morph - Hayami was right, after all. As the grotesque face of the demon reveals itself, the once human features melting away, the courtesans scream again, one of them scrambling to get as far as she can from the nightmarish sight. Tanjirou catches sight of the demon’s eyes flicking towards her, attention drawn by the movement, and he lunges forward with a yell, swinging his blade down before the monster’s claws can graze her skin.

“Breath of Water, Eighth Form, Waterfall Basin!”

The demon lets out a piercing shriek as its arm falls off, thudding to the ground with a wet thump, barely inches from the hem of the trembling courtesan’s kimono. Her eyes widen in shock, mouth beginning to open in yet another scream when Hayami, having kicked off her geta unceremoniously, scoops the courtesan up into her arms easily in spite of the cumbersome outfit and waltzes out of the way of the demon’s crushing grip.

“It’s okay now,” he can hear Hayami reassure the courtesan gently as he stands between them and the demon protectively. The demon snarls once more, multiple arms sprouting from its sides threateningly. Tanjirou counts eight as he grips his sword tightly once more. “You’ll be fine, my friend here will take care of the monster. Just get away from this place, alright?”

Twisting his body, Tanjirou leaps forward and slashes at the arms rapidly with ‘Flowing Dance’, mind furiously doing its best to keep track of the movements of all eight limbs at once. So focused on the battle at hand he doesn’t notice that the demon is slowly morphing in shape once again, eyes turning a warm, familiar red, hair elongating into a ponytail. It’s only when Tanjirou finishes cutting off all the eight arms and changes his grip to slash at the demon’s neck that he realises that it is his father standing before him, looking down at him with a gentle gaze that is already beginning to fray at the edges of his childhood memories.

He makes a fatal mistake. He falters.

His father is dead, and Tanjirou knows that from the bottom of his heart, but he can’t help the way his blade hesitates for just a second - he cannot possibly strike down the image of his father without a second thought. Unfortunately, however, the demon has no intentions of waiting for him to steel his heart and instantly lunges forward in an attack, claws outstretched.

“Tanjirou, watch out!”

In the nick of time, Hayami hurls one of the heavy geta she’d kicked aside earlier at the demon - her aim is impeccable, and the shoe strikes it dead in the eye. The demon lets out a howl of pain, its swipe missing Tanjirou by several inches, much to his relief.

However, that relief is short-lived when Tanjirou turns to thank Hayami… only to realise that the demon’s attention is now on her instead of him.

Tanjirou raises his blade to sever the demon’s head at once, but it takes less than the space of a single breath for the demon to change form once again, the familiar checkered haori of his father melting into a sea of vermillion silk, fancifully embroidered with golden thread. Tanjirou glances up at the new face the demon wears and a gasp escapes him unbidden - platinum hair done up in a elaborate knot, features that could have been carved by the hand of a master sculptor - the person whose form the demon assumes is so stunningly beautiful that it steals the breath from his lungs - its face reminds him so much of Hayami, except for its cruel, carmine eyes. 

“M-mother?”

Tanjirou’s head whips around in shock when he hears Hayami’s voice tremble - the word is strained not from longing, not from surprise, but from fear. Her purple eyes are wide, pupils dilated as she stares down the person before her. Hayami is one of the strongest people he knows, unflinching in the face of terrible demons and courageous in the fiercest battles, and yet, before this woman she calls her mother, she trembles?

His empathy instantly sends off hundreds of warning bells in his head, his grip on his blade tightening instantly. Every nerve in his body is screaming at him that he needs to cut this woman, this demon, down right now. 

“I’m… I’m not going back there.” Hayami shakes her head furiously, taking a step back as the demon takes another forward. She trips on the long hem of her robe and ends up falling to the ground, but she doesn’t even seem to notice in the least, her eyes still fixed on the demon before her. Tanjirou can practically smell the terror in the air, so overpowering that he feels as if he might choke on it. “Y-you can’t make me. You’re dead.”

The demon raises its hand, and Hayami flinches back, throwing both hands up to protect herself.

Tanjirou sees red.

He doesn’t even realise that he’s cut off the demon’s head until he hears a mangled scream and a heavy, wet thud at his feet, the acrid scent of ash wafting through the air. Completely ignoring the demon’s corpse even as it begins to crumble, Tanjirou heads straight over to Hayami, hands tentatively reaching out for her before he decides to pull them back. Hayami’s breathing is still uneven, her body trembling slightly, and Tanjirou doesn’t want to cause her any more distress than she already has to deal with.

His heart aches for her. 

Quietly, Tanjirou sheaths his sword and kneels before Hayami, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around her form and pull her into his embrace. He should have been faster, he shouldn’t have hesitated, he-

“Are you…” Tanjirou pauses, biting on his lower lip before speaking again. “Are you alright?”

It is obvious that she isn’t, but he asks anyway.

Hayami remains silent for a few moments, but Tanjirou can see her doing her best to school her expression, taking slow, deep breaths to regain her composure. After about a minute, she forces a smile onto her cheeks, shakily getting to her feet.

“I’m fine. Just taken by surprise.” She says. Her voice is too casual, too lighthearted. Before Tanjirou can say a word in response, Hayami extends her hand to him. “Come on. I want to get out of this kimono as fast as possible.” Their eyes don’t meet.

Tanjirou has no choice but to take it.

>>>

After informing the owner of the brothel house about the demon and reassuring the courtesans at the scene that the demon had been eliminated, the two of them had been provided a room for Hayami to change out of her disguise. The second they get to the room, Hayami instantly steps behind the folding screen, and a second later, Tanjirou hears a heavy thump - the sound of fabric falling to the ground. 

Thoroughly flustered, Tanjirou wonders if he should leave the room to give Hayami her privacy, surely it can’t be appropriate for a man to be in the same room as a changing woman. He’s about to tell Hayami he’ll be waiting for her outside when she calls for him first, startling him.

“Is there something you need?” Approaching the folding screen, Tanjirou hovers outside nervously, wondering if he should enter or not. Before he can ask, however Hayami reaches out and tugs him in, much to his shock. He instantly clasps both hands over his eyes, shaking his head frantically. “Hayami!”

“Don’t worry, I’m decent.” 

Hayami’s voice right by his ear doesn’t help in the least to calm his racing heart, but Tanjirou lowers his hands slowly anyway to see that she’s shed the outermost layers of her kimono. The exorbitant pieces of brocade and silk are strewn carelessly on the floor. 

“Can you give me a hand? I can’t quite reach the tie by myself.” Hayami gestures to the knot done at her back, keeping the inner kimono in place. Stepping forward, Tanjirou reaches out and hesitates for a second, tugging on the knot while being as careful as possible not to touch her unnecessarily. The knot doesn’t even budge.

“Give me a moment.” Sucking in a breath between his teeth, Tanjirou struggles to undo the knot - his fingers are too big and she’s far too close once again, the scent of her perfume tickling his nose just like it did during the kiss earlier. Her lips on his, her fingers in his hair, pulling-

“Tanjirou? Tanjirou, is there something wrong?” It takes Hayami calling his name twice for him to realise that his fingers have stilled. Embarrassed at being caught off guard, Tanjirou instantly returns his attention to the task at hand, smacking himself in the head mentally. Stop thinking about it! “No.” He answers, and is utterly dismayed when his voice cracks. “There’s nothing wrong. Nothing at all.”

He doesn’t sound convincing even to his own ears.

“I…” Hayami begins, hesitating for a moment as Tanjirou continues to attempt to undo the knot diligently. “I’m sorry.”

Of all the things Tanjirou had expected Hayami to say, this was definitely not one of them. “Sorry?” Tanjirou repeats, totally bemused. “What is there for you to be sorry about?” 

“The kiss earlier.” Hayami clarifies, her voice a little louder this time. When she glances back over her shoulder, Tanjirou once again catches sight of a slight red touching the tips of her ears - something that makes his own cheeks heat as well. “I’m sorry… I didn’t get your permission, and well, we’re not together, and-” Hayami pauses in horror, suddenly clasping her hands over her mouth and turning around in a flurry of brightly coloured fabric. Her eyes are wide as she stares at him. “Tanjirou, that was your first kiss, wasn’t it?”

Tanjirou awkwardly bobs his head in confirmation, the heat spreading down his neck and intensifying in the tips of his ears. 

“Oh my, I’m so sorry, Tanjirou!” Hayami turns around to apologise, looking completely flustered. One of her hands reaches up to twirl a lock of her hair around her finger, a nervous habit of hers that Tanjirou has noticed over time, before she realises that her hair is still done up in its up-do and her hands end up twisting nervously in the fabric of her kimono. “I’m really, really sorry, I should have thought of something else to distract the demon instead-”

While Tanjirou does think Hayami is absolutely adorable when she gets flustered like this, he’s far too soft hearted to leave her in this state. 

“It’s alright.” He reassures her immediately, reaching out to squeeze her hand. At the contact, Hayami’s rambling stops, and she looks down at Tanjirou nervously. He continues to speak. “I’m alright with you being my first kiss. In fact…” he glances down, unable to meet her eyes. “It was nice.”

“Oh.” That’s all Hayami says in response. The two of them remain that way for a while, awkwardly glancing this way and that in an attempt to avoid looking at each other. It takes Tanjirou a whole minute to realise that he’s still holding Hayami’s hands in his.

“Well!” Tanjirou drops Hayami’s hands in an instant, moving to undo the knot at her back once again so she can’t see how painfully red his face is. It comes apart easily now, the traitorous little thing. “As much as I’d like to leave this place, I think it’s too late for us to travel to any of the Wisteria Houses nearby.” In front of him, Hayami’s shoulders instantly tense up, visible even from beneath the thick kimono she’s wearing. Tanjirou is quick to pick up that she’s uncomfortable with the idea. “I mean, I could go look around the area for an inn or somewhere else to stay that isn’t,” he gestures vaguely at the room they are in, trying his very hardest to avert his eyes from the erotic artworks hanging from the walls, “a brothel.”

To his surprise, Hayami simply shakes her head. “There’s no point in doing so.” She sounds tired. “We’re in the red light district of Yoshiwara, no inn that abstains from selling sexual services would survive in this place. I’ll be fine.” The last word wavers, but she continues as if nothing has happened, forcing another smile onto her face. Tanjirou doesn’t like it when she does that. “Besides, I’m hungry! What are we having for dinner?”

When she’s so desperate to change the subject, Tanjirou can’t find it in him to press on with questions and only relents, nodding his head. Hayami clearly doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. “I’ll head downstairs and see if I can get any food for the two of us.”

“Thank you!” Hayami says cheerfully. “I’d appreciate it!”

As Tanjirou slides the door to the room closed, he catches sight of Hayami looking at her own reflection in the looking glass, a hand raised to her painted cheek.

Her expression is forlorn.

>>>

Dinner is a simple affair, the two of them too tired out from the long mission to make much conversation. After finishing their meal, Hayami and Tanjirou both change into their nightclothes and head to their separate bedding, Tanjirou insisting on some form of decorum by placing the folding screen between them. Tanjirou falls asleep first, to the sound of Hayami’s soft breathing from the other side of the room.

And wakes a few hours later to the sound of soft crying.

He lies there for a few moments in the dark, trying to put the pieces of his mind together when he hears another soft whimper from the other side of the folding screen. In an instant Tanjirou has thrown off the covers, scrambling to his feet, his hand reaching for his sword. The scent of burning wisteria incense still lingers at his nose, so it can’t possibly be another demon, but Tanjirou isn’t taking any chances when it comes to Hayami’s safety.

“Hayami!” Tanjirou calls, his voice still raspy from sleep, shoving the folding screen to the side. His eyes scan the dark room, searching for the source of her discomfort. There’s no one in the room except for the two of them. “Hayami, are you alright-”

It’s then that Tanjirou realises she’s still fast asleep.

Even as he watches, Hayami continues to toss and turn on the bedding, legs tangled in the covers, moonlight glancing off the thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. The same scent of fear from earlier in the day is almost overbearing to his nose, and Tanjirou immediately crouches next to her bed, intent on waking her up so she doesn’t have to spend a minute longer in her nightmares.

“N-no… I’m not going back…” Hayami shakes her head, platinum hair spilling over her pillow. Tanjirou pauses in rousing her awake, hands stilling for a moment at the edge of the blankets. “Mother! Enough! Stop hitting me, please!”

At her words, Tanjirou sucks in a breath between his teeth. Anger rises in him, his body temperature increasing as if his very blood is beginning to boil over. He has to consciously relax his grip on his sheath - if it breaks, he’ll never hear the end of it from Haganezuka-san. 

How could any parent do something like that to their own child?

Shaking his head in despair, he turns back to Hayami, hands resting on her shoulders before he shakes her firmly. “Hayami. Hayami, wake up.”

She doesn’t wake, still trapped in her own dreams as she flinches and trembles. “No, no, I’m not coming with you.”

“Hayami,” Tanjirou is more desperate this time, shaking her a little harder by the shoulders in an attempt to wake her up. “Hayami, please, wake up!”

This time she does, lurching forward abruptly with a strangled cry buried in the back of her throat and her lilac eyes wide with terror. They lock onto Tanjirou’s, and she exhales, the sound short and weak.

“Tanjirou?” Her voice is shaking.

“That’s me.” Tanjirou picks up her hand in his own, clasping it tightly - to act as a comfort, a lifeline connecting her back to reality. Hayami only stares at him and at their intertwined hands for a short moment, blinking once, before she bursts forward and wraps her arms tightly around Tanjirou, taking him completely by surprise. 

Her entire form is trembling like a leaf in the wind, and Tanjirou hugs her back equally tight, crushing her against him. He can feel her chest heaving from barely restrained sobs. “I… I thought…” Hayami hiccups and shakes her head, burying her face in the crook of Tanjirou’s neck. “I thought she was coming back… that she was going to take me away… back to that place.”

Tanjirou simply holds her close, his palm resting in her hair and stroking slowly. He can feel her heart thudding through the thin sleep robes they’re wearing.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, careful not to be too loud. Hayami takes a deep breath, her nose pressed to his shoulder. It’s a long moment before she begins to speak.

“My mother used to train me to be a courtesan. She wanted me to follow in her footsteps.” Hayami trembles, her fingers tightening around his hand. “She had very high standards that I could never meet… and when I failed… she would punish me by…” Her voice breaks, and she buries her face in Tanjirou’s shoulder once again. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to talk about it.”

Tanjirou doesn’t remember the last time he felt such rage. But what Hayami needs is comfort, not payback on her parents, and so Tanjirou takes a deep breath to cool his head, before squeezing Hayami’s hand lightly.

“You’re safe here with me.” Tanjirou says quietly, so as not to startle Hayami. She stills against him at his words, her breath dancing across the skin of his neck, before pulling away to look into Tanjirou’s eyes. Her own eyes are wet at the edges, and Tanjirou raises a gentle hand to wipe the tears away. “I’m here for you if you need me, alright?”

Hayami falls silent, looking at him with those beautiful, vulnerable eyes before she nods silently. “I trust you, Tanjirou.” She says, her voice slightly hoarse with emotion. Tanjirou beams at her warmly, his hand coming to rest on top of her head.  

“I’ll tuck you into bed now, alright? We’ll leave this place first thing tomorrow, as soon as the sun rises.” Obediently, Hayami lies down in the bedding as Tanjirou gathers the blankets strewn on the floor before moving to lay them over her, careful to cover her feet so she doesn’t catch a cold at night. It’s only when he’s tucking the blanket at her shoulders does he feel her hand wrap around his wrist, drawing his attention. 

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Tanjirou asks, surprised, looking down to see Hayami peering up at him with a soft look in her eyes. Hayami only smiles slightly and shakes her head, chewing on her bottom lip hesitantly for a moment before speaking up.

“Could you…” she pauses, playing with the ends of her long hair before she looks up at Tanjirou once more. “Could you please… sleep with me tonight? I don’t want to be alone.”

Tanjirou’s eyes go wide at her request. His mouth opens and closes several times, trying his best to speak, but no words leave his lips. Seeing his reaction, Hayami instantly backtracks, suddenly flustered as well. “No, no, that’s not what I meant for it to sound like! I didn’t mean any sort of indecent things, I swear! I just-”

His hand comes to rest over her mouth, cutting off her rambling. He’s sure his cheeks are as red as hers.

“It’s fine. I know what you mean, there’s no need to say any more.” Hayami buries her face in her hands, thoroughly embarrassed. Awkwardly, Tanjirou lifts the covers so that he can slide into the bedding next to Hayami. It’s too small for the two of them and half of his body rests on the tatami, but Tanjirou hardly pays any mind with how fast his heart is racing at their proximity.

Sure, he’s slept next to Nezuko and his younger siblings like this years ago, and he’s slept in futons smaller than this when on missions, Inosuke’s shins in his face and Zenitsu’s drool on his knee, but none of them have been like this. 

None of them have been with Hayami.

Next to him, Hayami curls up into his side, her hand reaching for his and Tanjirou seriously worries that his heart might just burst from his chest with how hard it’s beating. Trying to keep his breathing even, he chances a glance to his side - and nearly has a heart attack from how close Hayami’s eyes are to his.

“S-so.” Tanjirou curses internally at the way his voice cracks. From the little giggle at his side, he’s sure that Hayami has heard it, much to his mortification. “Do you want me to count some snow bunnies?”

Hayami smiles next to him, an innocent, beautiful sight. “Count snow bunnies?” She echoes. “I thought people are meant to count sheep.” Tanjirou nods dumbly. She’s too close, her subtle, sweet scent muddling his mind, scattering his thoughts. 

“I used to do that for my younger siblings when they couldn’t sleep or when they got nightmares. There weren’t any sheep near our home in the mountains, so I counted snow bunnies instead.” Tanjirou explains in a hushed whisper, careful not to disturb the delicate moment they’re sharing between them. “Ah, apologies. I can’t count very high.”

“I doubt I’ll stay awake that long.” Hayami hums lightly, before she rests her head on the pillow so that she can watch Tanjirou. Tanjirou feels his cheeks burn once again at her gaze. “Could you count them for me, please? Your voice is nice to listen to.”

“O-okay.” Tanjirou mumbles, shy at the unexpected compliment. He sucks in a breath. “Here I go. One snow bunny, two snow bunnies, three snow bunnies...”

It’s at thirty snow bunnies that Hayami moves closer, her cheek pressed against his shoulder as he tries to remember the number that comes next. It’s at sixty-eight snow bunnies that she’s curled up against his side, their hands clasped tightly, her breathing soft and even next to his as he struggles to keep his eyes open and to continue counting.

He never reaches a hundred, both of them lost in sweet dreams and the warmth of each other.

#kamado tanjiro #tanjiro #kamado tanjirou #kamado tanjirō #kamado #tanjirou #kamado tanjiro x reader #demon slayer #demon slayer fanfic #kny fanfic #kny #kny tanjiro kamado #kny tanjirou #kny tanjiro #kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic #kimetsu no yaiba tanjiro

[jimlingss]

The President’s Son [Finale]

Chapter 19 - Chapter 20 [Finale]

➜ Words: 4.4k

➜ Genres: 100% Fluff, Slice of Life, Bodyguard!AU

➜ Summary: Kim Taehyung is the President’s son, mischievous and playful, and infamous for being a troublemaker. When everyone’s given up, they call for you to be his personal guard. There’s no other choice when your dad’s assigned you to it and surprisingly Taehyung doesn’t mind either. Maybe because you happened to grow up with that brat.

He can’t be any happier.   He can’t feel any more content.   “This abstract piece is called ‘companion’, created by the student Kim Taehyung. At first glance, it certainly appears overwhelming and almost..sad. But upon analyzing, many of the dull colours come together brightly and the shadows in the piece aren’t unwelcoming. It’s a very warm painting indeed. Well done…”    It’s a sight to behold — a dark-haired college student standing right next to his own exhibit, his art in a golden frame displayed beside him on the wall as his professor makes rounds with different groups of people to explain each piece. His own artwork is small, modest, pushed at the back of the gallery, but he’s still beaming with pride, gloating in the praise.   People stand around to stare, entering the back space and naturally drawn into his painting. No longer do people look at him. No longer do his peers gawk at him — Kim Taehyung — running from a horde of suited men that are hot on his tail and who scream his name. He doesn’t provoke attention from who he is, or rather who his father is. Their eyes don’t scrutinize him.    They’re pinpointed to what he’s created. They are absorbed into his art, into what he’s done for himself.   He feels free like this, standing here in the background, watching others instead of them watching him.   The man runs his hand through the strands of his hair, causing his fitted, white shirt to pull from his dress pants, having been tucked in. His clothes are normal, hair combed regularly to cover his forehead, presentation of himself absolutely ordinary — never once giving hints that he’s the wealthy son of a world leader. He doesn’t have brand name clothing, an overly polished appearance, shiny cars or luxurious watches to his name.   Just his painting, you, and himself.   And that’s enough for Taehyung.   “Are you sad?”   “Why would I be?”   Taehyung turns to smile at you. It’s startling to see him with black hair — it reminds you way too much of when he grew up with you all those years ago. But it’s not bad. Not at all. Quite the contrary.   He had decided a few weeks ago it was time for a change, so you helped him dye his hair back to its natural dark colour. You wonder what his hairdresser would say, or how loud she’d shriek if she saw the poorly done job. But in your opinion, you think you did a good job. It looks nice.   “Your dad couldn’t make it.”   “Nah.” Taehyung swats his hand lifelessly. “It’s fine. You’re here, right? And Jin, Jungkook, and Jimin stopped by to see too. I’d rather not have hundreds of bodyguards here anyways. Those three were enough chaos. Almost got me kicked out of here too.” Laughter bubbles up his throat.   You smile, shifting to stare, head quirking to the side. It’s a kind of art that you’re beginning to admire despite still understanding very little. It’s pleasant on the eyes and you get a sense of bliss from looking at it.   “It’s beautiful, Taehyung.”   “I know.” The man grins before glancing at you and his eyes stay. “Thanks for coming. I know you were off-duty today, so….”   “Of course I’d come,” you tease. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”   “Get over here.” There’s a humongous smile plastered on his stupid face and his arms extend, hands squeezing the air.   Your smile immediately falls, expression glazing over to be blank again. “What did I say about PDA?”   “I don’t care. Just come here.”   There’s an extended moment of silence. Then, you sigh and comply with his will, taking one small step to the side. Immediately, Taehyung engulfs you in his arms, almost lifting you into the air. He giggles, nuzzling and squeezing you tight. It’s as unbearable as it is cute.   There are times Taehyung’s overwhelmingly cheesy and teasing, trying to get under your skin or vying for a reaction, yearning for a kind of attention he receives from nowhere else, much like how he was when he was a kid. But there are also times he does those things, yet he’s sincere, genuine, his innocent self. Times when he’s passionate, ambitious, starry-eyed.   And you love all parts of it.    All parts of him.   Taehyung finally puts you down and he reaches down to hold your hand securely, intertwining his fingers with yours. “I’m surprised you managed to convince your dad and my dad that you didn’t need a bodyguard today.”   “I have my ways. I can be very persuasive, you know.” He winks with another laugh. “They knew you were going to come anyways, so in case anything happened you’d be here. But….I have a feeling that a bodyguard won’t be necessary anymore.”   “Really?”   Taehyung shrugs. “Maybe when I’m around the Blue House, but I’m not really causing trouble anymore. I’m not running away or making headlines and it’s not like I’m a target…..there’s no reason for me to be under constant surveillance anymore.”   It means a lot — he might finally have the freedom he wishes for, you might be assigned elsewhere, and that someday with Taehyung might be soon.   “That’s….good news.”   “Isn’t it?” Taehyung squeezes your hand. There’s a pause, another group passing by. He hums a note. “Hey, dumbo.”   “Yes?”   “Will you stand here and wait for me? I really need to go to the bathroom. I’ve been holding it in for like an hour now and I drank a whole water bottle cause I was so nervous and I’m kind of dying here…”   “Go, you dork.” You grin and he laughs, dashing down the hall like an absolute clown.   Two minutes pass with you admiring the art around and the gallery itself. It’s rather white, the walls painted a pearly eggshell shade, and the soft lights come down from the ceiling, putting each piece under its own spotlight. It’s beautiful, and you’re beyond proud of Taehyung for making it here. It’s an amazing feat and you realize his potential in pursuing an art career…   Eventually, your marveling is interrupted by a woman approaching.   She’s dressed in a black, posh dress, holding a brochure that was given out at the entrance near the gift shop. She smiles and calls out, “Y/N!”   “Oh, Mrs. Kim.” You meet her halfway. “How are you?”   “Good, good. You?” There’s a nod and you reply with the same answer.    The older woman takes the opportunity to look around, in awe as much as you are, and she approaches Taehyung’s art piece slowly. Her eyes flicker all over, taking the time to soak it all in.   “Taehyung’s in the washroom.” You hitch a thumb over your shoulder. “Should I go get him?”   “No, no, it’s fine. He’ll come back eventually. My goodness....” She’s breathless, more focused on the art in front of her. Taehyung’s stepmom glances at you. “He’s amazing, isn’t he? I didn’t know he was so talented. I should’ve made his dad come to see. The fact that he made it here is already…”   “Incredible.”   “Yes, incredible.” She smiles, finally finding the right word for it and she takes a long moment to gaze at it. “We should really put this up in the Blue House, shouldn’t we? I mean it’s so beautiful. It would look great in the red room.”   “I think that’d be a great idea,” you agree with your own smile.   “He couldn’t have done it without you,” she says suddenly and out of nowhere. You don’t know what she means. It’s not like you were the one who picked up the brush, chose the paints, and touched the canvas. You didn’t even help by providing advice or giving your opinion — Taehyung didn’t even let you look at it until it was finished.   But his stepmother reads your confusion and smiles gently, explaining, “I really don’t think he would’ve been able to depict this feeling without you. It’s called companion, right?” She glances at the name tag, the tiny slip of paper next to the artwork.   She murmurs, “Taehyung’s been a lot...happier with you here. I don’t even know how to thank you.”   “You don’t,” you tell her. “I’m happy to be here too.”   The woman smiles, her lipstick stained mouth pulled by the corner and she turns back. “He’s lucky to have someone like you,” she says despite how you feel like the lucky one. “He’s certainly not the same person he was a year ago…”   “What are you doing here?”   “Oh, Taehyung, honey.” His stepmother comes up to him in spite of his disgusted expression at the term of endearment. “I was just passing by, thought I’d drop in to see the exhibit.”   “....cool.” He’s nonchalant and you’re taken aback at how he’s not as hostile as before. “Thanks, I guess.”   “It’s my pleasure.”   “Well, what do you think about it?”   “It’s very beautiful.” She grins. “I was thinking about putting it in the red room after it was done being displayed here.”   “Really?”   “Yes. How much are you selling for?”   “Uh….three thousand,” he throws out the first random number he thinks of.   The posh woman nods her head, her mouth slightly pouted before it tugs into yet another reserved smile. “It’s a done deal then.”   “Wait.” Taehyung’s brows are practically lifted into his hairline. “Seriously?”   She holds back laughter. “Seriously.”   In one instant, he’s become three thousand dollars richer. Taehyung instantaneously spins around towards you with a humongous grin. You know that glimmer in his eye — he’s ready to sweep you off your feet again. And the excitement is infectious.   It’s his first sale, and a big one on that.   You muse how many plans he has in store, and you’re happy to be with him every step of the way.    It’s only just begun.

The event is held in the luxurious hall near the back of the Blue House, wide space filled with polite chatter and masked smiles that don’t crack when they’re far too practiced. Each person displays a surface level perfection, mute laughter filled with small talk as glasses of champagne are passed around, waiters and waitresses weaving in and out of groups of people.   But then it’s broken with obnoxious laughter coming from the corner.   In the midst of the bustle, you’re holding your palm against your mouth, trying to muffle your own giggling sounds. Jimin’s in a similar state, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to prevent more people from looking over.    Jungkook rolls his eyes, but his grin is still spreading into his face. “God, can you not try to make such shitty jokes? It really makes you uncool and this event’s supposed to be for you.”   “Aw, lighten up, Kook.” Jin grins. “It’s not every day we get to drink champagne in my honour.”   It’s the first time you don’t have to keep yourself alert. Your arms aren’t behind your back. You’re not standing straight and looking forward with an impassive expression. There’s no need to pretend you’re a stone statue, or that you’re part of the wallpaper or decoration.    It’s freeing to actually be part of the crowd, to be invited and not blurred in the background to observe others.    “Yeah, but it’s every day that I have to hear you try bad jokes. Should’ve never given you that joke book.”   “Please. I think I’ve discovered a great skill in comedy.” He motions to him with his flute of bubbling champagne. “When it’s your turn to get a promotion, I’ll let you make the rules.”   “That’s a done deal. But it might take a while.”   “Okay, but what does that badge and certificate even mean, Jin?” you pipe up and point out, asking the question everyone’s been meaning to ask. “What does the promotion exactly entail?”   “Well, it’s a pay raise...and now I got bigger teams to manage, more of them too, chickpea.”   “So we’re gonna see you less in the field?” Jimin inquires.    “I mean, I’ll still be around. But maybe less.”   Taehyung grins. “You’re going for Y/N’s dad’s job, huh?”   “Maybe.” Seokjin shrugs playfully despite you knowing that it’s what your dad already intends.   Seokjin is the groomed successor and a good one at that. The event was held to congratulate him and solely him after all. After so many years of working hard, he deserves every bit of recognition. Everyone had to admit it, even both Jungkook and Taehyung who were a bit petty in their jealousy.   Sooner or later, Jin will take your dad’s job when the old man retires and Jungkook will be promoted to Seokjin’s current position. As for Jimin, you’re sure he’ll climb the ladder too, find a place especially made for me — he has the best temperament of all of you and he’s the most pleasant. You’re not worried about any of them. You’re excited for their prospects.   All of them continue to banter and bicker with one another, disregarding the strange looks from people eavesdropping, and nearly causing your temples to start throbbing…   But there’s no place you’d rather be than surrounded by your friends.   //   “You’re feeling okay, right?” you ask, peeking at your partner. “I don’t want to have to carry you on my back if you get drunk again.”   “I’m fine,” he nags back at you before chuckling. “And I promise I'll drag my own feet back. I’d rather break your back in other ways.”   You lightly scoff, continuing to walk side by side with him down the path.   There was finally a moment of privacy that you stole away in the whole gathering. It’s been busy lately in Taehyung preparations for the gallery and you being part of the team to set up Seokjin’s party. Not much time has been spared with one another.   “Hey, I heard your dad wanted to run again. My dad told me. Apparently the campaign manager has real high hopes this time he’s gonna be president again.”   “Yeah….I know.” Taehyung sighs, eyes flickering up to stare at the clouds passing. “Is it….is it bad I hope he doesn’t win?”   “No. It’s not bad.”   He smiles gently, finally having someone who understands him to the degree that he wants them to. He doesn’t need to just think by himself anymore. He has someone to listen. “I’m just tired of all this.”   “I know.” You squeeze his hand and you both come to a standstill together.   “There’s something I have told you yet.”   “What is it?”   “I’m really going to drop my poli sci major,” Taehyung tells you and shrugs. “Apparently my stepmom finally convinced my dad. She must’ve really liked my painting cause she went home and gave him an earful about letting me do whatever I want.”   “Really? That’s...great.”   “Yeah, I know. She’s not so bad, huh?”   “Yeah, she really isn’t.” It’s what you’ve been trying to tell him for a long time now and Taehyung coming to the realization makes you even happier.   “My dad and I are going fishing soon. I...invited her to come this time.”   “That’s great, Taehyung.” You mean it genuinely too. And Taehyung nods, comforted that his difficult decision is the right one.   “And there’s something else I’ve been thinking about. Remember when I asked you to come with me? If I were to leave abroad? I was thinking...soon. Like in six months. I really want to go. Finish my degree there and then continue in an art school.”   It takes a moment for you to choose your words carefully, but you try to stay as honest as possible. “I...think you should.”   Kim Taehyung swallows hard. He hesitates. And he musters the courage inside of himself.   “Will you come with me?”   You’ve known this boy at eight years old. He was a tornado. A storm. The seven year old had rounded cheeks pinched red, cute eyes and a playful smile. And he wasn’t respectful. He never stayed quiet. He wasn’t well-mannered in the least bit. Taehyung is naturally a troublemaker, a troublemaker who flourished in misbehaving and trickery. He’s a handful and you were forced to babysit and watch over him. He was your responsibility, someone you had to protect since the beginning. And he caused you a lot of your childhood gripes and headaches.   But you returned to find out how much you missed him. It seemed like he had grown up in an instant, right before your eyes. There was someone deeper in front of you, someone that wasn’t a chore or purposely a nuisance, someone that wasn’t a child who teased you anymore.    While he’s still a mischievous adult, he’s become attractive. Captivating.   Even if it’s hard to articulate and say it out loud. He knows your shortcomings, knows your emotions, shoulders your burdens. And Taehyung knows he’s become someone who you cherish and hold dear to you.   “I never thought you’d ask.”   //   It’s less awkward than all the times before.   It seems like the more visits you make, the less tense the space becomes. Instead, it’s homey and it’s quickly becoming a place you can go to if you need.   “What are these?” His hands dig inside the sparkly gift back until he’s holding balls of fabric in his hands with a disapproving grimace.    “They’re socks.” You clear your throat. “I- uh…..noticed the pairs that you wear have a lot of holes in them. They were on sale so I got them for you. I should’ve probably gotten something better, but—”   “No….no, I needed something like this.” Your father’s eyes flicker up to look at you. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”   “Oh. I’m glad.” You fiddle with your fingers that are inside your lap before taking a deep breath like how Taehyung taught you. “If you ever need to buy any more then I can.”   The old man nods and tries them on. He wiggles his toes to test the stretch and it makes you smile, relieved that it fits perfectly on him. After a minute, he rolls them off and while preoccupied, casually asks, “Are you really going with that boy?”   There’s a beat of silence.   You don’t know where he heard it from, especially considering it’s not official and no announcements have been made, but you don’t ask. “Yeah, I think I am…”   “Stay safe,” he says and while it’s simple, you know it means a lot.   Your father never speaks without thinking carefully, always deliberately choosing his words — you recognize it now, how his little statement means a whole lot more.    The weight of his words this time are always heavy, carrying the load of his worries and still giving into the claim of your freedom. You wonder how hard it was for him to let you go at age thirteen, what drove him to that decision, one that you had resented him for which made it harder. You wonder what he thought when you decided not to return, to stay where you were and continue a life there….   Now you’re leaving again, but—   “I’ll come back. Eventually. And I'll make sure to call too as much as possible.”   The corner of your father’s mouth subtly pulls. “I'll be here if you ever need me.”   You want to tell him to keep his fridge full, to eat well, to make sure not to work too much, and to stay warm during cold winters — but he already knows these things, he knows what you want to convey through the small gift, by coming here today, by showing up and making time for him.   For a long moment, you look at your dad. You trace his diminishing backside with your eyes as his feet pad away into his quaint bedroom, putting away his new pairs of socks in the creaky wardrobe. You’re glad to see him so well. A year ago, you were worried about the condition he was in. But he made a home for himself that suits him well, quiet and small, cozy and comfortable. He’s alive, and healthy enough to yell at scared newbies.    There was no reason to worry.   He returns, hand gripping along the door frame. Your father coughs and looks away. “If...you ever need a job, you can always come work for me again.”   “Okay.” You smile at him. “Thanks, dad.”   It was hard to come back, to make the decision, to actually act upon it. But you’re glad you did it.   Even if there was nothing to be concerned about, you’re thankful you stepped foot down into this city again, that you came knocking on his door. There’s no regret whatsoever. 

The bike is a baby blue, a shade meant to welcome newborns and decorate nurseries from ceiling to floorings. It’s a soft and pale hue, pastel, and easy on the eyes. It comforts you, reminding of morning skies just before dawn breaks or calm oceans when the sun isn’t blinding. And somehow, the colour has become associated with him now.    When you think of Taehyung, you think of baby blue.   “I’m not gonna lie,” he says out loud. “I’m gonna miss this.”   The paved path is smooth, grounds endless and the scent of grass constantly maintained and cut fills your senses. Once Taehyung builds enough momentum and stops pedalling, letting the built speed push him forward, the metal chains on the wheels clink — it’s the only noise you perceive as the two of you move farther away from the house.   “You know we can always get a bike over there, right?” Your hands are placed on his waist, settled in the backseat as he continues to pedal. “We can rent one or buy one. It’s actually a better method of transportation.”   Taehyung glances behind him for a brief second. “We can get one of those tandem bicycles so I don’t have to drag you around.”   “If you want.”   “Kidding.” He laughs, the sound cheerful and hearty. “I like it when you hug me, keeps me warm.”   You scoff lightly, finding his flirting too cheesy. But you give in anyhow instead of drawing away, moving to lean your head on his broad backside and pull him a little closer. It still amazes you that warmth always seems to radiate off of him.   “Taehyung?”   “Hmm?”   “I’m happy,” you tell him as if it’s a secret that’s been kept hidden for a while now.   It’s hard to pinpoint your emotions, even now after you’ve been working towards expressing yourself more verbally. But right now, you’re so sure of it. In this moment, you are entirely content and fulfilled.   You’re not sure how long it’ll last when happiness is so fleeting, but you hang onto the emotion blooming inside your chest with a tight grip. Your relationship with your dad is not only salvageable, but in better condition than you ever imagined it to be. You’ve gained friends here without even knowing, people you cherish and adore, and who will still be here waiting when you return.    And Taehyung’s right beside you.    There’s nothing missing from your life anymore.   “Me too.” The man smiles softly to himself. “How could I not be? I’m with the person I fell in love at first sight with. Well technically second sight.”   “What?”   “When I met you the second time. You know….when you came back and basically saved my life? You remember, right?”   “Yeah.” You laugh quietly, recalling how you didn’t even know it was him — just some reckless kid on a bike and getting on the road without looking both ways. He almost got hit by a car and you sigh at the memory. You remember how hopeless he was and still is. “Of course I do.”   “No offense, when I met you as a kid, I don't think I thought anything of you. I barely remember. But I bet I thought that you were easy to tease...and that you were weird. You literally didn’t smile or laugh or even move that much,” he continues on his tangent after laughing, now endeared by the memories of you as a child, “But the second time, damn. I remember being so star-struck. You were so sexy, still are, by the way. But I swore my guardian angel swooped down to save my life.”   You’re not impressed. “You’re saying you liked me from the start?”   “Sort of,” Taehyung admits.   Though somewhere along the way, the infatuation deepened and flowered into what it is now.   “I’m...flattered.”   “You should be. I don’t always fall in love with beautiful girls.”   You scoff lightly, though the infectious smile proves you’re not solely rolling your eyes at his grease. Taehyung seems to be in a nostalgic and reminiscent mood when he suddenly asks—   “Hey, remember when I asked you to ride off into the sunset with me?”   He continues, “We could be whoever we wanted to be, go wherever we wanted to go. It’s really happening, huh?”   “I guess.” You never thought about it that way — starting fresh and all. “But we still have our names and our social security number. So it’s not like we’re really becoming whoever we want—”   “It’s similar enough,” he interjects. “Don’t ruin it by being so literal.”   “Okay, fine.” You smile, eyes fluttering shut as the breeze caresses against your cheeks and you mold yourself against his backside. “Whatever you want.”   “I only want you,” he counters back, not without spite and only with sweetness.   “Well, you have me.”   Taehyung laughs and it draws from his chest, bubbling all the way out. “I would turn around to kiss you right now, but I’d crash and I’m not sure you’d be happy with that…”   His dark-hair whisks in the wind, oversized white shirt billowing in front of him. He savours the way your arms are wrapped around his abdomen. The girl he loves is actually here and the mere fact that you feel the same way has his stomach fluttering, erupting into butterflies.   For all the hardships that comes with being the President’s son, and for wishing so desperately for a sense of normalcy, if he was never placed in this position, he doubts he would have this opportunity.   Taehyung realizes he would do it over and over again. You made it worth every second.   He turns around, smiling as he tells you, “I still mean it — I wouldn’t mind going anywhere with you.”   As long as you’re together, nothing else matters. Kim Taehyung might be a handful — mischievous — a troublemaker. But the same reasons of why he gives you a headache are the same as why he’s so endearing to you.   While a chapter has closed in your life, a new future together awaits.

#bts fanfic #taehyung fanfic #taehyung fluff #bts fluff #bts scenario #FINALLY IT'S OVER #THE SERIES IS DONE #WOW I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYED THIS #props to everyone and anyone who read every single word of this series #thank you #I know it wasn't that exciting but I hope it was still wholesome and relaxing to read #until next time folks #Jimin's slice of life coming up in about three weeks

[saudadeonly]

burn my heart out: remember the words (Chapter 1)

Read on ao3. Part 8, consisting of 3 or 4 chapters. 

Death Eater!Sirius Black AU

Lord Voldemort wages war on Hogwarts but he is unaware of the years-worth of battle fought against him.

(or, several instalments following the Battle of Hogwarts with Sirius Black standing on the wrong side)

Minerva’s regular visitor brings worse news than usual.

Word count: 3940

___

March 1983

Throughout the war, Minerva has become used to her office being not only a safe place for her students and colleagues but also a transition point for all those who wish to go home to be with their families. Although sometimes a foolish decision, given the frequency of Death Eater attacks outside Hogwarts, no one ever tries to stop them. At this point, it seems only a matter of prolonging the inevitable and Minerva cannot fault anyone for wanting to spend their last days with their loved ones rather than studying for a future that may never come.

Therefore, it is by sheer dumb luck that her office is hosting no one but her when the door opens and the familiar figure of Sirius Black steps through, wand already in hand to make himself visible again, his outline slowly colouring in.

Even before he looks up, Minerva knows something is terribly wrong. Sirius rarely comes to Hogwarts – not since James nearly discovered him in the office when swinging by to pick up Harry – instead preferring to arrange other, less conspicuous meeting points, and only ever with a letter sent days in advance so she can make sure no one so much as detects his presence. It’s a wonder he even managed to get to her door unnoticed since Flooing was thrown out of the picture when Voldemort took over the Ministry.

His hair is pushed back from his face and wind-swept but not a string lies out of place otherwise. His robes, much the same as always, are clean and pressed, his shoes polished. He has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, giving a clear view of the gauntlet strapped across his forearm, where he now tucks his wand. He lifts his hands easily when Minerva points her wand at him and he shifts into Padfoot, shaking his fur out. Even as a dog’s, the grey eyes are dull.

Minerva follows his example a moment later and takes the opportunity to stretch her back as a cat before they both shift back into their human forms.

Sirius picks at lint on his robes. “I have bad news and terrible news,” he says, with less worry than the words would necessitate, considering they’re from him. As a matter of principle, his news are bad to begin with. “Which ones do you want to hear first?”

Minerva rises from behind her desk, putting her wand away, and steps around it. “Well, in keeping with the spirit of the game, I suppose terrible news.”

It might have coaxed a smile out of him otherwise. As it is, he only presses his lips together and then says, “Voldemort is attacking Hogwarts within hours. As soon as the sun is down.”

Minerva allows herself a moment to take a deep breath, to absorb not only the fact that this is happening but all other things this drags along; she considers the dangers of it all, of the inevitable fight and pain and blood, coming not only her way but the other professors’ and most importantly the students’ as well.  She has done her fair share of spying in the course of the war, has been on the brink of discovery or even torture more times than she could count but she’s never felt death quite as close as it dallies now. It’s come sooner than she would have preferred.

“Alright,” she says, lifting her chin, straightening her back, and the corners of Sirius’s mouth do turn up imperceptibly now. “We have to let Albus know.”

Sirius’s eyes flick away before they meet hers again. “That’s the bad news,” he says, running a hand along his jawline. A slight stubble covers it. “Dumbledore isn’t here.”

Minerva’s heart stops then continues to beat at twice the pace. Albus’s absence means their chances reduced by half. “Why isn’t he here and why do I not know about it?” Then, after deciding the loss of her friend has to come after the loss of their headmaster, “Is he dead?”

“He’s alive and well, as far as I know.” He moves to stand next to one of the desk chairs, his hand gripping the back of it until it turns white. Now that Minerva takes a proper look at him, she can see that his cheeks, although slightly filled out over the past few months, are as pale as a sheet. “This year’s Defense Against the Dark Arts professor wasn’t whoever you thought he was but Rabastan Lestrange. He led Dumbledore away on a goose chase this morning.” He breathes deep, looks at Minerva with eyes weighted by dark bags. “Dumbledore sent Professor Howe to relay the news, but she was never to make it to you, per Rabastan’s Imperius Curse. She exited Hogwarts through one of the hidden tunnels and relayed all the information to Voldemort. She was then tortured to death.”

Bile rises in Minerva’s throat. It’s not so much the news itself, although they are horrid, as it is the blunt, blank tone of Sirius’s voice, the pure resignation she can read in every part of him.

“Paula,” she whispers. The Muggle Studies professor was young but dedicated and beloved, not to mention incredibly talented. Her loss strikes not only on an academic or personal level but also with the loss of not having her here to fight for Hogwarts.

Before she can let her thoughts wander deeper Minerva forces herself to focus on the matter at hand, which is all the protection she has to ensure for the castle in only a few hours. If she were a woman of curses she wouldn’t have shut up for the past few minutes.

“Is there time to evacuate the students?” she asks instead. She will do anything if only the students get to come out of this unscathed. The young ones, the little ones – oh, Merlin. She can only wish now that they had all gone home when there was time.

Sirius shakes his head, biting the inside of his cheek. “All the secret passages are being utilised as we speak,” he says, “and there are no others.” His voice grows quieter when he adds, “I told them about all of them. They wouldn’t have stopped otherwise.”

Coming from a boy who was a part of a group that probably knew Hogwarts better than the backs of their own hands, Minerva doesn’t doubt it. She can’t find it in herself to blame him for telling them either but –

Those children, those bright children. Dumbledore promised – he promised – they would be safe here. Minerva did, too, and she doesn’t like going back on her promises. She’ll have to alert the others, then call on all other residents to fight for Hogwarts and make sure the Order is informed, summoned as soon as possible –

Something scratches against the door, low enough she wouldn’t have even heard it if she wasn’t so focused on every little action around her. It makes her flinch, just the little bit.

“There is another thing, Professor –” Sirius starts but Minerva has already moved to open the door, wand at the ready, trusting him to move out of sight from whatever awaits on the other side.

She blinks down at a black cat that stares back at her with slanting grey eyes. It’s unusually large and has a burst of white fur across its neck and down its chest. An old piece of parchment, torn at the edges, hangs from its mouth. It steps past her and, in the distance between the door and her desk, shifts into Regulus Black, who holds out the parchment to Sirius, saying, “Filch’s bloody cat nearly killed me for it, too.”

Sirius gives a sideways, sheepish look to Minerva, one she hasn’t seen long enough it takes her a moment to readjust. “That would be the other thing,” he says.

Minerva sighs. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” she says as she stores away her wand and moves to sit back at the table. She looks at Regulus, his serious face a pleasant shade of tan, his figure broader than the reed-thin boy she last saw years ago. She knew that he wasn’t dead, although Sirius never really said anything to either confirm or deny and, similarly, she didn’t ask. In a way, she understood he only wanted to save her from knowing things she didn’t need to. Strange, that not knowing could help you in the war. “You did have a couple of years for yourself there.”

The right side of Regulus’s mouth turns up. She never knew him as well as she did Sirius but in their school years, his quiet talent and pride were a welcome contrast to his brother’s boisterous, roundabout way of achieving the necessary. “Good to see you, too, Professor,” he says, pushing a hand through his hair.

“Should I be expecting any other supposedly dead Blacks?” she asks as she reaches for a piece of parchment.

Sirius and Regulus exchange a look, Sirius lifting a shoulder at Regulus’s wide eyes.

“Ted was badly hurt, past full recovery,” Regulus says after a minute, softly, “and Andromeda’s wand will fight against her before it will fight for her. They’re safe.”

Minerva nods. Ted and Andromeda were pleasant students, certainly preferable than anyone else of Andromeda’s relatives, and she never really wanted to know of their fate for sure, no matter how loudly Bellatrix Lestrange pronounced her triumph over the black sheep of her family. She never dared to ask Sirius but she should have known he was brilliant enough to have pulled it off.

Sirius steps forward and puts the old piece of parchment down on her desk. It’s familiar, with its tattered edges and bent corners, lacking only four bright grins around it, and Minerva glances up at Sirius. His face is caught somewhere between reminiscence and deep-seated heartache.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” he says, the words soft, tapping his wand to the front of it and both Regulus and Minerva lean closer to look as the parchment unfolds itself, ink bleeding out from the tip of Sirius’s wand, fanning out and crisscrossing into a familiar outline. The words that bloom up at the front are not unfamiliar to Minerva – nor, it seems, to Regulus, whose mouth pulls up in a half-smile.

Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs

Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to present

THE MARAUDER'S MAP

“Brilliant,” Regulus breathes, looking over the names that mill about the castle. Most of the students and professors are in classrooms, unaware of the attack coming their way, but there are a few individuals scattered throughout the corridors and other rooms. Outside the castle, beyond the students from Professor Kettleburn's class, there are no people – except for the few names, names Minerva has heard too many times in the past few years, slipping through unnoticed.

Sirius runs his finger across seven lines leading out of Hogwarts in what Minerva would call unconventional ways. “These are all viable options for entering,” he says, then settles on a passage on the fourth floor. Little dots are already gathering there, milling about: Amycus Carrow, Alecto Carrow, Barty Crouch, Rodolphus Lestrange. “This one is spacious, makes for good ambush. Watch out here.” He moves his finger to the one underneath the Whomping Willow, one of the few Minerva actually knew of. “They won’t use this one, probably. No one’s too keen on passing through the Shrieking Shack so if you want to get anyone inside this is probably the best option. Not so much for getting out though. He’s had us cast alerting spells on all exits.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Didn’t think about the people wanting in.”

“Your best bet is to keep the students away from precarious places,” Regulus says, eyes flicking over the names of the people he must have once known well, slept and studied beside. “No towers.” He taps the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor common rooms. “These students should be split between Slytherin and Hufflepuff.”

“And put in fail-safes,” Sirius adds. “Change the Slytherin password once everyone’s inside, add protections, make the rebuttal for the Hufflepuff common room worse.”

“We have hours, not days,” Minerva reminds them. “It will take half of that to even get everyone gathered and sorted. And there’s the matter of sympathisers among the students themselves –”

“Evan,” Sirius says, as if it was ripped out of him, almost as if he hadn’t wanted to say it at all. He presses a hand to the side of his face briefly and doesn’t look at Regulus, who has gone pale. “Evan Rosier talked to the students before his death. Voldemort thought it was in his favour.” His other hand touches the side of his neck, the golden chain glittering there. “It was against.”

“The last generation vanished up in smoke when they graduated,” Minerva says, remembering the young, imperious faces that suddenly disappeared, that wanted no part in the fights all previous generations had been so keen to start. It makes much more sense now. “But there weren’t many new Death Eaters.”

“Evan did that?” Regulus breathes. Minerva can’t read the expression on his face but she does remember Regulus by Evan’s side throughout their school years – and Barty Crouch always on the other side.

Sirius nods, pressing his mouth into a thin line momentarily. “There were three generations he talked to – the other two should still be here. Sixth and seventh years by now. Talk to them. They must have sway over the others. Some might even want to fight for Hogwarts.” His grey eyes are firm. “You should let them.”

Sirius had cared for Evan before he died, had watched over him and never uttered his name to Minerva unless it was to tell her that he wasn’t bad. Once, he even asked her to help him but it seems long ago now, longer than the war, and it was too late by then. Evan’s death, and the one that followed it, gouged deep wounds into Sirius, wounds that are barely scabbed over by now and still foaming at the edges. Minerva’s chest hurts. She’s had years to see Sirius lose all that he loved and be slowly stripped of all that he was, bent to the point of breaking, but she only now notices how worn to the bone he is.

She nods, ducking her head lest he sees the pain in her eyes. Now is no time for crying. “Very well.”

Regulus sighs, a bridge between the lost world of yesterday and the crumbling one of today. “There is also the matter of Harry Potter.”

Harry, little Harry. Minerva’s grown attached to him this past year and a half, often playing the role of his minder while James and Lily were busy with either assisting at one of their classes or minor missions Dumbledore allowed them to keep them from going off on a tangent. He’s a bright little boy, rarely fussy and as loving as both of his parents combined. The thought of him being the key to ending the war hasn’t settled in yet – even if it has been over two years since the news – and even less so after Minerva saw him stuff no less than three marbles into his mouth.  

“Voldemort will tear down Hogwarts to find him,” Sirius says, running a hand through his hair. He sounds shaky, nervous for all that Harry means to him – he’s not just the son of his best friend anymore; he loves the boy for himself, probably even more than Minerva does. “If he stays here, no one will be safe. You have to get him out.”

Minerva swallows, giving him a long look. He knows as well as she does that that is easier said than done. “Sirius –”

“Give them the Map. It’s their best chance.” He licks his lips. “There is no other way to get out of Hogwarts but on foot.”

Minerva racks her brain but Sirius must have done his due diligence – there isn’t. The Floo is under Ministry’s supervision and so are Portkeys. Apparating is possible only outside of Hogwarts grounds and that’s only if the Potters make it to there. Hogwarts, the safest place in the world, has now become a prison for those it is supposed to guard.

“James will know the Map came from you. There is no one else that could have given it to me.”

Sirius shrugs. “My affiliation to Voldemort ends tonight, one way or another,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument, although Minerva wasn’t about to make one. “There is no way he will not suspect me after everything I’ve done today and I won’t live another minute in a world in his chains.”

Minerva glances at Regulus. His face is ashen, eyes focused on Sirius, deep with a pain that she can nearly understand, before they meet hers. They tell her all she needs to know, all she needs to quell nausea gathering up in her; Regulus will not lose Sirius, not again, and neither will she.

“There is an artefact Regulus has to find. It is key to Voldemort’s downfall,” Sirius goes on saying, either oblivious to or ignorant of the exchange between Minerva and Regulus. He moves back from the desk. “It’s here in Hogwarts.”

Minerva gestures with her hand, palm up. She doesn’t expect to find out the story behind it, nor does she have the time for it. “Be my guest,” she says. “We will secure the school in the meantime and try to relay the message to the Order.” She looks back at Sirius, leant against the mantelpiece, inches away from fire. “How many other supporters does he have?”

Arms crossed, Sirius pulls his mouth to the side. “Giants in large part, Dementors in full. They brought those you’ve imprisoned with them.” He pauses, then adds, “Werewolves. But they, with few exceptions, shouldn’t be a problem.”

Minerva raises her eyebrows. The Azkaban outbreak and the giants' affiliation, both conveniently not mentioned in the papers, are not news to her – she heard it from Sirius himself hours after it happened – but the werewolves' cooperation is. Sirius did spend nearly half a year combined with werewolves but she never knew that he got anywhere with them, at least not on the personal loyalty he’s implying.

Regulus looks at him sharply. “What did you do?”

Sirius shrugs. “I made a deal.” His eyes meet Minerva’s. “Hold your fire with them. They won’t harm unless they have to keep up the pretence.”

“Sirius,” Regulus hisses, taking a step towards him. “What did you promise them?”

Sirius sets his jaw, straightening up to stare back at Regulus. “What they deserve.”

“You know that’s risky, Sirius, they –”

“They wanted their voices heard,” Sirius says forcefully enough it makes Regulus pause. “I was in a position to give them that, at least.”

“If this comes back to haunt us, Sirius, I will take it very personally.”

Sirius blinks slowly. “It probably will,” he admits but he there is no trace of apology in his tone. Minerva doesn't know if Remus would be happy to hear what Sirius did or furious with him; when she finds out, she'll follow his lead. “We’ll discuss it then.”

Regulus drags a hand across his face, muttering something about headlong crashing and free rein, but his expression is clear once he looks back up. “Fine.”

“Now that we’ve settled that,” Minerva says, drawing their attention back to herself, “we should get going.” She glances at Sirius. “What will you do?”

“My place is, for the time being, at the Dark Lord’s side. I will try to tear the ranks down from the inside for as long as I can.” He inclines his head. “Then I cross over.”

It’s a bold plan, precarious even, but none of Sirius’s plans throughout the years were ever anything else – it was breath-taking, the brilliance with which he wove every little string through his checkpoints, the most important things in his life. Minerva has to trust that he will make the best of it now, too.

“Very well.” She flicks her wand and four silvery cats jump out of her wand, preening for only a second before Minerva sends them away. The zap of their power is getting to her but it will be better in a moment when they relay messages and disperse; only the one to reach Albus might have a long way to go. He doesn’t know what he’s left behind but that doesn’t mean he can’t find out about it. She stands up, letting the tips of her finger brush across the worn wood of her desk. She takes the Map and folds it over. James and Lily, currently in their quarters on the sixth floor, will know how to properly manage it. Even so, Minerva's heard the hastily whispered Mischief managed over the worn parchment enough times to make her own assumptions about it. “This is it, then.”

“I guess it is,” Sirius says and steps forward, jostling his shoulder against Regulus’s. The look Regulus gives him in return is fond, despite everything, and Minerva’s chest warms at the sight. At least they are on common ground after all these years. “I will exit through the passage leading to Honeydukes. After that, it won’t be safe to use anymore.”

“Understood.”

They leave her office together. The hallway outside is empty, so confirmed by the Map, and filtered with the warmth of the setting sun. It bathes Sirius’s and Regulus’s proud faces in gold but its dispersing warmth mostly reminds her that there is not much time left before the worst comes.

Sirius sketches a half-bow and the expression that crosses his face is almost amused; fond, at the very least, and a little bit scared. This option predicts only my hurting. “Pleasure doing business with you, Professor.”

Regulus, more reserved, bows his head. “Good luck, Professor,” he says, his voice all calm reassurance. “The stars are with you.”

They turn to go, both already several feet away, but Minerva’s heart aches. Through all the years of her and Sirius’s arrangement, he always came when the meeting was arranged, never failed to let her know what was going on and, above all, that he was alright. This is final, in a way that hurts, the stakes so much higher than they have ever been.

“Sirius,” she says and he turns, looks over his shoulder with his hair framing his face, mellowing out the sharpness of his cheekbones, the cut of his jaw. He’s not that much older than he was all those years ago, not where it matters to her, and it still hurts to think that he might not get to live out the rest of his life.

Be careful, she wants to say, or, Don’t do anything stupid, but he knows all those things because he’s gone years with only them as his guidance and it will do no good to tell him again. Thank you for trusting me, perhaps, or, If this is it, I’m glad I got to see you through it, but the words won’t come out. Funny thing, oncoming death and the turmoil it drags along.

“If we get through this, I’m confiscating the Map,” is all that she manages to say.

It feels flat, inadequate compared to everything behind them and all that they have yet to go through but a small smile crosses Sirius’s face. “I would expect nothing less,” he says and pushes Regulus down the hall.

#harry potter #sirius black #minerva mcgonagall #regulus black #minerva and sirius #sirius and regulus #evan rosier (mentioned) #death eater sirius black #not really #but technically #battle of hogwarts #in a world three degrees north

[ghosttotheparty]

cotton candy skies always look better in person

2. also available on AO3 chapter one

Lucas does his friends, he does.

But if anything, he feels more real in Antwerp. More like him and less like a statue of him. Not that he doesn’t feel safe or loved with his friends, of course he does, but walking around Antwerp with just a camera and camera bag in hand, he feels more like he can do anything. He’s not afraid of bumping into people he knows, not afraid of people recognizing him.

He’s started wearing rings, necklaces. He’s grown his hair out, into actual curls that fall down the back of his neck instead of halfway across his forehead like some sort of pathetic fringe. He’s painted his fucking nails, for God’s sake, even if most of them are just clear polish, blue and orange covering his left pinky and index fingernails, he feels bold. Unstoppable.

Maybe Noah has something to do with it. Noah, who somehow Lucas has been talking to more than Kes, Isa, and Jayden. Noah, who Lucas ran into in an art supply store two weeks before he left. Noah, who Lucas trusts enough to become one of three people in Utrecht that knows about him. Lucas had told him the third time they’d hung out, told him about his former hopeless crush on Kes, and sworn him to secrecy. (Noah had pretended to lock his lips, drop the key in his mug, and drink it.) After enough conversations, Noah had been able to change his mindset completely. “You can paint your nails and be masculine. You can paint your nails and be feminine. You can do whatever the fuck you want, and you can be whatever the fuck you want. Just don’t be a poser.” Lucas had laughed.

Ralph also knows. Lucas told his over a cup of coffee too, and even though he knows Ralph would be supportive if he told him he was moving to fucking Antarctica, he was still scared. Ralph had squealed and clapped when he said it, and Lucas had smiled, but when Lucas began to cry, Ralph scooted his chair over to him and held him while he told Ralph he was scared. Scared of what he saw in the news, scared of what he saw in the streets. Scared to look gay, scared to be gay. Ralph had held his head close to his chest, combing his fingers through his curls like his mother did when he was little. Ralph whispered to him quietly. “It’s scary. It is. But it’s not your fault. You’re not the problem. They are. You just have to live, okay?” Lucas has taken “to live” to heart. He’s done just surviving. Ralph gave him a little rainbow enamel pin and a kiss on the forehead before he left. (The pin now lives on the strap of his camera bag.)

And his mother knows. Lucas had had a full-blown panic attack in his room before telling her, but she claimed she already knew. (Which, of course, wasn’t the reaction he’d expected, nor was it the reaction he’d wanted, but he’ll take what he can get.) While he cried, she’d reassured him that God loves him. And he’d cried harder. “God loves you and whoever you love,” she’d said, “and I do, too.” There were tears in her eyes, too.

He’d never doubted that she loves him. She made it clear she did. She got him his camera, she’d bought all the art supplies he needed. She’d bring home “surprises” when he was little, usually stacks of printer paper from her office, or a new marker set. He’d just worried that maybe God wouldn’t love him. That his mom would gently tell him to repent, would send him to a camp because she wanted the best for him. The possibilities were endless. The day after he came out to her, Lucas had gone to Ralph’s to tell him, and they’d celebrated. Lucas felt loved.

After coming out to her, their relationship went back to the way it was when he was a kid before he realised he’s gay. They’d started having movie night every weekend, started cooking together. Lucas told her he used to like Kes, and she’d giggled like a schoolgirl. There were no secrets between them. And everything was fine.

Until all that shit happened.

The shit that landed her in an institute and him forced to make the choice between staying with his father in Utrecht or moving to a completely different city in a completely different country, with a cousin he hadn’t seen since he was eight. He’d chosen the cousin in a heart-beat, obviously.

When he’d gone to say goodbye to her, she was laying in bed, covered in crisp, white sheets, looking up at him through dripping eyes, scared like a child. “You’ll call me, won’t you?” “Of course, mama.” “Promise?” He’d taken her hands between his and held them to her heart. “Promise.”

He’d walked out of the building with her wedding ring around his ring finger. The ring she’d told him, she only kept because his name was engraved in it. “What about you?” he’d asked, He had her ring now, but that did that leave her with? She’d patted her belly, and although he didn’t know if she was referring to her stretch marks or the c-section scar, he’d laughed tearfully with her.

The ring he often forgets about, unable to feel it on his finger after he got used to it. But he still twists it when he gets nervous or anxious.

Like now.

He’s leaning against the wall of the convenience store, headphones on, music blasting, twisting the ring quickly. (He’d texted his mom the night she’d given it to him that it fit him perfectly. Loose enough to twist easily, but not so loose he had to worry about it falling off.) The sky is soft, everything he could see washed in a golden-pink light. For a moment, he regrets not bringing his camera with him.

He stands up straight when the doors to the studio building open. This is the seventh time he’s stood here at this hour, hoping the pretty boy in tights would make his way to the door. Not that Lucas would tell anyone.

His hope starts to fade now, as the stream of dancers slows down, longer gaps of time between the door shutting behind someone and opening for someone else. He analyzes everyone’s face. None of them is him.

What if he doesn’t come weekly? What if he only comes once a month or something? What if last week was a one-time thing and Lucas never sees him again? The questions swirl around in Lucas’s mind as he cranes his neck slightly, still searching.

Then, by some miraculous sort of divine intervention, the swings open almost a full minute after being close, and he walks out.

Fuck.

He’s fucking gorgeous.

Lucas takes his headphones off, sliding them around his neck, a smile creeping across his face. The boy is talking to a girl who Lucas recognises from last week. She’s missing the dark, almost theatrical makeup, but her dark red hair is hard to miss. They’re both laughing, the boy shoving the girl to the side, and she kicks him, throwing her leg up high so it hits his shoulder. He pretends to grab at it, and she drops her leg, scrambling backwards and omitting a “No!” loud enough that bystanders turn to look. He hushes her, his eyes wide with amusement, and Lucas smiles.

He doesn’t feel like approaching him yet, not with his friend right there, even though he’s been longing to just see him since last week, So he waits, watching, trying not to look creepy by pulling out his phone and holding it in front of himself. He pauses his music, realising he left it playing.

They go back to fighting, the girl throwing punches, missing, and the boy managing to hook his arm around her neck in a faux chokehold.

Other dancers around them watch before rolling their eyes and looking away, and Lucas laughs to himself. After a few seconds, the girl breaks away, shoving the boy away and kicking his back for good measure. They exchange a few words, soaked in laughter, that Lucas can’t hear, and after a minute, Lucas becomes anxious again, wondering if they might leave together. Maybe they’re dating, he thinks, his heart dropping. He keeps watching them, his fingertips tapping his knuckles, torn between waiting a bit longer to see if she leaves, like last time, and missing his chance if they leave together.

Lucas looks away, down the road, sighing, before looking back. The girl is looking at her phone, holding the boy away from her with her other hand. After a second she says something to him, sticking her phone in the pocket of her jacket, and shakes his hand. She punches him one more time before making her way down the street, and he flips her off as she waves.

Lucas watches as the boy looks down, pulling his phone out of his pocket and adjusting the strap of his bag. He looks like he could be waiting for someone.

Now or never.

Lucas takes a deep breath before making his way down the sidewalk. He passes in front of an alleyway, glancing down it to make sure no cars or bikes are coming. He’s still twisting his ring as the boy gets closer, and he shoves his hands in the pocket of his hoodie.

Up close, Lucas could see that there’s a mole right next to his eye, a detail that doesn’t show up in the photo he’d taken last week,

Fuck. The photo. What if he thinks it was super weird? What if he was creeped out by it? But the way he smiled… Lucas has never taken a photo of a smile like that. It looks real. Genuine. Honest. Maybe he doesn’t think it was that weird.

The thought of it pushes Lucas forward until he’s standing right next to him.

“Hi.” His voice is small. The boy startles and lifts his head, looking at Lucas. His eyes are a rich brown, his lashes dark. And Lucas’s stomach feels like it goes through a whole gymnastics routine as the boy smiles slowly, recognition sparking in his expression.

“Hey.” His voice matches his eyes.

They stare at each other for a second, much like they did last week.

“I was hoping you’d be here today,” Lucas says, rocking back on his feet as he takes in the boy’s face.

“Every Thursday,” he responds, still smiling.

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Good to know.” Lucas hopes he sounds bolder than he feels. The boy tucks his phone into his pocket, facing Lucas completely. His hoodie is a light cream colour, his jacket a dark brown, almost matching his hair. (Which looks ridiculously soft. Lucas doesn’t think about combing his fingers through the mess.)

“What’s up?” the boy asks.

Lucas takes a breath before answering. This is really happening.

“Nothing. Just wondered if you wanted to hang out.

The boy’s smile takes over his face again and Lucas stares at it.

“Yeah, for sure.”

“Unless someone is coming to get you,” Lucas adds uncertainly, almost interrupting him.

“My mom just told me I’m on my own tonight, so… I’m all yours.” Lucas notices the boy’s cheeks become pink and he has to suppress another smile. “What were you thinking about doing?”

“Uhm…” Lucas pauses before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a joint. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” The boy tilts his head to the side quickly, beckoning him. Lucas follows as he leads him to the alleyway. Most of the dancers are gone by now, the street quiet. “I’m Jens, by the way.”

Jens.

It feels like the sky opens up around him.

“Lucas.”

“Where are you from?” The boy, Jens, turns into the alley, dropping his bag to the ground and jumps up onto the dumpster. Lucas watches as he brushes his hands in front of himself before sticking the joint in his mouth and copying him. After brushing his hands off, he takes it out of his mouth and answers, realising Jens has been watching him.

“Utrecht.”

“Ah.” Jens watches as Lucas pulls a lighter out of his pocket and lights the joint, blocking it from the breeze. “That explains the accent.”

Right. Lucas forgets how he sounds different to everyone around him. To him, Jens is the one with a cute accent.

Lucas takes a drag, nodding, and holds it out to Jens as he exhales. Jens (and everything else, but Lucas is only looking at Jens) is covered in pink, like God put a pair of rose-coloured glasses on the sun.

“How long have you been in Antwerp?” Jens asks, turning to look at him, pulling a leg up in front of himself.

“Just a few weeks. I moved in with my cousin.”

“Mm. Trouble at home?” Jens leans forward and passes the joint to him. Their fingers brush together and it’s like he just touched a live wire. He sighs, tilting his head back and forth.

“You could say that.” He lifts the joint to his mouth, feeling Jens watching. “How long have you lived in Antwerp?” he asks, changing the subject.

“All my life.”

“Same house, same everything?”

“Yup.”

“Sounds boring.”

Jens snorts, looking at him. Lucas is on fire.

“It was.”

By the time the joint burns down, the sky is a glowing kind of dark blue. Lucas finds out that Jens has been dancing since he was a kid, that his little sister is going to start next year. He learns that Jens is good at math but despises history. “The only things I can memorise are combinations and routines.” Lucas tells him he’ll do his history homework if Jens does his math. It’s a deal. They shake on it. (And Lucas feels like he’ll be shaking for the rest of time.)

Lucas tells him he’s been into art and photography for years but only really started about a year or so ago. Jens asks if he still has the picture he took of him last week.

“Of course, how could I get rid of my only picture of my model?” he says, realising that they’re flirting.

“We can take a better picture next week.”

Next week. Lucas feels like his soul is smiling.

“Thursday evening photoshoot?”

“Perfect.”

Jens giggles and Lucas thinks it might be his favourite sound in the world.

That night, his cousin asks how his day went. Lucas tells him he wandered the city, taking pictures on his phone, which is true. He thinks about telling him about Jens, but doesn’t.

He wants to keep this for himself for now.

#i cant (or dont know how to im p dumb) italicise on ao3 and it makes me sad bc i love doing it #anyway heres chapter 2 #i was gonna post it this weekend but i finished it this morning and im impatient #vds #van der stoffels #vds week #lucas van der heijden #lucas vdh #jens stoffels #jens x lucas #cotton candy skies #cotton candy skies always look better in person #skam nl #wtfock

[fuse2dx]

December ‘20

Bugsnax

Bugsnax is an odd little title, landing somewhere between Pokémon Snap and Ape Escape. There’s a bit less of a frantic pace though, instead telling a tale of a remote island where the titular part-animal, part-snack race roam about, with a series of characters each having their own relationship to them that... typically involves eating them. The disappearance of one key villager has been the catalyst to everything heading into a state of confusion though, and as the new person in town, it becomes your job to pull everything back together, all while trying to piece together a better understanding of just what Bugsnax are in the first place.

The game’s main cast are loud, colourful, and full of personality, with some decent queer representation going on too. It’s regularly quite charming, but the story runs parallel to a pretty simple gameplay loop of going out to a new area, meeting an estranged villager, getting a new tool that allows you to catch some new ‘snax in service of a given task for said villager, that inevitably fuels their return to the village. While catching a good chunk of the 100-strong Bugsnax portfolio follows a fairly repeatable mould of trap-setting and capture, some require some slightly more creative thinking, and final smattering lean more on good fortune as you try and juggle a few different elements in a way that sets up the perfect snaring. 

I’ve seen some talk of folks who found the last sections of the game a little out of character, but having gone through all of the side missions before heading for the finish line, nothing came as too much of a surprise for myself. As a PS5 launch game it might lack the flair and experimentation that one might expect, but in better handling one’s expectations and seeing ‘just’ a game with extraordinary timing, it’s a pleasant and sufficiently entertaining romp - just nothing particularly out of the ordinary.   

Demon’s Souls

I was in two minds coming into this. I’ve played the opening few hours of Demon’s Souls about 5 times now, with each attempt before this one stalling at different points for a variety of petty and frustrating reasons. So this, a fresh chance to try again, newly polished and smoothed out, with active servers, and a revitalised community? Excellent! Yet on the other hand, how much of the magic is Bluepoint likely to have been able to recreate? Even as a shot-for-shot remake, what if they had diluted the experience? 

While I can’t speak with any particular authority here, very little seems to have changed outside of the visual overhaul. Some areas might be a bit easier to navigate owing to their new lick of paint, but enemies still pose the same threat, and everything is still where it should be, as are the obtuse, woefully under-discussed karmic swings that underpin its tendency system. Let’s not pull punches; it’s most notably a mean platform to build a game upon that makes suffering players suffer more, and is likely not one that you’ll even be aware of it before near irreversible damage is already done. From have undoubtably done similar concepts much better since, and while I might bemoan it, there’s also something to be said for allowing it to still exist just as it did at the series’ outset. It’s likely a wise choice on Bluepoint’s part to have left it untouched, albeit a slightly cruel one.

While the lack of a single, interconnected world was not yet on the cards for this particular Souls outing, there’s still plenty of great level design, with each of the game’s archstones providing a theme that’s adhered to brilliantly. A few exceptions aside, boss battles are typically less about flexing combat chops too, proving more of a challenge in solving how to approach them in the first place. In doing so, it creates some truly memorable moments alongside those that are purely frantic and rewarding thereafter. The same can be said for the game at large too; while its punishment of new players might be its most infamous quality, it does do a remarkable job in having you learn its every inch, and how best to deal with everything it cares to throw at you. While the chase of 1:1 replication might mean some of its jankiness remains, its visual overhaul and silky smooth frame rate certainly do a good job in helping you overlook it all and in embracing the still best-in-class world building. One of the years’ best, and by far the most compelling reason to date for next-gen ownership. 

Grindstone

Grindstone was front and centre right as the doors opened on Apple Arcade, and it’s a pretty easy to see why it’d be pegged for such honours. It’s bright, colourful, charming, and very easy to pick up. Some of Capy’s other noteworthy titles might fall more into the realm of the arthouse, but this is them at full power, exhibiting that ultimate strength of knowing just how to capture any given audience. Most of the game is spent planning out your turn, and it looks great even in this calm stillness - but as you unleash the mighty Jorj on each of his rampages, there is a satisfying spring into action that gives the same kind of satisfactory twang you might get from an elastic band, or a coiled slinky about to bound down a flight of stairs.

Within a few short stages almost all of the base mechanics are laid bare, with each turn asking you to plot a course through colour-matched enemies, and landing you far enough away from any enraged enemies that’d seek to do you harm. Chain for long enough and you’ll spawn a grindstone that’ll let you switch colours mid-combo, and building up enough hits can then allow you to expend that strength on monsters with higher health pools. The range of enemy types grows as you progress, as does the array of new tools you can build that allow you new ways of dealing with them all, but ultimately the balance that needs addressing is knowing just when to walk away. There’s typically three goals to each level - opening the exit being just the first of these - and while in some cases you might have a handle on things when the exit does open up, it’s often not the case, and hanging around too long carries the risk of losing all of your progress on the stage if you lose a clear path to your escape.

Some of its later mechanics and the level arrangements can be quite taxing, and while never completely unfair, it can definitely... grind... on your patience. For something that could easily be taken as a casual little puzzle game, it’s quite lengthy too - the path unbroken leads you through a whopping 180 stages, but without extensive draining of resources from each of these, you’ll likely need to try some of the side dungeons to help make your way to the end too. Very likely more than your bargained for then, and yet still plenty compelling to boot.

Necrobarista

Some neatly constructed character models and a snappy trailer might attempt to tell you otherwise, but let us be clear with one another that Necrobarista is very much a visual novel. A shock to the system this may be, but anyone reading this likely knows by now this is far from a bad thing around these parts, so let us look a little closer.

It’s quite a melancholic thing, set in a less than conventional, somewhat Purgatorial coffee shop, where the newly departed stop in for a brief spell and a brew before taking the next step into the great unknown. While there’s a setup here for lots of stories to be told, it really draws in on a small cast of characters who look after the shop, and how a few key visitors change the world built up around them. Between each of the game’s chapters there’s the opportunity to unlock new side stories dependent on which of the phrases you chose to identify with from the chapter just gone, and although short, these do some good work fleshing out some characters and breaking up the main tale. As the title would suggest, the particulars of coffee do come up as a point of conversation, but there’s no drink-making side shows here - just a lot of talking, scheming about how to cheat death, and the more chin-scratching topic of a more accepting approach to this great inevitability.

It’s fairly short - comfortably under 10 hours - but crucially gets plenty of character development from each of its cast given the tight focus. Rather than the still portraits that you might come to expect of the genre, characters are given a real depth with 3D models that convey just as much as their words, which also helps this effort. Perhaps most crucially, and whether it’s in spite of all of the death, or instead because of it, there’s plenty of quite thoughtful and heartfelt sentiment hidden inside it. Comes recommended.

Tangle Tower

I picked this up for Switch based on a recommendation, not knowing that I’d unknowingly be closing out an Apple Arcade hat trick for the month. So yes, it’s another more story-driven game, not too heavy on the input requirements, but instead good for getting you thinking.

It’s immediately very easy on the eye, with each and every character drawn in large format and animated with buckets of quirk and charm that runneth over. Every single one is brilliantly voiced too, with varying degrees of charisma, bluster, dry wit, and numerous other characteristics that shine through in brilliant harmony with the art. It’s a murder mystery, see, and while you’re putting together what everyone says has happened, looking out for who’s fancying who and the like, you’re also doing so with the critical expectation that at least one person is likely spinning you some tall tales. Luckily you’ll find clues that help you get closer to the truth and help deconstruct some of these falsehoods, whether they’re in plain sight or hidden behind one of many puzzles. These are exemplary in just how well-pitched they come, each being self-contained and just tricky enough to have you pause to really think about them, but without ever being too irksome or troubling to stop you enjoying yourself. Once you do start to get to the point of unmasking some secrets, there’s also a neat little interface the game rolls out for you to drop in and then verify these revelations; pairing numerous characters, items and statements to help demonstrate to it that you’re keeping up with it all, and things are clear enough to move on. There’s subtle little prods in the right direction just when they seem to be needed, further cementing the game’s solid grasp of when it’s best to say something, and when it can let you just stumble about and get on with it.

It’s a fantastic little game. I lost a day or so to this, and had a wonderful time doing so. I hope that it’s not too far away that I forget all of the details, so that I might do it all over again.

#bugsnax #demons souls #grindstone #necrobarista #tangle tower

[scapegrace74-blog]

Saorsa, Chapter 26

A/N  Here is the next installment of Saorsa.  Jamie demonstrates his usefulness, in more ways than one.  Claire finally acknowledges what we knew all along.

Rather than link to all previously posted chapters, I’ll just direct those of you wanting to catch up on your Saorsa-reading to my AO3 page, where the fic is posted in its entirety.

Thank you to each of you liking and reblogging!  It does my little fanfic writer’s heart good.

Claire woke to the disorienting sensation of sea foam tickling up her legs.  Or perhaps it was champagne bubbles.  A sigh slipped from her lips into the still air of their bedchamber, still fragrant with last night’s lovemaking.

For a couple with precious little experience between them when they married, she and Jamie were proving very adept disciples in the arts of seduction and pleasure.  A frantic grappling in the hayloft the previous week had caused Jamie to remark that “the wanting of ye ne’er stops” and she had to agree.   Whatever it was between them, it was not diminishing with time.  Quite the reverse, actually.

Claire reached a drowsy hand beneath the sheets and into a mess of long curls that somehow did nothing to diminish their owner’s masculinity.  With this acknowledgement that she was awake, his mouth latched onto the tender skin of her inner thigh, causing her to gasp and flinch away.  A heavy forearm landed low across her hips, signaling in no uncertain terms that her job was lie still and accept the bliss he was offering.  Her shoulders flopped to the mattress in easy surrender.

In their limited marital relations, Frank had never performed this act for her.  It was only through her exposure to the poetry of D.H. Lawrence that she knew of its existence.  She never would have expected Jamie to be such an ardent practitioner, but he was.  Oh Lord, he was.

Releasing all self-consciousness, she arched wantonly towards the moist heat of her husband’s breath, hovering just out of reach.  His chuckle was deep and lay in the no man’s land between taunting and pained.   Deciding to end both of their suffering, she hooked her thigh over his bare shoulder and pulled down.  Mere minutes later, she was crying out to heaven and all mere mortals here on Earth, but especially to the supplicant between her legs who was painting a filigree paradise with his tongue.

**

She hadn’t expected to cherish her husband.  The words sounded awful, even in the privacy of her thoughts.  Still, she had to admit to herself that Jamie’s estimable qualities (besides being a skilled master of the estate and of increasingly sound body) were the last thing on her mind when she accepted his awkward Hogmanay proposal.   She was pregnant and alone, and for once she did not feel equipped to deal with the speed of change that upended her life like Hitler’s Wehrmacht advancing across the Low Countries.  Jamie offered his support, a literal key to salvation dangling in front of her, and she snatched at it greedily.

That the man offering this deliverance was honourable was without question.  He’d also shown himself to be resolute, honest, selfless and perceptive.   While she prided herself on her medical detachment, she hadn’t missed the beautiful copper waves of his hair, his elegant hands, the carnal promise of his broad shoulders and square hips, nor eyes the colour of blueberry dust.   She was his nurse first by necessity, but she never stopped being a woman who loved beauty no matter where she found it.

These traits were all admirable, but they did not guarantee her friendship, affection… lust.  It was the little things that won her over.  How from the beginning, he rose from his chair each time she entered a room, even when the pain it caused him was etched on his handsome, gaunt face.   How he would tease her out of her fouler moods, but scowl over the silliest trivialities.  How he was easy and deferential with everyone from Murtagh to Laoghaire, the young scullery maid who gazed after him with limpid, adoring eyes.   How he inquired after the baby’s health every day, even though her very English child would inherit his very Scottish birthright.   How he never failed to make her laugh.   Never let his eyes stray from her face as she tried to put words to the maelstrom of worries swirling through her.  Never discounted her worth on the basis of her sex.

Their honeymoon to Skye marked the true beginning of their journey as man and wife, but try as she might, she couldn’t place her finger on the moment when she’d started to love him.

**

“When do ye expect this… Sandpiper…”

“Sandringham,” she correct for the second time in as many minutes.

“Somesuch.  When do ye expect him tae visit Lallybroch?”   Jamie was polishing his leather boots with linseed, so his face was downturned, but she could still make out the disdainful twist to his lips as they discussed the English duke who effectively controlled their destiny as the owners of Lallybroch.

“Last year it was early May.  I plan to write to request that he come earlier, given that the babe is due to make its grand debut by the middle of May.   But he can’t come too soon, or the wool won’t be ready.”

Jamie stopped polishing and tried to take in the barrage of information Claire had just released with a single breath.

“Sassenach, please tell me ye dinna plan tae write tae an English laird… a duke, no less… who holds the future of Lallybroch in his bejewelled hands, and….  nah.  Ne’ermind.  Of course ye do.”

“It’s not like that, Jamie.  Yes, he’s a duke, but it’s a ceremonial title only these days.  He doesn’t have any real power.  It’s not as though he’s going to ring up King George and complain about his unruly Highlander tenants.”

He wanted to retort that intercessions of exactly that sort were what brought Lallybroch into the control of the Duke’s ancestor, but he had more pressing matters to address.

“And what do ye mean, the wool willna be ready?  What has the duke tae do with our sheering season?”

Giving up on his boots entirely, he rose and joined Claire at the dining table, where she had a week-old newspaper open in front of her.

“Instead of paying the customary fee in cash, in the spring it’s paid in wool.  It simplifies things greatly, and the Duke arranges for the transport of the wool to a Yorkshire mill where it’s used to make blankets for the British army.  Everyone benefits.”

“Aye, ‘specially the duke,” Jamie commented sardonically.

“What do you mean?”

“Weel, this fee ye pay twa times a year.  It’s a hundred pounds, aye?”

“That’s right.”

“And how many bales of wool did ye hand o’er tae the duke last May?”

“Eleven.  Jamie, what are you thinking?”

“Wool is rationed a’cause o’ the war, aye?  And the army buys it at a fixed rate…”   His fingers were tapping madly on the wooden table top, as though he was sending a telegraph message.   She knew this tic.  It meant he was thinking hard about something important.

“What if… Sassenach, what if we sold the wool ourselves?  And paid the duke in sterling when he arrives in May.”

His eyes were blue beacons of excitement, and she hated to snuff them with practical details.

“But Jamie, that would take an enormous amount of work.   The sheering would need to be complete by mid-April at the latest.  Then you’d need to transport the bales of wool to the nearest mill that buys on behalf of the military – probably in the Lowlands.  I don’t even know!  And still be back in time for the duke’s visit.  It’s a brilliant idea, but…”

“Six ‘undred pounds,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“Six ‘undred pounds, minus the cost of transport.  We’d give one hundred tae the duke, an’ still be almost five ‘undred pounds tae the better.  Christ, Claire.  Think of the good tha’ money would do.   For the bairn.  And for Lallybroch.  We could rebuild the grist mill.  Improve the stables.  Buy more stock.”

She didn’t disagree that it was a sound plan.  While modern conveniences left him floundering, Jamie’s business acumen was above reproach.  She hated the idea of him venturing so far away while she stayed behind and incubated a child, however.   From the moment he arrived the previous September, they’d never been apart for longer than a day.

The look in his eyes countermanded all her misgivings.   He needed to do this.  To be a provider to his new family and to find a place for himself in his new world.

She smiled and grabbed his fingers where they still danced over the coarse-grained wood.  “It sounds wonderful.  Just make sure you’re back in time to greet the new laird or lady, when they arrive.”

#my writing #outlander

[cryptofilm]

Bolt from the Dark | Animated Short Film

Bolt from the Dark | Animated Short Film by Prateek Mathur

The short film is available for crypto art collectors - NFT Rarible

Bolt From The Dark - Concept

The concept of this short film revolves around surrealistic art and fantasy. Surrealism is a movement that began in the 1920s and has been expressed in art, literature, and even politics. WWI had a profound effect on Europe, and many people believed that the conflict was a result of excessive rational thought and the materialistic values of the middle and upper classes. Artists of this belief were known as Dadaists, and they embraced chaos and the irrational. The Surrealism movement focused on these ideas of chaos and unconscious desires in an effort to dig deep into the unconscious mind, to find inspiration for political and artistic creativity.

The main character in the video is represented by a female body made out of dark wood. In place of a human head is a cube, with one out of the six sides connecting to the body. She is also holding two crystal eyes. The character does not represent a human form. She reacts to sound as conveyed by the movements of the cube and the way it lights up with the beat. Instead of her facial features – which he does not have – displaying emotions, her gesture translates her feelings. She holds her crystal eyes in her hands, and thus controls and manipulates her surroundings.

In contrast, an organic character is introduced. A “Wyvern”. The legendary bipedal, winged, dragon, usually depicted with a tail ending in the shape of a diamond or arrow, is a popular creature in European literature, video games, and modern fantasy. The Wyvern in heraldry and folklore, is rarely fire-breathing, unlike the four-legged dragon. It frequently features in modern fantasy fiction, though its first literary appearances may have been in medieval bestiaries.

In the video, the Wyvern’s poisonous breath is represented by fire, which can be equally as destructive. It also appeals to the sense of touch. The concept of the video originated from a desire to take the viewer on a journey of transformation, beginning in darkness and reaching for the light. However, it also serves as a metaphor for the recent events that have touched us all. Before the pandemic, we were living life without a care for the little things that seem so precious today. It has shown us how fragile our community is, and the subsequent chain reaction that will occur if one single aspect of our society falls. Unfortunately, given our innate habit to downplay more traumatic events, as life gets back to normal, we will most likely forget just how much the pandemic affected us personally, and we will eventually ignore the things which we learned. As human beings, we are motivated to see the bright side and do our best to forget the bad.

This story also demonstrates how people around us play an important role in changing who we are and vice versa. The healthiest option for anyone, is to be surrounded by people with rational thinking, who have the ability to consider the relevant variables of a situation and to access, organize, and analyze relevant information (e.g., facts, opinions, judgments, and data). This is not a skill one can just master. Unfortunately, any rational person can fall into the darkness, through mistakes and harmful influence. It is by definition what it means to be human. For example, at the peak of the Covid-19’s first wave, death and the ever-present threat of an unseen enemy pushed many people to find an escape. While some moved towards a more positive way of dealing with the issue, many fell prey to irrational thinking, tumbling deeper down the rabbit hole of conspiracy theories, thus wiping out the rational thought process of what is to be believed.

CONCEPT

The story begins with the character, emerging from the darkness and reaching a platform, from which she can observe her surroundings, seemingly filled with dragon eggs. The dragon egg symbolises a beginning. An empty mind searches, as it needs information, direction and knowledge so it may begin its journey. As the egg starts hatching, it now sits on the platform where the character was. A dark dragon tracks her and she is surrounded by others like her. This represents the pressure of our society and the need to be accepted. However, she continuously resists, attempting to escape the grip of darkness while the dragon follows her. She sees glimpses of light, and tries to look at the world from the point of view of the stars. Still the darkness inside her pulls her back. As peer pressure intensifies, she feels increasingly uncomfortable, but she is not alone burdened with this feeling. Many in the community feel the same. As the video progresses, she finds her strength to get out of the darkness. She can feel it in her heart, which is filled with energy to spare. Her heart is pumping, and the darkness slowly lifts. Still, she finds herself surrounded by three dragons. Afraid, in pain and exposed, she shares the pure energy in her heart, the light spreading to everything that surrounds her. Their heartbeats synchronise, and the character transforms into the brightest being there. This pivotal point of the story conveys a moment of change for the better. As bright ideas and joyful thoughts destroy the darkness, she is lifted up, finally free from the burdens of negativity. At the end however, the choice is hers as doubt can send her spiralling back down to the darkness once again.

TIMELINE

The idea of this video sparked in mid-April 2020. Back then, the concept was vague, with little detail. However, moving forward, the idea evolved into a more focused concept, filled with meaning. Using surrealism to express the idea was quite challenging. The concept at its core was always the same – a surrealistic character in a fantasy environment. In the very early stages, I initially had the character performing a contemporary dance, with disjointed movements. The dance would slowly evolve into ballet, with soft movements while the environment changed to brighter colours. While I abandoned this concept, the idea of a journey from a place of torment towards the light is still the main focus of the final video.

The inspiration for the character’s pose, presentation, and animation came from the amazing artist Donald Glover and his music video “Childish Gambino This Is America”, directed by Hiro Murai, a Japanese-born American filmmaker based in Los Angeles. Glover’s dance moves are a bit uncomfortable to watch, as it is mostly a distraction from the background violence in the overall concept. Dances tend to be associated with frivolity (lack of seriousness) and vapidity, despite the fact that dancing has always been a communicative art of great cultural significance, spreading joy through movement. On the contrary, Glover’s movements represent a lack of seriousness, liveliness, and animation.

In order to develop the character, I designed several 3d models from head to toes and took multiple references for the character’s dynamic pose. The end result which represents a strong female character is satisfying. As a non-organic rigger, I hired a freelancer to rig the character with the specifications I required for the dragon. Initially, the first end result of the character’s overall look did not match what I had in mind and had a significantly high rendering time of 6 hours per frame. Therefore, I went back to the drawing board and simplified the design with the help of another artist, thus separating the render into multiple stages.

Initially, the project was divided into 50 shots which were then filtered into 30 shots maximum. I began rendering the shots in-house in early November 2020, as most of the budget went into purchasing assets and hiring freelancers. The majority of the render finished in early March 2021, after four and a half months of rendering. Patience is a virtue, and I found the overall look matched my expectations. After a private review of the short film, I collated feedback and polished the shots further.

Finally, regarding the name of the character Astrape, it was taken from Greek mythology. Astrape is a girl’s name meaning “lightning”. The twin sisters Astrape and Bronte were goddesses representing lightning and thunder. They would carry Zeus’s thunderbolts. Thus derived the name “Bolt from the Dark”.

Short Film by Prateek Mathur now available at Rarible.

#short film #film #film news #film review #animation #3d artist #art #surrealistic art #surrealart #fantasy #dragon #magic #character design #cute #animated #cgi animation #girl #women #beauty #female #beautiful women #powerful women #strong women #strength #style #cryptoart #nftsstories #nftcollector #rarible #opensea

[johaerys-writes]

Witcher AU: Viper In Tall Grass

Chapter (1/3): The Emperor’s Adviser

Summary: Tristan of Toussaint is a witcher, his life dedicated to following the Path of the Viper. It is curiosity more than anything that leads him to Emperor Emhyr var Emreis’s court. That is where he meets Dorian Pavus, lead sorcerer and adviser to the crown of Nilfgaard, and his life as he knows it changes for good.

They say that destiny is inexorable. Tristan is starting to see the wisdom in that saying.

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This is a prequel fic I wrote for the as-yet-untitled Witcher AU my beloved friendo @solas-disapproves​ and I have been working on! I hope you enjoy :)

Read here or on AO3!

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“You are the witcher?”

Tristan glanced over his shoulder at the man who had spoken. He was a tall fellow, the black and white Nilfgaardian uniform he was wearing crisp and freshly pressed. He had a receding hairline and the skin on his face was dark and leathery, his lips pressed in a tight line, a hint of contempt lingering in his mousy brown eyes. He looked more like a tired, middle aged servant rather than Emperor Emhyr’s personal steward, like Tristan had been told he would meet.

He turned unhurriedly away from the crackling fire in the hearth, crossing his now well warmed arms before his chest. “You’re the footman?”

The man’s mouth twisted in a disgusted frown before he spun on his heel. “I am Var Heid, the Emperor’s steward. The Emperor is ready to receive you.”

“About bloody time,” Tristan muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Var Heid to hear him. If he had, he showed no sign of it.

The palace of Vizima was a large fortress, one of the largest Tristan had seen in a while. Labyrinthine, too; had his witcher training not given him an extraordinary sense of direction, he was sure he would have been lost three times over. Even so, he wasn’t entirely certain he could find his way to the nearest exit, not without having to knock down a wall or two.

He followed the man through the twisting corridors of the palace, his tough leather boots sinking in the plush carpet along the stone floor, letting his gaze sweep over the shining sets of armour and the paintings hanging on the high walls. When Tristan had arrived to the palace to hand in the notice he had found on the nearest village’s board, the sun had been just past the middle of the sky. Now, the snow on the western mountain tops was tinged pink and gold as the sun set, and the dancing light of torches cast eerie shadows on the walls as he walked. Tristan disliked waiting, and he had done his fair share of it ever since stepping foot in that place. The way the steward was walking now, with slow and leisurely movements, he suspected it would be well after nightfall when he would finally be done with this entire affair. So much for being curious, he thought, scowling at himself.

The servant soon led him to a small, winding staircase, at the foot of which he turned around to give him a quick lookover. His nose wrinkled more and more as his eyes trailed from his hair, hanging loosely about his shoulders, to his leather armour that had definitely seen better days, and lastly to his boots that were caked in mud.

“Your appearance is displeasing to the eye,” he said in a heavy Nilfgaardian accent that did nothing to hide his disgust. If anything, it highlighted it even more. “Under any other circumstances, I would have requested for a bath, a shave, a haircut and a change of clothes before presenting you to the Emperor. Alas, time is of the essence.”

“What’s wrong with my hair? Or my clothes, for that matter?”

A flash of amusement sparked in the man’s eyes. “They are… how do you say in your tongue… unseemly? Uncouth? Barbaric? Not to mention probably infested with lice.”

Tristan shrugged, scratching the light stubble on his cheeks. “Been on the road a while. Can’t be helped.”

“I suppose not.” The servant drew himself up with a sharp sniff. “May I at least ask whether you know how to address the Emperor?”

“Your Royal Magnificence, perhaps? Or your Majestic Brilliance?” Tristan said with a bored frown. He had been at this for hours and could already feel a warm dinner and a bed calling him.

The man sniffed again, more loudly this time. “I see you are in the mood for jests. I’m afraid the Emperor does not share your disposition. “Your Majesty” will suffice.”

“Fine,” Tristan grunted, rolling his eyes. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? Don’t have all bloody day.”

Var Heid made a small noise that sounded oddly like a harrumph and turned around, ascending the stairs. The guards at the door parted to let him pass, and he walked in with slow, steady footsteps, his back straight like he had swallowed a broomstick.

Tristan followed behind him, eager to get this done and over with.The room he stepped in was spacious, the carpets lining the floor rich and well made. The thread of gold tapestries on the wall glittered in the last light of the waning sun that streamed in through the tall stained glass windows, the rays dissolving in an array of warm colours. The man sitting on the gilded chair behind the large mahogany desk with the graying hair, the stately demeanour and the hawk-like eyes would have to be the Emperor. No doubt about that.

Var Heid had already started announcing his arrival in Nilfgaardian, his tone even and wooden as if he were reading from a book, when Tristan’s gaze fell on the man standing just a little way behind Emhyr, and his mouth almost fell open.

Tall, dark, imposing. Skin like burnished copper, rich and smooth like velvet. Black hair combed neatly in glossy waves, framing a face that should have belonged to a work of art. High cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes the colour of polished silver, a strong nose, a moustache perfectly curled, expertly shaped to highlight full, honey coloured lips. The black robe he was wearing was similar to those Tristan had seen a hundred times since stepping foot in that palace -the Nilgaardians were notorious for their love of uniformity- , yet on that man it looked… different. Elegant. Regal. Striking. Just a tad tighter along the chest and arms, the fabric on the shoulders arranged in such a way to leave a swath of skin exposed, the thread of gold and tiny pearls embroidered along his collar a touch more extravagant than perhaps expected. And the way he held himself, that proud tilt of his chin, those long, beringed fingers resting lightly against his folded arms, the quirk of his eyebrow, the glint in his eyes as they took him in, lazily gliding from his face, to his armour, to his mud-caked boots and up again. A slight curve at the edge of those luscious lips, and Tristan suddenly wished for the floor to split in two and engulf him.

There he was, in a room with the Emperor of Nilfgaard and the most handsome man he had ever laid eyes upon, and he looked like something that had crawled out of a bog. Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful.

Var Heid cleared his throat behind him before doubling over in a deep bow, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Bow,” the man hissed.

It took great effort not to roll his eyes and grit his teeth as Tristan bent in a bow. Not quite as deep as Var Heid’s, and definitely not as refined as somebody’s who had spent their entire life bowing and scraping. But good enough.

He straightened awkwardly, trying his best to fix his gaze on the Emperor instead of on the man behind him. The Emperor of Nilfgaard’s gaze was just a tad less unnerving.

“Tristan of Toussaint?” Emhyr said slowly, as if trying to examine the truth of his statement. Tristan nodded. The Emperor’s eyes stayed on him for a long moment before a slight flick of his wrist sent Var Heid and the guards scrambling out of the room. The heavy doors closed firmly behind them, leaving Tristan alone with the Emperor and the strange man next to him.

Tristan drew himself up, taking advantage of every inch of his height, returning Emhyr’s scrutinizing stare levelly. It was evident that the man let the silence stretch to unsettle him, but he was a witcher. Witchers owed meak submission to no king, especially not Emhyr, who had all but declared witchers of his School enemies of Nilfgaard a few years before.

“Tales of you have spread far and wide,” Emhyr said slowly. “It is not common for a witcher’s name to be spoken so frequently. What brings you here?”

Tristan leaned on his back leg, hooking his thumbs behind his belt. “You put up a notice, searching for a witcher. Heard you’ve seen half a dozen, but sent them all away. Got curious. Came here to see for myself what the fuss is all about.”

The dark haired man behind the Emperor let out a soft exhale, that sounded like a breathy chuckle. Tristan gritted his teeth even harder, not taking his eyes away from Emhyr.

“This is Dorian Pavus,” Emhyr said, waving absently towards the man. “He is lead sorcerer and adviser to the throne.”

Tristan let his gaze drift to him, just in time to see his lips quirk in a tiny smirk as he gave him a short bow with his head. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, master… witcher,” he purred in a voice that slid down Tristan’s spine like warm, spiced honey. Damn him, was there anything about him that wasn’t perfect?

His jaw clenched so hard, he was sure he must have cracked a couple teeth. “Likewise,” he said in a clipped tone, returning to Emhyr. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I would like to know what you want of me. The day isn’t getting any younger, and if my skills are not satisfactory for your quest, I’d like to be on my way before dark.”

The Emperor didn’t seem insulted by Tristan’s curt tone. He leaned back in his chair, elbow on the armrest, forefinger brushing against his thumb. “I believe my adviser will be able to explain things much better than I could.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Pavus took a small step forward. “The quest you would be asked to undertake is of a highly confidential, and highly risky nature. If you accept to take this quest, you will be bound by an oath of secrecy and loyalty to the crown of Nilfgaard.”

“Witchers are bound to no king or county, or any oaths they would seek to impose. Witchers owe allegiance only to their respective schools. This is known.”

“It is indeed,” the mage replied in a calm and unaffected tone, as if he had fully expected his answer. “Yet, this is no ordinary contract. It is not about killing drowners or collecting water hag blood for hexes or whatever it is you witchers do these days.”

Tristan scowled at the man, annoyance flaring in his chest. “I hear a lot about what this contract is not, but not near enough about what it actually is. Care to enlighten me, or are we simply going to dance around it for another day or two?”

The mage’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Master Witcher is impatient, I see. Very well, let’s get straight to the point.” He drew himself up, clasping his hands behind his back. “The creature you are required to exterminate is a Fiend.”

Tristan’s mouth went dry. Fiends were walking mountains of muscle capped with horned, tooth-filled heads. Their size alone made them extremely dangerous – one blow from their powerful paws could kill a knight along with his fully armored mount. Their enormous heft also made them invulnerable to most signs; even witchers that had spent their lives specializing in the use of Aard, able to summon small windstorms at will, could not move a Fiend even an inch. They were quick, agile and inventive, and their wounds healed at lightning speed, yet all that was nothing compared to their true threat; the third eye located in the center of their forehead. A burning, watchful eye, meant to draw the Fiend’s prey into a state of hypnosis.

Hypnosis is the state of loss of control and consciousness, in which the person loses the power of voluntary action and sense of direction. During these times their victim does not see anything beyond this single burning eye – the last thing they see before their death.

The bestiary entry came to his mind unbidden, the contents of its pages etched into his brain ever since he was a child. He gave Pavus a hard look under furrowed brows. This had been a waste of time after all. “Are you out of your mind?” he said, huffing a scornful laugh. “You would need at least three witchers to take down a beast such as that, not to mention an entire apothecary’s worth of ingredients to make the bombs and oils needed.”

“You can have as many apothecaries’ worth of ingredients as you require. Yet I’m afraid that recruiting more witchers won’t be possible. The fewer people that know about this the better.”

“Then you can forget about it,” Tristan said. “There’s no way you will convince any witcher to take on this quest alone.”

Pavus’ lips curled in a smile. “Who said anything about being alone?” Tristan just blinked at him, and the mage’s smile got wider.

Emhyr shifted on his chair. “One of the terms of your contract is that Lord Pavus will be accompanying you to kill this beast. He will assist you in killing it, yet you are bound to keep him safe from harm and bring him back to Vizima after the quest has been completed.”

Tristan paused for a moment, his gaze shifting from Pavus to Emhyr and back. He crossed his arms before his chest, considering. “Where is that Fiend?”

“There have been sightings of one near Velen. In Crookback Bog.”

Crookback Bog. As dark, dank and treacherous a place as any there were. Tristan’s eyes narrowed in thought. The help of a mage would be significant when taking on that Fiend. Pavus seemed powerful enough. Tristan could just about feel his magic reaching him, rippling in the air around him. Were Tristan a mage he would have been able to gauge exactly how powerful his spells could be. Yet, even with the vague knowledge he had at that moment, he could tell that the man was a force to be reckoned with.

Still. Tristan was supposed to kill a Fiend, and keep the mage safe. Impossible.

“How much?” he asked the Emperor. The least they could do for asking him to do the impossible was make it worth his while.

“One thousand gold pieces.”

“Five thousand.”

The Emperor’s gaze flashed with something akin to indignation. He obviously wasn’t used to people bartering with him. “Three and a half.”

“Five,” Tristan said again, his tone even and flat. Emhyr’s lips tightened in a line, and Tristan shook his head. “You want me to kill a Fiend, a beast that no one has been known to defeat in at least two centuries, as well as be your sorcerer’s glorified wet nurse? You’ll have to pay for it. No way around it. Your Majesty,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Emhyr’s hand tightened in a fist, and he took a sharp breath. “Very well,” he assented curtly. “Five thousand gold pieces it is. But know this, witcher; if you don’t bring either the Fiend or my sorcerer back, it will be your head.”

“You said you’ve heard about me,” Tristan said. “Then you surely know that I always keep my word once I give it.”

The Emperor regarded him for a long moment, so long in fact, that Tristan thought he had swallowed his tongue. In the end, he waved him away tiredly and sank back in his chair. “My steward will draw up the contract for you. It shall be ready tomorrow morning, before you leave. You are dismissed.”

**

The contract, written in neat, precise letters, had been just as rigid and binding as Tristan had expected it to be. He would receive half the gold before leaving for his quest, and the rest after he had returned with both the Fiend and the mage. It was an odd contract, to say the least, but Tristan wasn’t a stranger to odd situations. He had seen his fair share of them, travelling through the Continent. At least this one promised to be quite lucrative.

He mulled over his conversation with the Emperor the previous evening as he made his way to the stables. The stables the Nilfgaardians had put his horse in were warm and spacious, with clean hay and fresh water. The stableboys seemed skilled enough, but Tristan wouldn’t trust his mount to just about anyone.

Almond tossed her head back when she saw him, neighing gently. Tristan pulled a piece of dried apple from his pocket and gave it to her, idly brushing her coat as he formulated a meticulous plan in his mind. When travelling for a quest, details were important; which road to take to avoid the bandits lurking in the woods close to Velen, how many days would be needed to reach his destination, how many bombs and potions he would need to make. One of the first things a witcher was taught before hitting the road was how to plan ahead. An unprepared witcher is a dead witcher, or nigh on as good as one, was what Heir, his mentor ever since he was a child, would have said about then. She certainly had a lot of opinions when it came to proper preparation.

Tristan had just about finished saddling Almond when a smooth voice behind him drew his attention.

“A beautiful horse,” Pavus said. “Never seen the like.”

Tristan shot him a glance over his shoulder. He was dressed in practical travelling clothes, that still managed to be flashy somehow. The stout black woolen cloak he was wearing was decorated with thick white fur around the collar and his boots that peeked under the hem of his robe were made of soft black leather, with coiling and twisting snakes carved along the sides. His cheeks were flushed from the crisp morning air, but other than that he looked as formidable and his expression as unreadable as any mage Tristan had met. They were a troublesome, secretive lot, to say the least, and most of them weren’t particularly fond of witchers, so far as he was aware.

“Wouldn’t expect you to,” Tristan replied, fastening the last hook on Almond’s saddle, testing the girth one final time. “Her breed is native to Toussaint.”He caught her reins and gently led her out of the stall. Pavus’ eyes glided over him again, and this time Tristan returned his look calmly. His armour had been cleaned and mended, and he did manage to have a bath and shave the previous night. Var Heid wouldn’t let him get into bed unless “any and all pests were eradicated”, as he had said.

Pavus walked beside him, nodding to the stable boy who followed them with his own horse readied and saddled. It was a beautiful steed, its dark coat glistening in the grey morning sun, the thick muscles of its chest rippling as it moved. It was strong and looked agile enough to be ridden into battle, if it had been trained for it. Heir had often insisted that he have a horse like that. Your horse is pretty, she would say, but witchers have no need for pretty horses. Tristan believed that, too. Yet letting go of Almond was not something he was ever about to do, at least not willingly.

He threaded his fingers through her buttery white mane before placing his foot on the stirrup.

“I didn’t know witchers to be sentimental.”

Tristan froze, his brows furrowed in a perplexed frown. “Huh?”

Pavus smiled at him as he gracefully climbed on his horse, his cloak falling softly around its trunk. “You’re from Toussaint. Your horse is from Toussaint. Is that a mere coincidence? Or a way for you to remember home, perhaps?” He kicked his horse forward, hardly waiting for an answer.

Tristan scrambled hastily onto his saddle, urging Almond to a canter until she reached Pavus’ horse. “Witchers have no home,” he said flatly.

“You say that,” Pavus said with some amusement, “yet you’re the one sporting a regular courser when you should have had a charger, or a destrier, to say the least.”

“She’s not just a ‘regular’ courser,” Tristan grumbled, frowning at the derision in his tone. “She’s…”

She had been a gift from his twin sister on their twentieth birthday. Witchers didn’t usually have any connection to family after taking up their training, especially not those of his School. Heir would certainly be displeased if she ever found out that he still kept contact with them, and even visited his sister from time to time. He wasn’t about to say all that to a sorcerer he had just met, though, and who looked overly eager to get under his skin.

He closed his mouth, staring stubbornly ahead of him, over Almond’s ears. The mage chuckled softly. “No answer to that, I see. Interesting. I maintain my original observation, then. You are sentimental for a witcher.”

“And you are very talkative for a mage,” Tristan retorted irritably. “I thought your kind wouldn’t even deign to talk to someone who “collects water hag blood for hexes”, or whatever it is you think witchers do, unless someone held a knife at your throat. Perhaps not even then.”

Pavus through his head back, his silvery laughter cutting through the crisp morning air. “Knives? Ha! Who would use a knife against a mage? Even witchers can’t be that coarse.”

Tristan glared at him. “What did you just say?”

“Is the master witcher’s hearing impeded? Has he lost that as well as his ability to reason? Perhaps it’s all that hair.” He reached out, gently brushing Tristan’s hair behind his ear. “There. That’s better.”

Tristan blinked at him for a moment, startled by the unexpected touch. He tried to ignore the odd, tingling sensation that spread down his spine at the lingering feeling of the mage’s gloved fingers on his skin as he scowled at him. “My ears are fine. Yours won’t be for long if you keep at this.”

Pavus batted his long, black eyelashes at him. “Oh? What will you do to them, pray tell? If you must know, I quite enjoy ear massages. You can bite them, too, if you’d like. Not too hard, mind you. Or I might bite back.” He flashed him a wide, teasing smile as he kicked his horse to a trot, riding ahead of him once more.

Tristan just stared after him and the snow that his horse’s hooves kicked in his direction, his mouth slightly agape. When his tongue had been sufficiently frozen by the biting chill, he snapped his jaw closed, muttering curses under his breath. Were all mages that mouthy? And if not, had he been fool enough to agree to a quest with the only one?

**

As the hours dragged on, with Tristan rocking on his horse and Pavus talking his ear off, he was convinced that he was, in fact the mouthiest mage in the Continent. Tristan had been used to the endless days of travel and the infinite hours of silence that these ensued - often spending days at a time talking only to Almond. There were moments when the silence sounded deafening in his ears. It wasn’t unusual for him to wish for some company during those quiet moments.

Oh, how he missed those moments now.

The mage talked as the expansive orchards around Vizima gave way to the green, rolling hills of Temeria. He talked as the rolling hills descended into dense, forested land. He kept on talking as the woods became sparser the closer they rode to the swamps of Velen. Tristan did his best to reply to Pavus’ quips and jokes as laconically as he could, hoping his half hearted grunts would hide the flush that often crept up his cheeks at his blatant teasing and flirting.

Flirting. How long had it been since anyone had flirted with him? Far too long, obviously, if a mere glance, a smile or an accidental touch whenever they stopped to water their horses or set up camp could make heat flare in his chest like that. Most people in their right minds didn’t want much to do with witchers, staying well out his way unless they absolutely had to. Tristan was used to the curses muttered through tight lips, and the fearful glances, and the invocations to Melitele or whichever god they prayed to as soon as he turned his back. It didn’t irk him much anymore. It was better when people were afraid of him; it made his work easier. Simpler. He would get the job done, get paid, and get on his way. Getting too attached to anyone, or any place, was never a good thing.

He was accustomed to all that. Marginally comfortable with it, even. What he wasn’t accustomed to was… him.

Pavus never missed a chance to talk, or touch or be overly familiar with him. Worse, he showed no fear or apprehension whatsoever, as if his being a witcher was a mere trait to be overlooked. Tristan had met hundreds of people in his life - those that didn’t see him as a freak or an emotionless killer he could count on the fingers of one hand. It was odd, to not be regarded like that for once. More than odd it felt… exhilarating.

Which was a dangerous feeling to have, especially when it regarded the advisor of the Emperor of Nilfgaard. Tristan always sought to keep his affairs simple, neat, tidy, and this was proving to be anything but that. He had been given a task; kill the Fiend and bring the mage back, and that was what he intended to do. All he intended to do, in fact.

Thus, he resolved to avoid the mage as best he could. He would keep his responses short and curt, and every night when they stopped to make camp, he would tend to Almond or pretend to keep watch a little further away from the fire until Pavus retreated under his bedroll.

The third night they had camped together was much like the others. Tristan had spent an inordinate amount of time tending to Almond, or making sure his snares were set up just right, yet he had returned to the fire to find Pavus still up. He was reading from a thick, leather-bound tome, his eyes swiftly following the letters on the page. Those silver, glittering eyes snapped up to his face when he walked within the dancing halo of the fire.

“Taken care of business so quickly? That’s a first.”

Tristan grunted as he sat cross legged before the fire, fishing his flask out of his pocket.

“What is that? Whisky?”

“Brandy,” Tristan responded. “From Aedirn.”

Pavus let his book fall closed and shifted a little closer. “Aedirn? You have very fine taste. Have you tried Kaedweni brandy? It’s even better. Here, have some,” he said, taking a flask out of his own pocket and extending it to him.

Tristan shook his head sharply, staring at the fire. From the corner of his eye, he saw the mage shrugging and uncorking his flask. The smell of the brandy reached his nostrils, as well as the scent of Pavus’s cologne, drifting towards him with the wind. His witcher senses tingled and focused, zooming in to a sharp point. Smell of oakmoss and sandalwood, cardamom and cloves, mingled with something deep and earthy and slightly musky, emanating from those pulse points in his throat and his wrists. Tristan took a deep breath, letting that intoxicating scent fill his lungs. He swallowed thickly when he realised his mouth was watering.

He clenched his jaw, taking a long sip from his flask. It was just a smell. He could ignore it, if he tried hard enough. He had been trained since childhood to ignore far more aggravating situations. It took a few long, agonizing minutes, yet he somewhat managed to get the unruly thoughts under control.

To his dismay, the mage cleared his throat, glancing his way again. “Been to Velen before?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Several times, I gather. You seem to know the way rather well.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are there lots of beasts there to be killed?”

Tristan simply shrugged.

Pavus leaned back on his elbow upon the covers of his bedroll, shifting his half lying body to face him. His head was cocked to the side, the shifting light of the fire illuminating the soft, delicate skin of his neck. It felt to Tristan that if he focused enough, he could see his life essence pulsating under that soft, velvety skin, feel the energy that was vibrating in his body. A spark, bright and unexpected, flared in his chest. He frowned, stomping it down tenaciously.

“I never knew travelling like this could be so wearisome,” Pavus sighed. “Want to know what I miss the most?”

“A comfortable bed?” Tristan asked before he could stop himself. “Or a warm bath? I know I would miss those.”

“Wrong on both accounts. Although I wouldn’t say no to either. Especially the latter.” He smoothed his long fingers through his dark, glossy waves, staring wistfully at the fire. “I rather miss the bards in the palace. They always played the most wonderful songs after the evening meal. Perfect to talk and drink some fine wine over.” He tipped the mouth of his flask over his lips, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. His slender, delicate throat. How Tristan wanted to brush his thumb over the sides of that long, elegant neck. Then slowly run his tongue over those tendons, follow them until they led him to the dip in his collarbone. Then he would work each button of that snug coat of his free, and then…

Stop. Looking!

Tristan bit his lip as he glanced at his boots, pretending to pick at their buckles. Suddenly, the mage’s eyes sparked, a huff of excitement rushing past his lips. “Oh, but what am I saying? Who needs a bard when I have a witcher? And not just any witcher. The infamous Tristan of Toussaint.

“I would hardly call myself infamous.”

“Wouldn’t you? There isn’t one person in Vizima that doesn’t know about you preventing the assassination of the Duchess of Toussaint. Or about your slaying of that basilisk that terrorised Ellander for months, all on your own. You must have all sorts of stories to tell.”

Tristan grunted, staring at the fire as he sipped on his brandy.

“Come now,” Pavus pleaded, his voice soft and sing-songy. “Tell me a story, oh broody one.”

Tristan frowned at him. “I am not brooding.”

“Very well, scowling in a very attractive manner, then.” Tristan rolled his eyes, and the mage’s smile got even wider. “Just one teeny, tiny story. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How would you do that exactly?”

“There are a couple ways that spring to mind,” he replied, wiggling his eyebrows at him. “Care for me to… elaborate?”

Tristan’s cheeks shouldn’t have felt as hot as they did with the unspoken promise in his gaze. His pulse shouldn’t have quickened either at the sound of his honey smooth voice, lowering to almost a purr. He gritted his teeth. “No. No stories.”

The mage sighed, yet still he didn’t give up. “Alright, then. What if I promise to tell you something, too? Tit for tat, if you will.”

Tristan’s focus snapped to him. “Like what?”

Pavus’s eyes sparked with amusement at having drawn his attention. “You haven’t really asked me anything since we set off. Aren’t you interested to know why I had to come with you? Or why the Fiend needs to be killed?”

Tristan narrowed his eyes. “I thought this was confidential information.”

“It is,” he shrugged. “As you can see, I am that desperate for some entertainment.” His gaze slid slowly from his face all the way down his torso, as if peeling his armour off, layer by layer.

Tristan’s hand curled into a fist around the mouth of his flask. What was the man doing, teasing and flirting with him so… so… shamelessly? Were all mages the same way? He was infuriating. What was even more infuriating was that his breeches now felt way tighter than they did a few moments before.

“Witchers don’t ask questions,” he said flatly, pushing down the wave of warmth that rushed through him. “A monster needs to be killed, we kill it. After the pay has been negotiated.”

“Are all witchers so diligent and focused as you are, I wonder? Or is it just your School?”

“There aren’t many of us left.” Tristan thumbed the amulet hanging by his neck, the viper head cold to the touch. “Besides, even if there were, I can’t talk for anyone other than myself.”

Pavus regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, his features unusually serious. “Perhaps it is just you, then.” He took a small swig from his flask, his gaze fixed on the fire for a long moment before he spoke again. “It must be hard.”

“What?”

“Being like you,” he said softly. “You must be very lonely.”

Tristan’s mouth went dry. He opened it. Shut it. Opened it again, but no sound came out. They gazed at each other, Tristan’s bewildered stare meeting Pavus’ calm silver gaze. There was no teasing glint in his eyes now, no mockery or flirting; only something that looked like… sympathy. Understanding, even.

He cleared his throat abruptly, just as his heart threatened to beat out of his throat. He screwed the cap back on his flask, standing up. “You should get some rest. We have an early start tomorrow. I’ll keep watch.”

Without another word, he walked off towards the edges of the ring of firelight, kneeling into a meditative position. He could feel the mage’s gaze lingering on his back for several long, agonizing minutes, until Tristan finally heard his breaths easing into a deep sleep.

The night that stretched beyond their small fire suddenly seemed dark enough to swallow him whole.

#dorian pavus #dorian pavus fic #witcher #witcher au #dorian x trevelyan #dorian/trevelyan #pavelyan #dorian/inquisitor #dorian x inquisitor #tristan trevelyan #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fanfic #johaerys writes

[hedwigstalons]

High Expectations - Ch11

*rocks in the corner muttering ‘art is journey, art is a journey’*

As you can see I tried something in colour for this chapter and it did not go well.  I just hope the story makes up for it.  A slightly shorter chapter this time and a slightly longer gap where I have used up my head start but there are some meatier pieces coming up.

@willow-salix​ was her usual amazing self with proof reading.

Earlier parts: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten

AO3 chapter link

Chapter Eleven

The phone on the desk blared into life and Jeff grabbed at it, nearly knocking the device to the floor in his hurry to answer.  It had been hours since he dispatched Scott to Marineville and the wait for news had been agonising.  Every minute that Gordon was missing left him more chilled.  Thoughts of food and drink had been far from his mind, consumed by the worry that something sinister may have happened or that somehow Gordon had moved on and was again missing.  His final whispered promise to Lucille to keep their children safe had been echoing around his head and haunting him.

“Scott?”  He tried to maintain some composure but there was still a slight waver to his tone.

“Plane’s just taken off Dad.  Gordon will be landing at Long Beach in a little under two hours.  Flight code AT2784”

“I’ll head over to meet him.  Goodbye Scott.”  He shut the call off abruptly as emotion threatened to overwhelm him.

For Jeff the call brought a flood of relief but this was quickly replaced by a wave of anger now that Gordon’s safety had been confirmed.  His son’s idiocy and selfishness had caused untold worry, while the deception he had employed in this whole enterprise meant a complete loss of trust.  Meetings had been rearranged, potentially annoying valuable business partners and Wilbur’s internship offer had also expired.  Yet again Gordon had thrown a curveball and hang the consequences for everyone else.

Of all his sons Gordon brought him more stress and worry than the others combined.  If any of his children was going to discredit the Tracy name it was Gordon.  The worst school reports; Gordon.  The only one ever suspended; Gordon.  He had hoped that the boy would soon start showing some maturity but this latest example of recklessness proved that he still had a lot of growing up to do.  

Two hours.  Time enough to get some food and then have the car take him to the airport.  He didn’t think Gordon would disappear again but then he had never anticipated Gordon falsifying documents and attempting to join WASP.  No, tonight he was taking no chances; when that flight landed he would be there ready and waiting.

xoxoxox

Scott pocketed his phone and turned away from the panoramic viewing windows that looked out over the runway.  He had called his father the second the wheels left the ground and now, just a few short moments later, the plane was already a distant speck whisking his brother back to Los Angeles.  The late summer sun was low in the sky by the time he reached his car, his day off was nearly over and he knew that by the time he made it back to base there would be no time for anything except bed.  

The last few hours had been....enlightening.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had spent so long alone with Gordon.  It had been seven years since he had lived at home and his visits had generally coincided with holidays and celebrations, times when Gordon had let his hair down and been like the ten year old kid he used to live with.  He had been fully prepared to go along with his father’s assertion that Gordon was both immature and selfish and needed a harsh dose of reality. 

The Gordon he sat with today, waiting for the flight south to be called, wasn’t like that.  The very last time he had seen Gordon his brother had been trying to eat an entire pint tub of ice cream topped with two bags of M&Ms.  But then the last time he had seen Gordon had been the day after his gold medal win, a day of celebration and blowing off steam after years of hard training.  Irreverent goofballs don’t tend to go on to be world record holders.  

His brother had earned that medal through dedication, determination and the sort of steely resolve he had just witnessed in the young man who had sat opposite him in the airport cafe, sipping on a mineral water, the dirt of the Marineville obstacle course still smudging his clothes.  This Gordon wasn’t a child.  This Gordon had earnt the respect of the WASP assessors and displayed skills and talents that his own family had never recognised.  That Gordon could be considered officer material by anyone had come as a shock but in just the short time he had spent with his brother he could begin to see what they meant. 

His anger, which had dissipated while waiting with Gordon for the flight to board, returned as his father ended the call.  To be dismissed without even a thank you for what he had done was more than a little cutting but then Jeff had always had this unwavering belief that his sons should all do exactly as they were told.  Today he had been just a lackey directed to do his father’s bidding without any consideration to his own needs.  Of course he had done it though, trekked across the state at a moments notice, it was for family after all but another precious day off was gone without any acknowledgement of the sacrifice from his father.  Underneath the anger he realised that part of him was actually a little jealous of Gordon.  He was sure his brother would pay a heavy price for this escapade but he was the only one who had dared to break the mould.  His own route through university and into the Air Force had been heavily directed and while it was a path he had happily followed he reflected that he had never really been given a choice in the matter.

His thoughts turned, as they frequently did, to the idiotic plan that had been presented to the eldest three as though it were a done deal; the rescue organisation manned by a pilot, a former astronaut and two students expected to train up to whatever tasks were thrown at them.  He couldn’t see Virgil ever disobeying their father and John would do anything if it meant he could live among the stars.   The more he thought about it, the less he wanted to give up the life he was making for himself in the Air Force no matter how noble the cause.  Today had shown that he would be forever moved about like a pawn with no thought given to his own needs and he couldn’t face going back to live under the unyielding control of his father.  He resolved to take a leaf out of Gordon’s book and live his own life; his father could find a different pilot for his madcap scheme.

xoxoxox

As Gordon entered the arrivals hall at Long Beach Airport he was not surprised to see the familiar form of his father waiting by the barriers, flanked by his security detail.  Standing ramrod straight and staring at the gate Jeff made an imposing sight but Gordon was too tired to be intimidated, he had been up since dawn and put through his paces and now all he wanted was his bed.  He held his father’s gaze as he walked across the polished tiles then followed to the waiting car looking for all the world like a condemned prisoner.

The journey across town had been completed in silence despite the soundproof privacy screen being lifted, shutting off the occupants in the passenger cabin from those riding up front.  Father and son sat stiffly in the back, the tension palpable and the atmosphere uncomfortable.  Even their initial greeting had been limited to a mere nod of acknowledgement at the airport.  It was only once the sanctuary of the apartment had been gained and the study door shut behind Jeff with a subtle click far too quiet for the mood did the first words finally get spoken.  

“Sit down Gordon.”  Jeff indicated the chair opposite him as he took up his habitual place behind the desk.

“No thank you.”

“I said sit down.  Do you really want to faint in front of me just to prove a point?  You look awful”  The measured tone took on a note of exasperation at the continued defiance.

“I’m fine.”  His legs buckled beneath him all the same and he sat down heavily in the chair.  Thinking back he hadn’t eaten since being presented with the fairly unappetising lunch rations as Marineville, he had been too angry to accept anything more than water from Scott at the airport.

“You are anything but ‘fine’.  People who are fine do not forge documents and run off to join the navy.”

“WASP.” Gordon corrected him.

“Which is still currently under the wider jurisdiction of the World Navy.  However, the who doesn’t really matter.  What is important here is that you lied, you deceived and you disappeared without a thought or care to those around you.  Even Alan knows better than to head off without permission.  When will you grow up and stop behaving like such a child?”

“You’re the one who has been on at me to do something with my life.  You’re the one that keeps telling me to choose a career path and think of my future.  Well that’s what I was doing.  I’d be out of your way and you wouldn’t have to bother about me any more.”

“You’re too young for WASP.”

“I’m not.  I wasn’t the only 17 year old at selection.”

“They probably had permission.  Which is another thing, don’t ever forge my signature again.”

Gordon snorted “You’d best start paying attention to Alan then.”

“And what is that supposed to mean.”

“I’ve been signing his school permission forms for years.  I got fed up of seeing him get upset or getting into trouble.  You were always too busy, you’d get to it later.  Well later was too late one too many times.  So now he doesn’t bother you with them any more, he can do the field trips, the maths olympiads and the science fairs and just show you certificates later.  Or at least stick them to the refrigerator in the hope you notice them seeing as you’re barely here.  Do you even care about us or are we just an inconvenience until we do something that can be shown off to your cronies?  Another trophy you can wave to show how great the Tracys are?”

“How dare you question me, of course care about you all.   I do what I need to do.”

“Yeah, and I’ve done what I needed to do.  You have been more than happy to leave me to look after Alan night after night yet you still can’t see that I’m not a child any more”

“I will not be spoken to like this Gordon.”  The calm facade Jeff had tried to maintain cracked in the face of Gordon’s insolence.  Anger flashed to the surface.  “You are a child and for as long as you live under my roof you will follow my rules.  From now on there will be no more competitions; you may continue to swim for exercise but I will not fund your fantasy career.  I will be calling your coach in the morning and removing you from the squad.  You will spend the rest of your time applying for college places.  Any offers will be vetted by me seeing as you have proved that your judgement is not to be trusted.  Now go and get yourself cleaned up and go to bed, it’s late.”

The chair scraped back across the floor as Gordon stood up with a jolt.

“And the great Jeff Tracy has spoken.  This is why I never told you about WASP, you never listen.  All you care about is your perfect reputation propped up by your model children.  It doesn’t matter what we want as long as it reflects well on you.”

Gordon stalked back to his room, not stopping to hear his father’s reply.  He had left it less than 48 hours previously, full of hopes and plans for the future and now he was effectively a prisoner in his own home.  He threw himself onto the bed and punched the pillows in an attempt to let out some of his frustrations.  

At Marineville he had felt more comfortable than he had done for ages, there was something about the place that just felt right.  Even the loss of competitive swimming was eclipsed by the thought that his chances with WASP had been ruined.  Yet again his father had given the painful reminder as to who was ultimately in control of his life.  Anger gave way to hopelessness and exhaustion and he drifted off to sleep still fully clothed, silent tears mixed with Marineville mud leaving their tracks across his pillow.

#thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #high expectations #my art #Gordon Tracy #Scott Tracy #Jeff Tracy #running away #military selection