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beyondthetemples-ooc · 3 years

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OC-tober Day 2: Glass

OC-tober prompts put together by @oc-growth-and-development! I have to ramble in meta instead of write, because my brain is Mush lately. (I know I’m behind but I have a lot pre-written, I just need to put it into coherent words!)

This one especially can be rambled about at length, because the most important “glass” object in my stories is one I greatly enjoy exploring: Dove’s mindscape mirror!

^ I drew it forever ago; here’s the deviantArt link if you’d like to see the big version!

https://www.deviantart.com/ravenshiddensoul/art/Dove-s-Keepsakes-Mirror-and-Box-284227087

It’s largely modeled after a bird stretching its wings upwards, with a handle like a tail and certain details are inlaid with Azarathean gold to better channel its magics.

Now, this is where the rambling begins: The mirror’s backstory, and I’ll be exploring one of my favorite things to develop in all of my stories: Dove’s mindscape!

Dove's mirror isn't one of her most prized possessions, nor super incredibly sentimental, but it IS an object touched with her mother's magic, it has flourishes of Azarathean gold (some of the last pieces to exist), and it's useful for introspection and self-soothing, so it does have some value and importance.

Dove struggled with meditating quite a lot as a child, and there was only so much her mother could do to help. Meditation was pretty important to them as both a means of helping Dove control her powers, and as a staple of Azarathean spirituality. As she so often did, Alerina poked around and asked enough questions around the temple that she was told about Raven's mirror, and she decided to replicate it for Dove. She custom ordered a gold-lined wooden hand mirror, and then cast the spells to connect it to Dove's inner world herself. It took a few tries (it's much harder to connect something to someone else's mind than your own, after all), but she was nothing if not determined to help her daughter, and eventually figured it out.

As for its main purpose: Self-reflection! (If you'll pardon the pun.) Dove uses it to meditate, but where Raven uses hers for centering and compartmentalization, Dove uses it more as a blend of escapism and a focusing aid.

Much like Raven's, Dove's mirror acts as a portal to the depths of her mind, and this is where it gets fun!

The vortex that transports the users is usually white and gold, imbued with the same energies that give Dove her powers, at least on her mother's side. It's noticeably touched with black and red in DDD. (Dove's evil side starts taking over her mind, and thus its energies manifest through the mindscape, and Dove's portal into it, hence: black and red energies instead.) It tends to open up like a light tunnel and almost opens the mental world around the user, rather than dragging them in.

Once inside, one can't expect to navigate the same way as Beast Boy and Cyborg did in "Nevermore". Every mind is different, after all! We saw Raven's mindscape divided nearly into emotional sections with a neutral space between them, and the way through each area was preset and linear. While different parts of Dove's internal world manifest in different "areas", they're not so totally divided and separate, and there's no real "neutral" zone except at the very "center". The scenery changes, but it's more of a gradual transition, and though Dove employs thresholds to mark key areas, they're very much just visual aids.

Dove's mindscape is laid out more like a series of rooms and courtyards in a very (very, very, very) large mansion. The ground is generally of crystal, spires and columns decorate the scenery, and the thresholds are modeled after birds with their wings outspread. (While this seems like a play on Dove's namesake, it's actually based on Azarath's architecture, particularly that of George Perez's Azarath in the 1980's New Teen Titans comics.)

Dove's sky shows various stars and often casts moonlight from an uncertain source, particularly when she's introspecting. The ambient temperature varies amongst the locations, chilly in the regions ruled by fear and sadness, uncomfortably warm near her demon's domain, and comfortable and breezy where her peace and contentment reside.

One could easily get lost in her mindscape if they don't know where they're going. The place can shift and change on a whim.

Where Dove spends her time building that peace and contentment, it's very closely modeled after her mother's memories of Azarath (which is where she learned how to find peace, after all): there's marble and gold everywhere, and the stars twinkle with dozens of colors in the sky.

Where Dove retreats when there are feelings of timidity, her excruciating shyness, her grief and doubt, the world becomes shrouded in thick fog. Broken buildings and pale light litter the grounds.

Where she built her love for reading, for history, for creativity and study and learning, it's arranged as rooms with dark marbled tile and a carpeted path, the floor for dozens of feet on either side littered with piles of books.

Dove's inner happy place is an open field on gently rolling hills, where thoughts take the form of birds and somehow the sky holds both the stars and suns. One might find trees, flowers, abstract forms of cottages, and forts loaded with mugs and cozy cushions. If you wander far enough you'll find very tall stone walls surrounding it, because Dove's mind is such that her happiness is one of the few things she really truly believes she needs to protect from the rest of herself.

And then there are the aspects of herself that she shoves the deepest down, secreted far away from the surface: the anger, the hunger for power, the mean streak. (Yes, believe it or not, Dove does have a mean streak! You just have to work especially hard to bring it out. Or trigger her in just the right ways around sadism, violence, war, or death. It's very much Not Recommended; bringing too much of that mean streak out could mean Dove loses control of her powers, or worse: her demonic aspects.)

Those secret forces aren't so much located in one particular space of her mind as they're hidden in every dark corner, coursing through the underside of all the ground, a tantalizing power running through every part of her, only ever set free enough to use the dangerous powers to her own ends.

Her places for Fear and Curiosity in particular will be explored in the upcoming Missing: Raven rewrite. (As they're the strongest things Dove is feeling in that story, that's going to be what Beast Boy and Cyborg encounter.) I also explored the way these things manifest in DDD, and in that same story Dove will focus on rebuilding Peace in the final chapter.

I can't talk about Dove's mindscape without mentioning the "emoticlones". These fun little guys are called by the fanon term given to Raven's "emotion clones", the separate parts of her that express a specific set of traits based on particular aspects of her personality. I had so much fun playing with their voices and thoughts in Dove's head during DDD, you have no freaking idea! I also copied the concept of them having Colored Cloaks from Teen Titans canon, because honestly it's a quick and easy way to identify them, and the fandom's familiar with this system through Raven.

Which colors mean what was more inspired by details from a really old, now-defunct website called Cartoon Orbit that had separate "online trading cards" for each of Raven's emoticlones! On that site, Raven's were labeled as such, and this is what I based Dove's system on, loosely: - Pink: "Raven Happy" - Red: "Raven Rage" - Orange: "Raven Rude" - Yellow: "Raven Smart" - Green: "Raven Brave" - Brown: "Raven Fear" (I'm pretty sure there was a purple one, but I don't recall what it was called. "Love" maybe? That might be from fanon; this site was running like 15 years ago, and I was like 10 years old, so I hardly thought to pay Super Special Attention to it...)

But I digress. The point is, I adapted that system for the key aspects of Dove's unique personality, and came to understand them as follows:

- Pink: Joy, relief, coziness - Red: Cruelty, impulsivity, anger - Orange: Apathy, indifference, disregard - Yellow: Curiosity, study, intrigue - Green: Courage, determination, activity - Blue: Contentedness, pacifism, spirituality - Purple: Compassion, friendship, romanticism - Gray: Sadness, grief, longing. - Brown: Fear, fear, fear!

But for Dove's mind in particular, it's not only HER experiences and personality that form the world! She's a telepath, and though she holds others' privacy in very, very high regard and tries never to read someone's mind without their permission, her sense of receptive telepathy is ever-present. Echoes, lights, shadows, reflections of others' memories and thoughts might affect the very edges of her mind. It's a constant sense, but it only ever causes very ephemeral changes unless something deeply affects her.

Her mindscape also grows and changes as Dove grows and changes, experiences life, learns to cope, and changes how she handles her own emotions.

Most notably, the internal struggle in DDD tore her mind apart. Initially it was due to a breakdown of certainty and confidence, hastened by guilt and grief, but it soon became a deliberate tactic to wage war on the parts of Dove's mind that were trying to resist the evil; eventually her inner demon began intentionally breaking/corrupting everything it could touch.

By chapter 20, that evil is the only strong and stable thing in Dove's mind. Raven's attack to remove the evil in her took away that stability, and strength, and thus took away what was essentially the last support holding Dove's mind together. As it says in the story: "everything collapsed". Dove's mindscape was utterly destroyed, and only the most basic aspects of her remained.

For awhile, that left Dove unable to remember things clearly, or feel emotions without great pain. Rebuilding it to the point where she was able to talk and feel Mostly Normally again took months of meditation.

When Dove is kidnapped and Leyla has distressing dreams about her mother, she, Srentha, and Raven use the mirror to check on Dove by accessing her mindscape. With her powers stripped away, surrounded by people who mock her, and certain Fauni rituals sickening Dove to her soul, naturally her mind is very different: shadowy forms flitted at the edges of vision, the ground wavered, her discomfort was thick in the air and the constant fear made everything so, so cold. "Shadows" of others' thoughts flashed in and out of existence, and Dove's desperation manifests as fleeting voices on the wind. It's uncomfortable to be in her mind while she's so distressed.

It's also worth mentioning that her mindscape changes again, essentially "growing" the part of her that belongs to Love when she finally lets herself love Srentha, and it expands again when Leyla's born and Dove once more finds depths of love she didn't know she could carry.

#oc tober #oc tober 2021 #rhs has ocs and this is the tag about them #iala yona #ddd #rhs oc tober

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litwitlady · 4 years

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When You Go, Take Me With You

On a warm July morning, Thomas Mann – not his real name, mind you – finds himself hauling ass down 285, praying that the airstream doesn’t come unhitched. Tommy has spent the last 11 months in Santa Fe grifting seniors in assisted living facilities out of their hard-earned nest eggs. But someone’s greedy little grandson finally noticed his grandmother’s savings dwindling away and called the authorities. He’s been riding hard all night and can’t remember the last time he ate. But he’s got a rap sheet three pages long and knows if he gets caught, he’ll never see the light of day again.

Eventually, his stomach wears him down, though, and he stops in Roswell at a kitschy little diner he hopes he can disappear into long enough to satisfy his basic needs. Halfway through his cheese fries, three sheriff’s deputies walk in and as they are chatting with the waitress at the counter, Tommy sneaks out and takes the scenic route back towards his pickup. He can’t really say he’s much surprised to find the actual Sheriff knocking on the airstream’s door. Knowing he’s lost this battle, he decides to cut his losses and run. The old Ford pickup is eventually auctioned off, but the airstream ends up in the impound lot collecting dust for the next year.

And then one day Michael Guerin accidentally illegally parks his truck on the Long farm where he promptly passes out drunk across the bench seat. Daddy Long calls the Sheriff and Michael’s arrested. Again. Max bails him out and drives him over to the Chavez County impound lot to collect his truck. And that’s where Michael Guerin falls in love for the second time in his life. The shiny, silver airstream gleams in the morning sunlight and he’s never seen anything more beautiful. Not in a long while, anyway. He convinces Max to bargain with the county in order to buy the airstream for him. Michael knows they will laugh him out of the precinct, but Max is one of their own. He parts ways with every single penny he’s ever made, but he’s rewarded with the first permanent roof he’s ever had.

Not that Michael expects the trailer to be a permanent thing. After all, no home has ever been forever. Most haven’t lasted longer than a year or so. Besides his truck, of course. The mere idea that the airstream is mobile proves the impermanence of the situation. He can flit from place to ungodly place without settling down with any actual intent. There’s beauty in the nomadic nature of it all. Mostly, he doesn’t have to worry about being rained on any longer or crashing on Isobel’s sofa or cuddling up with Sanders’ dog. So, he’s happy. Content. Proud, even.

The trailer is cramped. The engine is shit. And the toilet is literally two feet from where he lays his head at night. How he convinces any of his hookups to climb into that tiny bed with him is anyone’s guess. There’s been more than one conquest sent home with multiple bruises. Once he burns a piece of toast so badly that he can’t sleep inside for a week. There’s no storage, the floor is lopsided, and Isobel refuses to step inside for two whole years. But hey, nothing’s perfect.

After a year together, Michael and the airstream find a balance that works for them. He covers the windows with old newspaper, adapts to being very, very tidy, and sleeps outside when the claustrophobia sets in. He even fashions a front patio out of some old oak pallets he finds in the junkyard. In return, the trailer gives him privacy, a sense of autonomy, and a place to bring Alex Manes when he returns from his first tour overseas. And every tour after that.

Not that he was looking to bring Alex back to his place, of course. He hadn’t even known Alex was back. And then suddenly, there he is. Laughing with Arturo in the Crashdown. Michael hardly recognizes him with the regulation haircut and newly lean body. He tells himself to walk away, but the universe has other ideas. Alex spots him and his whole face lights up. No one has ever looked at Michael like that and he’s lost all over again.

Over the next decade, the airstream begins to collect memories. Isobel blowing the door open and taking her first steps inside to shout at him that she’s engaged. Max showing up at 3 am like clockwork every year on Liz Ortecho’s birthday because he’s smashed and doesn’t want to hear Iz’s lectures. The Sheriff’s random visits for one reason or another; he suspects she’s spying on him. The brief time he lets an old, senior dog share his space. There’s still dog hair in the many nooks and crannies.

And then there’s Alex.

He’s everywhere - in every corner, every empty inch of space – filling up the entire trailer. Sprawled naked across the narrow bed, one long, gorgeous leg hanging off the side. Standing over the small stove laughing as Michael teaches him how to make the perfect omelet. Two old Air Force t-shirts stashed deep in his closet that Michael will swear up and down he doesn’t know exist. The silly little cartoon of a cowboy he’s scribbled on every single yellowed newspaper taped to the windows. And the one solitary heart drawn in permanent ink right above Michael’s pillow. He’ll never admit how many times he’s traced that doodle and prayed that Alex’s heart is still beating.

Not every memory is happy, however. He and Alex have always fought as hard as they’ve loved. How many times Alex has stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoing off the trailer’s tinny walls, door hinges growing whinier as the years go by. Tears shed in anger and in desperate sadness every time the Air Force calls him back to some violent conflict a world away. Damn near feral sex fucked out through those same tears. The sun rising over two beaten, broken hearts the next morning. Another goodbye. Another lonely year stretching out into the desert wasteland. And suddenly the airstream feels suffocating and enduring. Set in stone and unmovable as Alex walks away one more time.

In the in-between times, Michael nurses his bruised heart out on Foster’s Ranch, punishing his body with grueling manual labor. He settles the trailer into an anonymous patch of dust and scrub brush. He begins to collect various trailer accoutrement. First, a rusted, used patio set he grabs off someone’s teetering trash pile. Next, a ‘free parking’ sign he finds abandoned on the side of Route 60. On Alex’s next leave, he’ll mark out the ‘free’ and write ‘no’ in its place. Michael will try hard not to overthink the implication. Isobel says he’s nesting, jokes that he should hang up a cross-stitched ‘Home Sweet Home’. Michael begins to panic.

At the end of ten years, he gives up. The airstream is home. There’s no point in denying the most basic fact of his existence any longer. The impermanent is now permanent. He flicks off the tin bucket and then lovingly wipes away some mud caked on the tire well. Love/hate, defined.

He returns to the trailer after another stint in the drunk tank (a home away from home, if you will) to find a uniformed Alex Manes knocking on his door. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised to find him there – Isobel, after all, had been the one to organize his hero’s parade down Main Street. But it’s been two years with no contact – the longest they’ve ever gone – and so when Alex turns to meet his eyes, the breath is knocked right out of him. So begins another cycle of fight or flight. The airstream will play centerstage. He can almost hear the aging trailer sigh.

But this time the cycle ends differently. Michael moves the airstream into the Wild Pony’s parking lot, shocking everyone. Ostensibly to keep Maria DeLuca safe. But really just to be near her energy, her spirit, her laughter. He hopes to love her. He wants to be good for someone, goddammit. But deep down he’s worried he never will be. That he’s about as solid and steady as his home on wheels. Good enough for a little while, but never long enough to last. Always ready to roll off a cliff with the slightest push.

He hates when he’s right.

Maria breaks up with him in a hospital room. The next night he meticulously searches the airstream for anything she might have left behind. A shoe, a bra, some lipstick. But there’s nothing and he feels like the trailer is out to get him, shoving those two old Air Force t-shirts in his face. The tiny, scribbled cowboys serenading him with derisive laughter. The black heart mocking him. And Michael can’t take it anymore. He slams the airstream’s door shut, nearly knocking it off its stupid creaky hinges and calls Isobel, all but demanding she meet him at the Pony. He needs a drink. Maybe several. And a shoulder to brood on. Perhaps he should call Max instead.

Michael doesn’t expect open mic night. He doesn’t expect Alex Manes and his dumb angel voice. He doesn’t expect to be confronted with the one answer he’s always wanted. But home is a tricky business. Especially for an alien stranded in the foster care system on the wrong planet. As Alex sings his song – asking Michael to come home – everything becomes crystal clear. And Michael tries to telepathically tell the airstream to go fuck itself. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t work.

Because here’s the thing. Home can be a person.

The answer has always been that easy and that impossible. And the airstream has always known. Watching all these years as the two of them danced around each other. The ultimate grift. The longest con job this side of the Milky Way. Michael Guerin has been played, marked, and left wanting. His genius brain duped and cheated. The airstream has never been more than a shit engine and lopsided floors.

After Michael leaves the Pony that night, he moves in with Isobel. And he goes to work. On himself – AA meetings, college classes, mending all his relationships with Max, with Maria. With Alex. And on the airstream – gutting the inside and converting the space into an admittedly revolutionary eco-friendly garden greenhouse.

Once the project is finished, he attaches the toe hitch to his Chevy and heads east until he pulls into the Chavez County Children’s Home. The director meets him outside and shakes his hand with tears in her eyes. Michael walks her and several of the children through the garden, excitedly explaining all the vegetables and flowers he’s planted. Isobel arrives to take pictures for the local paper and secretly shed several of her own tears. She watches Michael happily playing with all the kids and teaching them the wonders of composting. Soon, he gives her a kiss on the cheek and climbs back into his truck. He’s got one final stop to make.

As he drives through the center of Roswell, something swells in Michael’s chest. He knows this place so well – has been arrested on nearly every corner. The Crashdown has always welcomed him with a warm meal and silly antennae. New Roswell High – with all its memories, good and bad. The UFO Emporium – or what was the UFO Emporium – with its fake alien displays and empty corners perfect for kissing sweet emo boys with the biggest of hearts. Of all the places to crash land, Roswell hasn’t turned out so bad. It’s truly a stunning conclusion.

When he arrives at his destination, he pulls into the driveway next to Alex’s green Explorer, grabs his two duffel bags, and heads to the front door. He opens the lock with his key and shouts to Alex that he’s home.

#michael guerin #malex #malex fic #i never thought i'd write something michael centric #not sure it works but i tried #so have 2K words and fuck the 4th

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birbleafs · 4 years

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[fic] It’s A Matter Of (In)Convenience

Series: Saiki Kusuo no Ψ-nan || The Disastrous Life of Saiki K. Rating: T Genre: Humour, Breaking The Fourth Wall Character(s): Saiki Kusuo, Aiura Mikoto, Toritsuka Reita, Kaidou Shun, Kuboyasu Aren, Nendou Riki, Yumehara Chiyo, Teruhashi Kokomi Warnings: None, save for canon-typical shenanigans Summary: Saiki Kusuo’s plan for a quiet Sunday spent shopping for desserts in an ordinary konbini is thrown into disarray when he runs into several… inconveniences, much to his dismay. A/N: I've been re-reading/re-watching Saiki K. during this quarantine period and I haven't laughed this hard since I was into Gintama. This series has given me so much ridiculous joy, it’s great for helping keep anxiety and existential despair at bay lol. Fic can also be read on AO3

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Saiki Kusuo could not say he dislikes commuting by public train but he’s not particularly a fan of it either. After all, it’s exceedingly more troublesome and vexing for someone like him, encumbered with psychic abilities beyond human comprehension. He’s unable to switch off his telepathy at will, so it’s no small feat being stuck in a packed cabin and trying to filter out the cacophonous thoughts of fifty-odd passengers buzzing incessantly in his mind throughout the long ride to the next town. Distance isn’t an issue today, however. Not that it had ever been an issue, mind you—he could teleport to almost any location he so wished. But Kusuo had long since mastered inconspicuousness into an art form, and teleporting to his destination and appearing seemingly out of thin air in the middle of a packed convenience store was sure to draw unwanted attention to himself. No, it’s not worth the risk, even for such a coveted goal at the end of his journey. Besides, Kusuo is a man of principle, one who does not easily succumb to using his powers for self-interest. He will do this the ordinary, pedestrian way.

In any case, travelling out of Hidariwakibara-chō to neighbouring Tonari Machi on a random Sunday morning would also mean the chances of him running into certain... inconveniences are very nearly zero. Forty-five minutes and twelve stops later, Kusuo beams in quiet triumph as he walks past the automatic sliding doors and into the aforementioned convenience store, barely registering the musical jiggle over the speakers. He steps through the sparse crowd, pausing midway through the snack and desserts aisle when he finally catches sight of the neat row of orange boxes with silver trimmings on the top shelf. Kusuo allows himself a tiny grin as he reaches for a box, eyes bright with anticipation as he gazes upon its wondrous contents—three cups of chocolate brownie and cherry parfait, infused with coffee jelly and topped with dollops of luscious cream and cinnamon sprinkles. A simple but unmatched delicacy right here in this nondescript konbini, he thinks, savouring the glorious moment a little longer. Still, as fate would have it, he would be reminded in less than ten seconds that his life is but an unfortunate series of daily disasters, and his current reprieve short-lived. And it comes in the form of a young woman who had waltzed through the crowd and is now latching onto his arm with garishly pink manicured nails, her wavy blonde hair already casting a dark cloud over Kusuo’s face. Aiura Mikoto, resident soothsayer and trendsetter gal. Inconvenience No. 1. Ah. So it begins. “Wassup, Kusuo!” Aiura chirps a little too brightly. Already two or three mob characters in the konbini are throwing scandalized looks their way, but to Aiura they’re nothing but background scenery and lazily drawn silhouettes. “Who woulda thunk we’d meet here like this? It must totes be our destiny as soul mates, fer sure!” Isn’t it more because someone is totes a stalker? Kusuo deadpans telepathically her way, even as he makes no real attempt to avoid Aiura’s smothering embrace. Instead, he fixes her with a stare as blank as stone canvas. This is an invasion of privacy. Also, what’s with the meta observation in the previous paragraph? Stop messing with the readers like that. “Man, you sure are a ray of sunshine sometimes,” Aiura pouts, before she breaks into a giggle and relents. She unlatches herself from him, putting some distance between them. “Anyway, can’t your BFF like, just accidentally bump into you while shopping for the same box of snacks you no doubt travelled all the way out here for?” So you admit you really are a stalker then, Kusuo counters drily, only to frown again at the sudden creeping presence of another aura. He feels the weight of another arm draping carelessly over his shoulder, followed by the brusque yapping of an over-eager and desperate hot-blooded young male in his ears. “Yooo, Saiki-san! What a coincidence!” Toritsuka Reita, the spirit medium and an exemplary specimen of the most depraved life-form, the lecherous scum. Also known as Inconvenience No. 2. Saiki Kusuo, a man most unfortunate, lets out a weary sigh. “I see you’ve got that accusatory glare painted all over your face.” Toritsuka wags an annoying finger before Kusuo. “Now, now. Before you also accuse me of stalking, Mister Doom and Gloom, let me just say that I’m only here for one thing.” He flicks a furtive glance towards a discreet corner of the magazine section. The shelves are filled with magazines wrapped in plastic, large R-18 stickers plastered across the covers and over the spines much like indecent warning signs. Toritsuka dabs towards the third shelf, waving a mini poster at both Kusuo and Aiura, and this sentence then abruptly proceeds to describe the close-up of said poster—a particularly titillating centre spread featuring a curvaceous model’s skimpily clad... assets. “Surely there’s no better reason to be here now than for the special compilation of EROmag’s Greatest Upskirts And Panty-shots Of The Month!” Toritsuka exclaims, echoing the thoughts of all resident perverts. “Ugh, grody to the max,” Aiura says, lips curled in utter revulsion. For once, the stars are aligned and Kusuo finds himself wholeheartedly agreeing with her sentiment. Before he can get a retort in edgewise however, he’s unceremoniously tugged closer into Toritsuka’s one-armed embrace, who then proceeds to thump a hand over Kusuo’s chest in a grand show of obnoxious male posturing and solidarity. “You women will never understand,” Toritsuka counters with an ingratiating smirk. “But Saiki-san and I, we’re bosom buddies, connoisseurs of refined aesthetics. Together, we’ll finally gaze upon those heavenly lace panti—A-ACKK!!” He hacks up a lung just as Kusuo nonchalantly drives a sharp elbow right into his solar plexus, causing him to stagger backwards onto the floor. Bosom buddies? Kusuo echoes ominously, glaring daggers at the pathetic writhing form before him. Pretty sure that ridiculous thump you just pulled is both an outrage and insult of my modesty. Hey, can I call the police? I’m calling the police. Aiura nods at that, lips curved into a Cheshire grin and looking extremely pleased with herself as though she’s the one to suggest calling the cops. “Delusional sleazebags should just crawl back into the garbage bin where they belong. Like the skeevy trash panda that they are, right Kusuo?” “Who are you calling delusional, huh?!” Toritsuka snaps, jumping back to his feet. “I’ll have you know that Saiki-san and I have been nothing but the most loyal, the tightest of all bosom buddies—” Refer to me as your bosom buddy again and I’ll crush your windpipe, Kusuo interjects without missing a beat, and the EROmag poster in Toritsuka’s hand spontaneously combusts into flames. “Argh, not the panties!!” Toritsuka yelps, watching in despair as the poster shrivels up in the blaze, only to catch sight of the eerie, voidless depths of Kusuo’s inscrutable gaze. The spirit medium pales at the split-second reminder of his fleeting mortality, sweat dripping down his nape as he carefully backs away from the precarious jaws of death. “B-B-Bros! I-I meant that we’re the best kind of bro-some buddies, ahahaha! T-That is to say, brotherly and wholesome—R-right, Saiki-san? So don’t get all conceited just because you’ve got big knockers, Tits McGee!!” “Pfft, brotherly and wholesome? As if!” Aiura scoffs, unimpressed. “You’re about as wholesome as your d*ck aura and a college frat boy’s porno stash. Just admit you ain’t nothing but a tiresome anime trope!” “Look who’s talking, Miss Fanservice. This is a wholesome shounen series, so how about you take those bazongas back to Hooters where they belong!” “Haaah? You looking for a fight, you raunchy racoon?!” “Bring it on then!” Kusuo scowls at the petty squabbling, exasperated at how easily his quiet Sunday was already going awry, much like the metaphorical train wreck poised for a manic spiral off its rails. He decides to take his leave then from the two inconveniences bickering loudly, making his way towards the self-checkout station near the entrance. He pays for his items, stealthily packing them away with a subtle flick of his psychokinesis, and is only a few paces away from complete freedom at last when the generic musical jingle blares from the speakers overhead. “♪~Welcome to F☆mily Mart Konbini, We Guarantee 99.9% Shopping Satisfaction! It’s A Matter of Convenience~! ♪” Kusuo frowns at the jingle. Why is it only 99.9% satisfaction? And really, a matter of convenience? Not when he’d already run into two inconveniences in a row and all in a convenience store. Is God conspiring with the universe and pulling a sick prank on him right now? What a horrible sense of humour. The automatic doors at the entrance slide wide open then, and in saunter three terribly familiar faces—Kaidou Shun, Kuboyasu Aren, and Nendou Riki. Inconvenience No. 3, No. 4, and No. 5 respectively. “What did I tell you, Aren? Not only did we manage to beat traffic, but this unexpected change in my Sunday routine would’ve thrown a wrench into Dark Reunion’s plans of attempted kidnapping. Too bad I, The Jet-Black Wing, am always several steps ahead. Heh.” “Uhmm, yeah I guess… Hey, Shun, look! There isn’t a queue for the limited edition Ginta-Man figurine raffle tickets here at all. Good thing you insisted we meet at the crack of dawn—Tch, Nendou, don’t dawdle around and block the entrance like that! What’re you looking at anyway?” “Oh? I thought I saw my pal just a few seconds ago...” “Huh, Saiki’s here too-?! Oh, you mean that. Don’t be daft, Nendou, that’s just a cardboard cut-out of that kiddie hero show, Cyborg Cider-man Mark II.” Seriously?? Kusuo curses irritably as he dives inconspicuously out of sight from the passing trio, right into the bath and shampoo aisle. It’s just been a series of inconveniences one after another this morning, the metaphorical train wreck already hurtling itself past the edge of no return. Good grief, what a pain. May as well have the rest of the cast show up next— Another cheesy musical jingle, another swoosh of the sliding doors, and— “Waahh, it’s really you, Kaidou-kun!” “Hello, what a nice surprise to run into everyone here.” “Oh, hey there, Yumehara and... Offu~! T-T-Teruhashi-san?!” Saiki Kusuo, ever the suffering protagonist, drags a hand over his face. See? God hates him. Two aisles over, he can still hear Aiura and Toritsuka’s voices drifting over: “Man, I’m sick of looking at your pervy mug. C’mon, Kusuo, let’s ditch this loser—Huh, where did you run off to, Kusuo?!” “Your petty squawking has given us all an earache and must’ve driven Saiki-san off as well!” Oi, oi, Kusuo flinches inwardly, seized by a helpless fear of watching his quiet Sunday careening off the cliff and further away from his grasp. Quit yelling out my name like that and throwing me to the wolves already! Too late. At the mention of Kusuo’s name, Nendou cranes his neck 270 degrees Exorcist-style like a hideously monstrous owl and rushes over to Toritsuka’s side. “Oh! Did you just say my pal is here?!” he exclaims happily, shaking Toritsuka by the shoulders like a dog shaking an unfortunate chew toy. “I knew I’d seen him when we walked in earlier!” Not to be outdone by Nendou, Teruhashi also leaps forward before Aiura with none of her previous composure, her unblemished, porcelain visage now dusted with a hint of rose, a conflicted mix of perplexity and (envious) shock pooling in her angelic eyes. “D-Did you say ‘Saiki’?! H-Hey, Aiura-san, you did say ‘Saiki’ and not actually ‘Kusuo’, right? M-My, I must have misheard things, right? R-Right?!” “What the heck is going on? Is Saiki really here?” Anxious, Kusuo grits his teeth at the growing clamour as his friends converge from all corners of the store towards the aisle where he’d been forced to hide. Guess there’s no avoiding it after all, he frets despairingly, and in less than a nanosecond, teleports unnoticed from the konbini to an empty street outside. Kusuo sighs, relieved to have finally escaped. Minor inconveniences aside, perhaps a quiet Sunday spent savouring chocolate brownie and cherry parfait in the comfort of his home isn’t beyond his reach yet. What? Didn’t he just use his powers for self-interest to teleport out of a sticky situation? Foolish readers, that was for self-preservation and completely acceptable, of course. He holds his shopping bag close, pleased that he’d managed to avoid a disaster, and begins to walk down the street—only to freeze mid-step when he feels a sudden splitting headache jolt through him… A flash of images appears: Aiura and Toritsuka crouching in fear together, Kuboyasu bracing his bleeding arm, Kaidou screaming shrilly as he shields Yumehara and Teruhashi from a masked man brandishing a gun, Nendou digging his nose with his pinky—That’s just disgusting, no one wants to see that, stop it!! The vision finally ends, and Kusuo lifts a hand to his face, massaging his temple to clear the precognitive fog from his mind. An armed robbery, huh. He lets out another resigned sigh. Good grief—What a pain, Saiki ‘I-don’t-(but I actually really do)-care-about-my-friends’ Kusuo mutters internally in annoyance, even as he yeets himself head-first into other people’s business and right back into the convenience store to stop a future robbery. Still he smiles, eyes soft with perhaps the slightest flicker of affection for this dysfunctional bunch of people in his disastrous life. Someone has to protect them and save the day, after all.

–End–

#saiki kusuo no psi nan #the disastrous life of saiki k.#saiki kusuo #aiura mikoto #toritsuka reita #fanfic #too lazy to tag all the characters here #this show's over the top ridiculousness and crack is 10/10 my type of comedy #i love it lol

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intheshadowofsignificance · 4 years

Text

11/30 Pegasus makes the easiest of Seto’s choices a struggle. You can find this chapter here as well!

Handoff

Pegasus kept the journal in one hand, doing his best not to give into the instinct to tuck it away and close to himself. He had given Mokuba his word.

On top of that, he had given him an envelope. The refusal was strange and jarring, what else could describe rejection of a stone in a glass world?

“If I tear out the page, it’ll loosen the binding.” Mokuba had said.

It was a well made journal but he was right. Never mind all he had offered was an envelope. Never mind Mokuba had just seen how easily one finger gutted paper. The reason he sacrificed a bit of privacy was to preserve a gift. Something cherished and shared. No matter how many times Seto exchanged this book with his baby brother, no matter how many tender words passed between them, he hadn’t been the one to earn it. To offer it. That right belonged to Pegasus, and rooted him to what this really was. Clear lines. Clear purpose. Nothing muddled.

“Good morning, Kaiba.”

“I need a new razor, this one is dull.”

“Who in their right mind left a razor in there?” Pegasus pushed breakfast through the hatch and meticulously examined the disposable to be sure it had all its blades.

“Crawford.”

“You’re not getting two gifts in one day, you’ll want what I’ve brought infinitely more.”

“I’m not facing you looking anymore like a homeless person. The clothes are bad enough.”

“Are you going to reject my first gift in months without knowing what it is? That isn’t very wise, you know.”

“I just asked for a razor.”

“You’re still too young to really grow hair, I’ve seen worse than your patchy mustache.” Pegasus held up the journal. “This is my offer.” He took a pen from his breast pocket and tucked it under a finger, against the soft cover.

“You want me to write a best selling captivity memoir for you to pedal as fiction under your name?”

“So testy. Not sleeping well?”

“You took KaibaCorp, one of us has to preserve reality.”

“One of us has no grasp of his present reality.”

Present? Was that him saying it was about to change?

“I’ve never been much of a writer.” Pegasus would read every word, immediately or down the road, there was no sense in sacrificing what he needed for something so impractical.

“So draw blueprints,” Pegasus replied. “Keep your mind sharp.”

“I can do that without the paper.” Give it to Ryou. No. That was a stupid thing to even think.

“It would make him cry to know you didn’t take this, so I suppose it’s the one thing I’ll spell out for you. In this journal Mokuba is going to write one page a day for the rest of the year, and you can fill one page in response.” He lowered it slowly toward the hatch. “If you take it.”

“Why would I ever assume you’d offer something like that? I was just supposed to telepathically know?” Seto’s irritation simmered as he crossed the room.

“I take it that’s a rain check on the razor.” Pegasus said, opening the hatch.

“Yes. Give it here.”

Seto’s hand gripped one end, an inch of so of the journal on his side of the glass. Pegasus held firm to the rest. “Now Kaiba-boy, what do we say?”

Cigar smoke fogged the glass, but could never stain them yellow. He had always wondered as a boy while Gozaburo papered the walls.

“Please.”

#glass drabbles 2020 #seto kaiba #maximillion pegasus #pegasus j crawford

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xxbabybumblebeexx · 5 years

Text

once and never again

teaser- come with me

chapter summery: when Kylo Ren, commander of the First Order, goes on a mission to the outer rim he feels a strong pull from the force to check out a place infamous for slave trading. Inside, he finds a girl. Small, dirty, and terrified huddling in the corner.

a/n: this is my first fanfiction on this account and I’m so happy! I hope y’all enjoy it! Please give it a chance, bbs!

pairing: kylo ren x original character (currently nameless and rarely physically described)

characters: The Girl, Kylo Ren, stormtroopers

warnings: cursing, hints at abuse, slave trading, blood, violence

words: 2,111 (they’ll be longer in the future, but this just felt right for the first chapter!)

masterlist

A deep, silent sigh left the Commander as the pull tugged at him again, urging him forward.

"It has to be coming from somewhere, keep looking. Don't stop until I say." Kylo ordered, his voice coming through his mask’s apparatus with an urgent tone. The stormtroopers did as told, looking around the village and in every crevice looking for an unidentified thing. A few just rolled their eyes and mumbled to each other about how ridiculous this was, while the others kept their mouths shut.

Kylo paid no mind to them, this feeling--this connection-- took up the forefront of his mind and he knew he had to find them.

Help me. Someone please, anyone! Help me!

There it was, the voice of a scared girl ringing through his head, bouncing off the sides of his skull and penetrating his brain until all he could hear was her. And then, an overwhelming need to find and save her seemed to push out any thoughts about the mission he was abandoning.

"Uh, sir?" one of the troopers spoke up, jogging over to where he was searching, "There's one building we haven't checked yet, but the others and I agreed to get your permission before going in as...it might cause some conflict." The trooper explained.

"Where?"

"We believe the rather large grey building about a mile out is a center for slave traders and gambling."

Kylo took a moment, pondered it, and with a deep breath he responded with, "Resume the search here, I'll take 3 men and head to the building."

Please, I beg of anyone! Make this stop!

Under the mask, he flinched at the intensity of the plea this time around. He pointed to three different stormtroopers, motioning for them to follow him. His strides were long and full of purpose as he set off in the direction that would hopefully lead him to her.

As he speed-walked through the patch of trees, he attempted to reach out to the girl through the force but he received no response this time. His brow furrowed in confusion

The branches snapping under his boot and the clunk of the storm-trooper armor came back into focus as he reset his mind to the path ahead. Not too long in the distance now was a rather inconspicuous grey brick building with a few tinted windows and vines growing up the sides. This was it, he could feel it.

The connection grew stronger and he knew she was near.

Kylo confidently strode to the double set of steel doors and raised his fist to rap against it. A sliding peephole a tad below his eye level opened up and a pair of piercing violet eyes scanned over the Commander's entourage. "First Order? What business do you have here?"

"Unimportant. Open the door."

He just knew they had a sneer on their face as they said, "You have no jurisdiction here, I don't have to open this for you until you give me a good reason."

That statement almost made a smirk tug at the corner of Kylo's mouth and with a roll of his eyes he waved his hand and the door shot open. The violet eyed man jumped backwards, eyes wide with shock as if he hadn’t known the Commander of the First Order was force-sensitive.

Kylo simply brushed past them into the common area. The outside of the building had been deceiving, he observed. The walls of the common room were a pristine white with golden swirls and luxurious furniture lined them. Scattered around were gambling stations, and off to the side were 'privacy rooms' with red velvet curtains on golden bars.

He also noticed an out of place, rusted steel door at the very far end of the room that he felt a strong urge to open. The girl was just through that door, he could feel it.

But first, he had to deal with the people he had just interrupted mid-gamble. His eyes scanned over the crowd and saw a wide array of emotions displayed. Some looked ready to reach for their blasters, others shocked until recognition washed over their features, and a few were completely unbothered and went back to rolling their dice.

The former of all of those was the only to react, whipping out their weapons only for the stormtroopers to do the same. Oh, goody. A standoff.

The leather of his glove squeaked as he wrapped his hand around the hilt of his lightsaber expectantly, "I have come for one thing and one thing only, if you wish to get in my way I will show you no mercy." he threatened.

They seemed to consider it for a moment and all was still. Until he heard the safeties being clicked off and shots began to fire. The crackling of his unstable lightsaber clashed against each shot that came his way.

Kylo hissed as a shot grazed his right thigh and let out a low growl of pain, not allowing himself time to feel it as he reached out through the force and knocked the attacker off his feet. His troopers had taken care of the rest.

The remaining of the gamblers set their blasters down and knelt onto the carpeted floor. He motioned for his stormtroopers to follow him and angrily stomped off towards the rusted door, flinging it open.

Inside was a long dim hallway with three doors on either side. And the first thing he heard was a girl crying out in pain and the sobs that went along with them. He followed the noises until he reached the middle door on the right, bursting through that one as well.

Kylo felt it stronger now, this odd connection he had to the girl. She was a crumbled up heap on the floor, shaking as the boot of a rather large man made contact with her abdomen. He felt her sorrow, her pain, her terror, all of it. And he hated it. He related to it.

And in a split moment decision, he ignited his lightsaber, taking a step forward and plunging it into the greasy man's back. The man let out a slow gasp, eyes falling down to look at the crimson red blade protruding through his stomach. The man didn’t have enough time to turn his head to peer at Kylo before he collapsed.

A loud, piercing scream sounded in the small cell and Kylo's attention was brought back to the girl. She had managed to sit up and was pushing herself away from the corpse and from him, eyes wide and full of fear.

Kylo watched her movements carefully. He could sense the troopers were now at the entrance of the door and he saw the girl's gaze flicker onto them. A whimper escaped the girl as she backed away further, her breaths quickening and tears streaming down her face. She pressed herself against the stone wall and held her arms up parallel to each other in front of her face as she folded in on herself.

When he attempted to move toward her, she gasped sharply and seemed to try to sink deeper into the wall. She was still so scared, even though he had just saved her life.

He turned to his troopers, "Leave us." he commanded. They obediently left without question, marching back to the main area.

Once he was sure they had left, rusted door slamming behind them, Kylo reached up and felt around the side of his mask for a little hook and pressed. The front of his mask clicked and the mouthpiece lifted, allowing him to pull it off his head with ease. He gently setting it down on the floor beside his feet.

He took in the girl's appearance for a moment as she slowly peaked at him through her arms.. Her hair was greasy and matted, covering most of a dirt smudged face. Though under all the grime and sweat he could see she had soft, admittedly beautiful, features. He also noticed small cuts, some fresh and others healed, scattered her face and exposed arms. Some blood dribbled down her chin from a busted lip.

"I have no intention of hurting you." He finally spoke, slowly crouching down in front of her, "I heard you."

At this she peeked at him from behind her arms with a bewildered expression on her face, her eyebrows furrowed and head slightly tilted to the side.

Heard me? Her voice rang in his head.

Kylo nods, a part of him wondered why she still chose to speak telepathically. His head tilted down and to the side to catch her eye-line, examining her and her reactions. "You called for help through the force. Did you know you could do that?" he asked surprisingly more gentle than he usually speaks.

The girl shook her head no, arms finally coming all the way down to hug her bare legs closer to her chest. All she wore was a long, plain tan shirt covered in dirt and fresh blood along with a pair of underwear.

"Do you know what the force is?" Kylo questioned, eyebrows furrowing a bit. Again, she shook her head no.

He was silent, nodding in acknowledgement. This girl was clueless to the power she held, yet still managed to breach the mind of Kylo Ren to ask for help. Though he was positive she didn't know who he was either.

His gaze moved back up to her face and he instinctively reached out to wipe the blood from her chin, hoping to examine her wounds a bit more.

Don't touch me! Her voice rang in his head suddenly, cracking and full of fear.

Kylo retracted his hand fast, holding it up next to him and shifting his jaw. Let's try this again. "I won't. I was trying to wipe off the blood from your chin, I shouldn't have done that." Apologizing feels weird.

The girl looked at him curiously but was still clearly guarded, her breaths fast and shaky. He could sense that she wanted to believe him--wanted to trust him-- but she's never been able to before. She felt this connection too, only she had even less of a clue what it was than Kylo did.

She may be good at breaching his mind to send a distress signal, but she was clueless on how to close off her own, he noticed.

Kylo knew he couldn't use the Force as a motivator for her to leave this terrible place with him, because she knew nothing of it. But he could promise her a better life, or at least better than this. Though he is still very unsure as to why he seems to be caring so much. Perhaps he empathized.

"I can get you clean clothes, a bath, food, water, anything." he proposes, head moving to meet her eyes when they moved away from him, "A comfortable bed?" She met his eyes on her own at that.

She fixed him with a look that portrayed more than words ever could, a look that told him she'd been tricked before and betrayed repeatedly. She wasn't ready to trust him yet.

Why did he care?

"I'm not lying to you." Kylo attempted to assure her, "My name is Kylo Ren, commander of the First Order and apprentice to Snoke. I can get you all the things I said and provide you with shelter."

She made no attempt to move or show understanding. And he was beginning to lose his patience (it was a miracle he'd lasted this long).

"I can teach you how to defend yourself, so you'll never have to feel this way again. That'd be nice, right? Being able to fight back?"

That seemed to catch her attention, but she continued to not move or speak. He let out a huff, tone becoming more irritated, "Just let me show you. It's that or staying here-" he gestured to the dark, damp room, "in this concrete cell you call a room. Forever."

The girl seemed to ponder his proposal for a moment, eyes gazing over the room and down to herself before meeting his own, eyes finally trusting. She let go of her legs and unfolded, moving herself away from the wall.

"Come with me?" he asked, standing up and stretching out a hand to her.

She looked up at him and he could see how she seemed to relax as she stood. Kylo couldn’t help but notice she barely reached his chest in height.

The girl looked away from him to glance at his hand, still outstretched.

And finally, with a nod, she placed her hand in his.

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x original character #kylo #ren #kylo ren trash #star wars #kylo ren fanfiction #once and never again #nerdybabywrites

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authorsofparadiseroleplay · 4 years

Text

James/Melody: Sanctuary

Thread transfer for @summerxmelodies

James

The snow began to fall as they flew over the mountains, spinning flurries of white dust that pelted their iridescent, scaled hides, to be caught and carried away in the wind thrashing in their wake. James drew the ice-limned air into his lungs and reveled in the feel of his wings stretching out over the billowing air currents, and the familiar old thrill coursed through his body, the ecstasy of the wild, the simple rightness of every instinct and urge, every desire, every hunger.

He could see Melody flying beside him, a stark, gleaming flash of blue visible through the veil of grey and white. Every cell of his body quivered with the need to protect her, to shield her from the ones intending her harm…

…to touch her, to breathe in her scent, to taste the sweet spice of her skin…

…to make her his, to stake his claim on her…

Somewhere in a far corner of his mind, he still remembered his resolve to eschew attachment, to protect his heart, which was so prone to giving all of itself without thought for self-preservation. But in this moment, flying by her side, he could not understand why he ever would have thought that. Something he had not understood prior suddenly shifted into vivid clarity– that tendency to give everything of himself was a part of his Dragon as much as it was a part of his human. It didn’t quite fit with the image of the beast he had cultivated in his beliefs for so many centuries, that of a savage, violent, and irredeemable monster that must be battled against, ruthlessly restrained at all times. No, it was good. It was right. It was fiercely protective and passionate and capable of the most divine, transcendent love that only a being threaded into the interweaving roots of reality can experience. It was heaven and earth, the feral and the ephemeral, the yin and the yang, all wound up together until they were inseparable. And it was right.

Tilting his head down, he could just see the jutting angles and planes of the house that had been built into the mountainside, barely visible where it blended into the ancient limestone. A large balcony awaited their landing, ringed with an ornately carved stone railing, and he banked left, allowing himself to glide into a sharp but controlled descent. He dropped heavily to the balcony and turned, his back to the sliding glass doors, waiting for Melody to join him.

___________________________________

Melody

Melody was not as accustomed to her draconic nature as James; she rarely shifted out of her human form. She didn’t know where she began and ended. She couldn’t tell the difference between her own desires and her other half. She and her dragon were one in the same. As they flew, she often found her gaze on James. He was magnificent and all the emotions she’d been struggling with since his rejection came back full force. It was maddening and anger flared in her chest; anger and hurt. A low rumble began in her chest as he began his descent, but it quickly fell away as she shifted to land; she was far less graceful and it showed.

Smoke curled up from her nostrils as she gaze up at him, wings fluttering lightly before settling against her flanks. Something stirred within her and she took a tentative step forward, a low questioning rumble escaping her as she took in his scent.

___________________________________

James

James watched Melody’s descent to the balcony, worrying for a brief moment that he would have to help her down for what was evidently a more precise landing than she was accustomed to, but she made it. He kept his gaze locked on her as she moved closer to him, steam puffing from his breath into the cold air.

The size of a large draft horse, his Dragon form was much smaller than that of a full-blooded Dragon, but he still towered over Melody’s smaller form. His head lowered to hers, dipping to nuzzle the place where her jaw met her neck, drawing her scent in.

In Dragon form, his muzzle was incapable of forming coherent speech, but his kind (no, his mother’s kind) had long communicated via telepathic link, a link he had shared with his mother in the few short years she had been alive. A link he had shared with Ahirom when the two of them had still been close, before their difference in philosophy and morality had prompted them to part ways. But he’d had little chance to develop that gift with others of his kind to any level resembling that of the full-bloods, and he strongly suspected she had even less experience at it than he, so any communication between James and Melody in their Dragon forms would be difficult.

But perhaps words were unnecessary. There had been so many words already, words that masked or buried the truths that he had been afraid to speak, and he had no more patience for those sorts of words. Not right now. His human side could not, would not understand his true nature, his need to connect, to bond, choosing instead to cling to self-imposed exile, to an isolation that left him cold and decrepit. And for what?

But some words did rise in his mind, backed by potent, ferociously concentrated energy, emotion, and intent– three simple words from a language long consigned to books, scientific classifications, and pompous scholars, but a language that he had learned and spoken fluently when it was common: Meus es tu.

You are mine.

A low, possessive growl rolled in his throat as he stepped closer to Melody, unfurling one wing to drape over her, shielding her from the violent high-altitude winds that buffeted the balcony. But they would have to shift back to human form eventually in order to fit through the human-sized doors, and with that shift would come a return of his human resolve, the resolve that compartmentalized and dissociated and held the Dragon in confinement.

Sometimes he hated the Man, as the Man had learned to hate the Dragon. He wondered if there could ever be peace between them.

No. He would take the form of the Man again, because it was necessary to protect Melody, to bring her in to shelter, to care for her needs. But it would be the Dragon that would direct his actions now.

Stepping back, he began the arduous process of the shift.

___________________________________

Melody

Instinct took over and amber eyes slid closed as she nuzzled against him in return, a purr of sorts escaping her. However, she pulled back as the words, deep and rough, echoed in her mind. He’d spoken to her, but she couldn’t fathom how. Confusion swam in her gaze for a moment, even as his wing draped across her much smaller form. She was unaccustomed to the cold and shivered, the spines along her back clanking together noisily.

She didn’t understand James nor the words he’d spoken; she’d have to ask the meaning later.

For a moment she watched him curiously, mesmerized as black scales turned to pink flesh. However, she turned her gaze away after a moment, giving James a bit of privacy as she focused on shifting back herself.

It took far longer for Melody to shift than James; she had only ever shifted a handful of times in her life. The process was a draining one for her and when she was human again, she wavered on her feet before collapsing to her knees on the balcony; disoriented. It took a moment for her body and mind to reconnect and when it did, she gasped, the cold like a searing knife. Stormy eyes cut up to the man that hovered nearby, eyes going wide at his lack of clothing and then at the realization that she was naked as well. With a little squeak, she made to cover herself, shivering violently even as her blood rushed to her cheeks; she’d gotten an eyeful of James in all his glory and was struggling not to simply stare.

Fuck.

___________________________________

James

James stood naked in the driving wind and snow, but the cold barely touched his senses, as he had learned centuries ago how to manipulate his chi to generate body heat. Melody had no such training, he knew, and though she was likely more hardy than a human, frostbite and hypothermia still posed a threat. He moved to open a storage container where he kept a supply of blankets, keeping his eyes locked on her as she slowly, painstakingly shifted back to her human form.

By the gods, she was beautiful. No, she was exquisite. Exquisite, but probably frozen half to death. He reached into the bin without looking away from her, searching for one of the warm, woolen blankets. Finding one, he stood with it in his hands, began to move towards her, and promptly tripped over the edge of the bin, nearly falling flat on his face.

He swore in… well, he wasn’t sure what language it was in. He had so many to choose from, but none of his vast knowledge accumulated over the centuries seemed to be connecting with his brain at the moment. Regaining his feet with some remaining semblance of dignity, he moved to Melody’s side, dropped into a crouch, and wrapped the blanket around her before helping her up and guiding her by the shoulders towards the doors. He kept his body pressed against hers to share his warmth– and because every cell of his body demanded physical contact with her. “Come inside, petit drac. I’ll start a fire.”

___________________________________

Melody

She snapped her eyes closed, only opening them when she heard a small scuffle; she got to see James trip and nearly fall, but her brain didn’t process why that might be. She was focused on other things. Too late she closed her eyes again, startled when the blanket was draped over her slim shoulders, James’ hard body invading her personal space.

His warmth was a welcome change, as was the blanket, but she could barely focus on getting her body to move. James was the one keeping her on her feet as Melody was more than a little preoccupied with a certain protrusion pressing against her. The cold was supposed to make things shrink! Not make them grow.

Color painted her cheeks and she bit her lip hard, nearly drawing blood, as she nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak as she shuffled forward, heart racing as heat settled low in her belly. Shivering from more than the cold, she clutched the blanket to her, fingers grazing his in the motion; it felt like a spark went up her arm at the contact and a little noise escaped her as they finally stepped inside.

___________________________________

James

James paused on the way in to pick up the bag containing Melody’s things that he had carried with them, then slid open the door and ushered her inside. He did not have to bother with locking or unlocking his doors; the wards he had set and maintained kept out any but himself and anyone he chose to invite inside.

Just past the doors was a small foyer of sorts, stone walls decorated with frescoes, the floor covered with a mosaic of tile. Small alcove shelves in the walls held a variety of decorative baubles, a good many antiques as well as modern keepsakes. James had always been a hoarder, loathe to part with mementos of his life and journeys, and all of his living spaces reflected that.

He led Melody through an archway built into the wall ahead, into the area he had furnished to be a comfortable living space. The furniture was elegantly crafted– some of the woodwork by his own hand– and upholstered in rich, soft, vibrantly jewel-colored fabrics, velvet and silk and satin bedecked with designs depicting flora and fauna of all sorts and scenes from fairy tales and mythology from all over the world. Art of all styles and eras graced the walls in an explosion of clashing colors, uncaring of any uniformity in decor, and rugs displaying the same eclectic designs were scattered over the simple, square floor tile. A large fireplace made of hewn stones stood on the back wall, a stack of firewood and an ornately carved kindling box waiting nearby. To the left was the dining area, and beyond that, the kitchen; to the right, another archway led to corridors that twisted, turned, and descended deep into the mountains. There were a number of chambers set aside as private guest quarters along those corridors, a vast library, a study, rooms for meditation and training and crafting, and always, always, storage and display rooms for his many collections.

One arm still around Melody, he let her bag drop to the floor, his eyes lingering on her slight form in the dim, grey light filtering in from the balcony doors. He was intensely aware of his nakedness, and of the evidence of his desire for her, and for a moment, he seriously considered throwing all caution and restraint to the wind and claiming her right then and there.

Fortunately, perhaps, and despite his preoccupation, he was able to see the small, dark shadow with lamplight eyes take form on the nearby sofa. A familiar voice, ostensibly male and edged with a terrible Cockney accent– though the being in question refused to be identified with one gender or another– spoke up in a most inopportune sort of way. As usual. “‘Ay, guv’nah. Wot’s wi’ th’ wee naeked bluetop?”

James heaved a longsuffering sigh and turned to look at Scáil, who was curled up on the couch in its favorite form, that of a black cat with bright yellow eyes which were currently regarding Melody, blinking with intrigue. He had lost count how many times he had reminded Scáil not to speak in front of people who didn’t know about its existence, but the servitor had apparently taken on the characteristics of a feline as much as the appearance.

Cats.

“She’s a guest, Shadow,” he told the servitor calmly, using the entity’s common name rather than its true Name, which would give a knowledgeable practitioner power over it. “I expect you to treat her as such. No pranks. Is that understood?”

The cat’s tail twitched, and for a minute James thought the obstinate creature was going to argue, but it sniffed, peered at Melody once more, then set about grooming its whiskers with an air of snooty indifference.

James shivered, tiredness sweeping through his body as he released his hold on the chi that had been keeping his body warm. Between the cross-country drive, the shifting, the flying, and the energy he had used to keep his body warm in the gathering blizzard, he was beginning to succumb to exhaustion. Reluctantly releasing his hold on Melody, he moved to the fireplace. “Shadow, would you be so kind as to retrieve some warm clothing from my room for me?” The cat, for once cooperating without sass, vanished in a puff of curling shadow, and James began building the fire.

“You probably have questions,” he said to Melody as he settled the log in place and began positioning the kindling.

___________________________________

Melody

She didn’t pay a bit of attention to how his home was laid out or decorated; Melody was far too focused on James. She couldn’t stop thinking about all the muscles she’d seen on him or about the way he towered over her. The timbre of his voice was something else entirely and then his scent was nearly overwhelming. She was also, painfully aware of his desire and her own was burning with an intensity she’d never known; it never occurred to her that he might be able to smell her arousal. Melody, even at thirty years of age, knew little about her own abilities or what was even possible for her.

It was only when an unfamiliar voice spoke that she was pulled from her lust hazed mind. Wide eyes regarded the not-cat and she pulled the blanket more firmly around herself in an effort to hide her nakedness. For a long moment she just stared at the feline, James momentarily forgotten.

What the hell?

However, as soon as Shadow vanished, Melody’s attention was again drawn back to James; specifically, his ass. She barely heard what he said as she stared at his rear, color that wasn’t born from the cold painting her cheeks.

Holy shit.

Only when he turned around and she got an eyeful of his manhood did she force her eyes back to his face, her own wide with what might have been terror, but was mostly embarrassment. “Uhm… How did you… I heard you earlier,” and a lithe hand slipped from beneath the blanket to tap her temple as she fought to keep her gaze on his face.

“What… what did you say?”

___________________________________

James

A self-satisfied smirk tugged at his lips when he turned and saw how she was staring at him, the flush in her cheeks. The fire burned hot at his back, warming the cold that had begun to creep in, and his body began to stir with need again. He took a step towards her, then another, and closed his hands over her blanket-covered shoulders.

She asked her question, and James frowned slightly for a moment, trying to understand what she was asking. Then revelation dawned, and the words he had projected to her replayed in his mind, along with a resurgence of the fierce emotions and need that had accompanied them.

“Ah… It was just…” He faltered, suddenly intensely aware of their closeness and his nudity– and hers, especially hers, beneath her blanket. He wanted nothing more than to tear the blanket from her and let his eyes, his hands, his lips, his tongue, rove over the softness of her skin, the curves and dips and planes of her body. He wondered what she would taste like. Meus es tu, Melody Summers. “Erm. That is, Dragons, even us hybrids, have a sort of… innate telepathic link, a channel between minds, that sometimes– it can be easy to let a stray thought slip through–”

Before he could continue, Scáil re-appeared at their feet in a swirl of shadow, a stack of neatly folded clothing resting on the floor beside it. “Yer clothing, good sah. An’ ay, please do cov’r yer dangly bits, Ummash, how’ver no’ dangly they may be at t’ moment,” it declared in its raspy feline voice as it gave said non-dangly bits a pointed look and, somehow, the impression of a raised eyebrow. Scáil had used a shortened form of the name James had been using when he had created it, as it usually did. It rarely called him James, or any of the other many names he had used over the centuries. “More’n I wan’ ta see o’ yeh,” the cat finished before sniffing, turning tail, and sauntering off towards the kitchen. Of course, it didn’t have to walk to reach its destination. It was simply giving attitude, a skill that it had honed to perfection over many centuries.

“So don’t look,” James called, casting a dark look towards the servitor as it vanished around the corner, both irritated and relieved by the interruption. Why a magical entity created in ancient Mesopotamia should develop an embarrassing parody of a North England accent pulled straight from an American B movie, he would never know, but it certainly wasn’t the first eccentricity the entity had displayed. He remembered the vulgar, Latin-speaking imp persona that Scáil had adopted during the Renaissance, and counted his blessings. Releasing Melody and attempting to preserve what little dignity he had left, he knelt to sort through the clothes, finding a pair of black sweat pants, an iron-grey cable knit sweater, and thick woolen socks.

Rising to his feet, he began to get dressed with surprising reluctance, considering the frigid temperature still clinging to the room. A large and exceedingly vocal part of himself wanted to dismiss Scáil to the furthest reaches of the lair, draw Melody close to the dancing fire in the hearth, pull the blanket from her supple, maddeningly tempting body, and…

He shook his head to banish the vivid and scintillating images that seared themselves enticingly through his mind again. Now is not the time, James. The stern voice in his mind served to impede his impulse to act on those urges, and he was startled to find it was the voice of the Dragon and not the Man. For once, his two selves were in harmony, perhaps even unified. Melody was off balance, vulnerable, and he would never forgive himself if he took advantage of that. He was her protector, had willingly taken on that role with all its weight of duty, honor, and responsibility, and that included protecting her from any harm he himself might do her if his more primitive impulses remained unchecked.

When you finally come together with her, his Dragon assured him, it will be in mutual desire, in need so great it can no longer be denied.

He tilted his head towards the bag that still rested on the floor, containing Melody’s things. “You should probably put on some proper clothes before you catch a chill. It’ll take a little while for the place to warm up.”

___________________________________

Melody

She was acutely aware of his nearness and her cheeks darkened in response, heart racing as she tried to reign in her emotions. She didn’t understand what was happening or why. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in her, yet his body clearly said otherwise. Did that mean something or was it just a natural reaction to her being naked?

She chalked his body’s continued interest up to that, but that did little to quell her own desire. As much as she enjoyed the view, she agreed with his not-cat. He needed to put some clothes on for her sanity.

Her eyes betrayed her and she took a long look at his not so dangly bits, words echoing in her mind that she quickly hoped he hadn’t overheard. Hard not to look. Her cheeks darkened and she quickly looked away, but knew James had seen her looking.

Melody was ready to crawl under a rock and never come back out.

“Can… can you turn around?” she asked softly; she wasn’t nearly as comfortable with her nudity as James seemed to be. Only when his back was to her did she move to retrieve her bag, still holding the blanket tightly around her shoulders. She tries to keep herself covered with the blanket, but it was impossible to get dressed with one hand.

The blanket fell away and she turned her back on James, hurriedly pulling on several layers of clothing. She was definitely not a cold weather sort of dragon. Once dressed and feeling a little more level headed, she turned back to James, clearing her throat so he’d know he could turn around.

“So… can we… talk that way in this form too?” She hadn’t forgotten that he hadn’t translated his words for her, but decided to let it go for the moment.

___________________________________

James

Hungry green eyes locked on Melody’s slight form, still hidden beneath the blanket, when she asked him to turn around. He had seen her looking at him, had seen the emotions darting over her features when she saw the evidence of his desire for her. The memory of his harsh rejection of her, of the hurt in her eyes, the way she had withdrawn from him after during their trip across the country, flitted through his mind. A pang of regret clawed at his chest, and he turned around.

He couldn’t see her now, but he heard the blanket slide from her bare shoulders and fold to the floor. Another memory seared itself across his mind, of her kneeling, naked and shivering, on his balcony. The moon had shed its light on her skin, illuminating it to a pale, ethereal glow, an otherworldly beauty that had reminded him of the Doñas de Fuera, the faerie people of Sicily.

He turned back around after Melody cleared her throat, and found her wrapped in layers of warm clothing. A small note of disappointment echoed in his mind, and he internally scolded it to silence.

He motioned to the sofa, inviting her to sit down beside him before settling on the cushions himself. “We can, if we put enough intent, desire, and focus into it. I find it difficult to communicate in such a way unless I share a powerful bond with somebody.” He didn’t point out what that meant for her, considering how effortlessly he had communicated with her earlier. He was silent for a moment. “The last time I had a bond like that was well over a century ago. And before that…”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. The tale of he and Ahirom was not one he wanted to recount in detail right now. “Well. That is a long and convoluted story.”

___________________________________

Melody

His explanation didn’t make much sense to her as she wasn’t even sure what they were to one another. Were they friends? Or just a savior and a refugee? Labeling things always seemed to complicate matters, but he’d specifically said he had to have a strong bond with the dragon he was talking to.

Maybe he really did care that much about keeping her safe.

Not for the first time she regretted her little stunt on the road. He’d found her easily after she’d run off, but what if he hadn’t? What if someone else had. God, she felt like such an ass.

Still cold, she retrieved the blanket from the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders before allowing herself to collapse into his couch. She felt a little awkward sitting so close to him after the display his body had put on, but the blanket helped. The added barrier was just something else for her to hide behind.

“You’re older than we’re meant to be, aren’t you?” She asked suddenly, thinking back on a previous conversation about how old he was. He hadn’t been specific about exactly how old he was, but there were a lot of things that didn’t make sense.

There was a lot he wasn’t telling her. She didn’t press for answers, it wasn’t her place. “Why does this… Order want me? I’m barely able to shift… I don’t understand their motives…”

#summerxmelodies #The Dragon Inside (James)#Sanctuary #My turn

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danfanciesphil · 5 years

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too high (can’t come down) by @danfanciesphil

Suspending himself 7,000 feet above the rest of the world seems likely to be a sure-fire way for Dan to escape normality, and isolate himself for the foreseeable future. The Secret of the Alps, a small hotel tucked into the side of the Swiss mountains is too niche for most avid adventurers to have heard of, making it the perfect place for Dan to work as he sorts through his problems. Unfortunately, privacy is a coveted thing, and as Dan soon finds out, the hotel harbours one guest who values it more than most.

Rating: Explicit Tags: Enemies to lovers, snow, mountains, skiing, hostility, slow burn, secrecy, longing, repression, nobility, classism, cheating, eventual sex

Ao3 Link

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

The Fitzgeralds want omelettes for breakfast. But not just one each, Dan learns, when the two adults clean their plates and tell him, patting tummies and grinning, that they’re ready for round two. He’s not sure where the youngest member of their party is hiding, but Dan doesn’t blame her for passing up on watching her parents shovel eggs into their gawping mouths like there’s no tomorrow. Dan has the unfortunate job of telling Louise that she’s expected to fry up unlimited omelettes until the two older Fitzgeralds are completely satisfied. When she smacks him with a yolky wooden spoon, Dan can’t say he blames her.

“You’re so violent when you’re mad,” Dan complains, dabbing at the yellowish stain on his shirt sleeve.

Louise shoots him a glare, whisking eggs vigorously in a bowl. “I have good reason to do a lot worse, so I’d scarper if I were you.”

“I’m not doing anything worse than what Nikolai is doing to-”

“If you think that’s a viable excuse, I’m going to chop you up and feed you to the Fitzgeralds in their next omelette.”

Dan sighs, folding his arms and feeling a lot like a petulant child. “Agree to disagree, I guess.”

“Dan, you cannot fight fire with fire. Nikolai is a powerful man. He’s going to steam roller over you without a second thought if he catches wind of what you’re up to with his man.”

“Well, he won’t catch wind. Our wind is thousands of miles away from anyone up here.” That hadn’t come out quite right, Dan thinks, wrinkling his nose.

“Not from everyone,” Louise rightly points out, grinding pepper into the bowl.

An image of Martyn Lester’s exasperated face flashes into Dan’s mind, and he chews his lip, wondering if he and Phil are anywhere near done chatting yet. They still haven’t left Mona’s office, and it’s been over half an hour. Mona’s going beserk, muttering about etiquette and rudeness, scrubbing tables and dusting corners because she can’t get to her desk. Dan can see her through the serving hatch, polishing the huge balcony windows with irritable vigour.

“Do you know anything about Martyn Lester?” Dan asks in an attempt at nonchalance.

Louise’s lips press together, and she pours some of the egg mixture into the pan. It sizzles pleasantly, immediately beginning to bubble and release a fragrant, delicious aroma. Dan’s stomach rumbles; he hasn’t eaten anything today - too busy sorting out the miraculous appearance of Phil’s sibling.

“I do.” She pauses, prodding at the slowly solidifying omelette with a spatula. “We used to be pals, actually.”

“Used to be?”

“Well, he quit being Phil’s publicist. Pretty abruptly. Just up and left. I haven’t seen him since he walked out.”

“Oh,” Dan says, brows knitting together. The anger in Louise’s voice is unmistakable, but Dan senses he shouldn’t press the still-sore wound. “Do you know why?”

“I imagine there’s more to it than just this, but he was never Nikolai’s biggest fan,” Louise says, then deftly flips the omelette. “He told me that the only reason he ever became Phil’s publicist was to prevent Phil from getting fucked by the guy.”

She pauses, reflecting on her words; her eyes meet Dan’s, and they both snort with laughter.

“You know what I mean,” she says, “Martyn’s a protective older brother type. He and Nikolai did a lot of butting heads.”

“Isn’t it kind of hard to butt heads with someone who’s never around?”

“Yeah, that’s another reason Martyn got so frustrated,” Louise says, shifting omelettes onto plates with swift, practiced movements. “It was always Cornelia he’d have to argue it out with.” Louise looks at Dan as she shoves plates into his hands. “You met her, right? The fiery redhead?”

“Yeah. She seemed cool.”

“Anyway, I don’t know much more than that, but if he’s here after having quit so dramatically, I’d say it’s doubtful that he brings good tidings.” Louise gives him a ‘well?’ look, gesturing to the plates in his hands. “Off you go, then.”

Awash with new information, Dan then turns to the door of the kitchen, and heads out to deliver the Fitzgeralds their second serving.

It’s two in the afternoon, and Phil is avoiding him. There’s no definitive evidence of this, but Dan’s ninety-nine percent sure. He’s been glimpsing Phil all day, through the window in the door of the gym as he works out, hurrying through the lobby in damp clothes, sat at a table in deep conversation with Martyn, but he hasn’t so much as caught Dan’s eye. It’s pissing Dan off to no end, though he’s trying to make excuses for him as his brother’s sudden appearance could mean all sorts of things.

Still, he feels like grabbing Phil by the shoulders and spinning him round so that they’re forced to lock eyes, then telling him ‘hey, dickhead, you were inside of me last night, the least you can do is nod in my direction, even if you have to wait until Martyn is looking the other way’.

Dan’s at the front desk, checking in the new couple that have just arrived with Kaspar in tow: Ms Stone and Ms Harris. They’re both in their seventies, and Ms Stone is in a wheelchair, so it’s pretty impressive that they’ve made it up here at all, but they’re perfectly chipper, papery, ungloved hands tightly clasped. Dan hands over their room key, and just as Kaspar is jerking Ms Stone backwards and spinning her, rather alarmingly fast, in the direction of their wheelchair lift, Phil appears from nowhere, at the side of the desk, bright eyes screaming ‘we need to talk’.

He says a polite “hello” to Kaspar, who bellows an enthusiastic response that makes excessive use of the word ‘Philly’. Then, seeming not to be able to contain his urgency, Phil turns to Dan, inclining his head towards Mona’s office.

Dan nods at him, a little annoyed that he’s being so obvious in front of people, but telling himself Phil must have a reason. Phil slinks off, and Dan turns back to Ms Stone and Ms Harris to tell them that he’ll be up shortly to deliver their bags. Just as they’re disappearing from view, Dan’s preparing to creep round to the office when he senses eyes on him. He looks about, searching for the source of the prickling sensation that’s grazing the back of his neck. At the last second, he looks upwards; peering over the edge of the mezzanine rail is the Fitzgerald’s teenage daughter, her blue strands of hair dangling over the wood.

She’s looking directly at him, her stare wide and unfaltering, like she’s attempting to pierce into his head telepathically. He cocks his head to the side, wondering whether he should call out to her, though he doesn’t even know her first name. Just as he’s debating what to do, she ducks backwards, out of sight, and the moment is snatched away.

When Dan gets into the office, Phil is leaned up against Mona’s desk like some hip CEO with an ‘open door policy’ for his office full of workers. He looks weary, which Dan supposes isn’t so surprising, given that he happens to know Phil got a lot less sleep than usual last night, but there’s something underneath it too. A bone-deep exhaustion, so intense that it radiates off him in waves.

“Nikolai’s coming,” Phil says without preamble. Dan’s only just clicked the door shut behind him. He blinks at Phil slowly, a dread creeping over his body from toe to neck. “He’ll be here soon. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe earlier.”

“Oh,” Dan says, then feels dumb for not having a better response to hand. “Why?”

Long fingers carve narrow valleys through jet black hair. “Apparently someone tipped off the media that Nik and I are definitely breaking it off.” He shrugs. “I mean, I thought I already made that pretty obvious at the charity event. Someone had new information though, I guess.”

“What? Who could possibly have any new information?”

“My guess is one of the vapid yuppies Nikolai has trailing around him 24-7,” Phil replies with a sniff. “Maybe one of them overheard when I called him yesterday. Decided to make a quick buck.”

“So… Nikolai’s coming here why?”

“He hasn’t been able to contact me about all the new stories flying about, so he got in touch with Martyn, figuring he’d be able to snag my attention,” Phil says, sounding bitter. “Martyn listened to Nik ranting about my radio silence for roughly thirty seconds and then hopped on a plane to warn me-”

“Sorry, why hasn’t Nik been able to contact you?” Dan asks, too sharpened from nerves to care about the details. “I thought he was texting you constantly.”

“Well, yeah, he was.” Phil’s eyes, which have been glazed, staring into the near distance, refocus on Dan. The corner of his mouth twitches, and one of his sleek, dark eyebrows arches upwards. “And then I suddenly became somewhat preoccupied.”

“Oh,” Dan says, then trips over what seems to be his own foot. “Right.”

Phil’s little amused smile is not as laser-focused on Dan as he’s grown accustomed. Dan gets the distinct feeling that whilst Phil is still all too happy to have a chuckle over his idiocy, his conscious brain is somewhere else. It’s kind of unpleasant to suddenly have the spotlight whisked off him, after having been the sole focus of Phil’s attention for so long. He kind of wants to snap his fingers in front of those blue eyes and bring him back into the room.

“Nik likes to be the centre of a scandal, but only when he’s in control of it,” Phil muses, arms folding across his chest. He’s silent for a moment, and Dan can practically see the wheels turning in his brain. “There’s… something else, too.”

“Yeah?” Dan’s heart picks up its pace.

“There’s a rumour, apparently, that I have… someone.”

“Someone?”

“Like, someone that’s making me want to leave my husband.”

Dan’s breathing stalls. He feels Mona’s floor cracking beneath his feet. “Surely people can’t know about-”

“I don’t see how,” Phil says, running a hand through his hair again. It seems to be an unconscious action, whenever he feels stressed. “But we should probably be careful.”

“Careful?” Dan repeats, astounded. “You mean like subtly beckoning me in here to talk in private, right in front of brand new guests? And Kaspar?” Phil gives him a look, but Dan can feel himself getting worked up. If he stays in this small room with Phil for much longer, he’s going to boil over and say something he regrets. “I-I have to get out of here-”

Behind him, the latch of the door twitches before he so much as moves a muscle. Dan knows this because he’s leant against it; the wooden lever is digging into the small of his back. He locks eyes with Phil, alarmed, and witnesses what he imagines is reflection of his own fear painting Phil’s face. The latch lifts properly this time, and the door pushes against Dan, but he uses all his weight to prevent it opening.

He mouths ‘help me’ to Phil, who jumps to action at once, coming to assist Dan as he holds the door closed. From the other side, Mona’s voice calls, “who’s in there?”

“What are we going to do?” Dan hisses under his breath. The door rattles; she’s growing impatient.

Phil is staring searching Dan’s face for some kind of plan. “It’s me, Mona,” Phil calls out. Dan gapes at him. Surely he cannot be about to reveal that the two of them are in here, alone, seconds after telling Dan they need to keep their shit on the DL. “My brother and I needed the office again. I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause. The door stops rattling. “Why is the door locked?”

Dan presses his mouth together, trying not to breathe too loudly, in case Mona could recognise the air rushing from his lungs. Phil looks skyward, grasping for a response. “We, uh, didn’t want to be disturbed. It’s a serious, uh, matter we’re discussing. Could you just give us five more minutes, please?”

“Mr Novokoric, I really need to get to my desk.”

“Just five minutes,” Phil begs, then squeezes his eyes shut.

Dan bites his lip, praying. Eventually, Mona says, “fine. But after that, you’ll have to find somewhere else to go. Like your suite, perhaps. Or Mr Lester’s perfectly adequate room.”

“Sure,” Phil says, shooting Dan a look of relief. “Thanks, Mona.”

“Five minutes!”

The sound of her kitten heels click-clacking away are like music to Dan’s ears. He blows out a huge puff of air, slumping against the door. “Fuck, that was close. No idea how we’d have explained that.”

“And we weren’t even doing anything fun to explain away,” Phil says regretfully, aiming a half-smile at Dan.

He tries not to return it, but fails spectacularly. “I should go,” Dan says, partly because he can sense this conversation heading into dangerous territory, and what they absolutely do not need is for Mona to come back in five minutes and walk in on something even worse. “Let me out first, you follow in a minute or two.”

“Wait, Dan,” Phil says, grabbing hold of his arm. He lets go pretty fast, but it was a telling move. Dan stops, waiting to hear him out. “I- I know this is all… not ideal. I didn’t know Martyn was coming, and obviously the timing is pretty crap what with everything that happened last night…”

Dan blushes, looking away. “That’s family for you, I guess.”

“And with Nik coming, I don’t know when we’ll next get a chance to…” Phil trails off, and Dan’s eyes bulge. Phil laughs at his expression. “To be alone. To talk. Whatever.”

“Oh,” Dan says. “Yeah, I guess that wouldn’t be wise whilst they’re all… watching.”

“So,” Phil says, leaning back on his hands. His cheeks are vaguely stained with magenta.

“So,” Dan echoes.

A beam of clear, glossy light pierces Dan’s mind, softening his pounding heart. He recognises this half-conversation. Phil is asking for something, without using real words. A tiny smile playing on his mouth, Dan steps in front of him, takes his dumb, emotionally stunted face in both hands, and kisses him, soft and slow. He only lets it last a moment, just long enough for the taste of Phil’s tongue to seep through, so Dan can remember it.

He leans back, and says, “catch you later. Good luck.”

Phil smiles, eyes flicking towards the ceiling for a moment before landing back on Dan. “Thanks,” he says quietly, then moves away from the door so Dan can open it. As he steps through, back into the lobby, Dan turns for a final look. Phil’s watching him with a worried expression, though he does give Dan a tiny wave. “Go do some work,” he says gruffly, then turns back into the office, breaking their gaze.

Not even fifteen minutes after exiting Mona’s office, Dan’s dragging Ms Stone’s and Ms Harris’ cases up the stairs when he hears a sound he vividly remembers being traumatised by at an earlier date. The fact that he knows the deafening rumble from overhead is not an earthquake or avalanche does not make it any less chilling. Dan stops mid-flight of stairs and cranes his neck upwards, as if he could see through the roof of the hotel, then pierce through the steel of the plane into the cabin where Nikolai Novokoric is no doubt lounging in a reclining seat, sipping champagne.

He listens to the plane swoop low, then hit the tarmac, the engine stuttering, then cutting out entirely. With a desperate sigh, Dan continues his climb to the second floor, bags in tow.

Nikolai’s shrill, grating voice echoes off the wooden walls of the hotel from the moment he walks through the door. A shudder runs through Dan’s body as he hears those first few notes of posh, slightly Swiss bolstering. To escape, he goes to clean room two, the Fitzgerald’s room, whilst they’re out on a hike with Kaspar. They hadn’t been enthusiastic to go, but as they’re on an all expenses paid for trip, they couldn’t exactly argue with Mona when she’d scheduled it for them.

Dan closes the door behind him, breathing a long sigh. It feels like the first moment he’s been alone in days, although of course that’s not true. The Fitzgerald’s room is a tip, and it’s not all that surprising. Their mini fridge has been gutted, and there are packets of peanuts and mini liquor bottles scattered on every available surface. It’s a family room, with a double bed on one side, and a single bed against the window. The single bed is half-heartedly made, but the double is in complete disarray - the pillows are dumped on the floor and the sheets are stained with what looks like Dorito dust.

“I don’t know what I expected,” Dan mutters to himself.

He’s just setting to work when he realises that above the mundane cleaning noises, he can still hear Nikolai somewhere downstairs - his loud, boisterous laughter and fake enthusiasm. He needs a distraction, badly, but doesn’t have anything to hand. He supposes he could call his mother back, at last. He hasn’t spoken to her since the day after he arrived at The Secret of the Alps, so he owes her a phone call. He can do it as he works, perhaps that will make it easier to stomach.

With twitching fingers Dan pulls out his phone and dials his childhood home number, before he can talk himself out of it. She picks up on the third ring.

“Dan?”

He swallows, throat tightening. Is it possible that he already regrets phoning her when all she’s said is his name? “Hi, Mum.”

He sets the phone to loudspeaker, and crouches down to begin emptying the overflowing wastepaper bin.

“I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

Wow, straight in with the guilt trip. No point wasting time, he supposes. “No. Sorry. I’ve been very busy here. Long work days.”

“I see.”

The phone crackles. It’s an excruciating sound. To dispel the awkwardness, Dan asks, “how’ve things been?”

She sighs loudly. “Fine, fine. Your father’s had that ear thing again.”

“Oh,” Dan says. He ties the rubbish bag tightly, then sets it by the door. “That’s too bad. Hope he gets it sorted.”

“Well, you know what he’s like about seeing doctors. Stubborn old man, just like his son.”

Dan knows, he knows it’s a provocation, intent on riling him up, but he still falls for it. “I’m not like him.”

“So listen to your mother, and come home,” his mother says, her voice slipping into the one Dan is so used to, sharp and cold. “I know what’s best for you, Daniel. You’re too young make such a hugely affecting decision. Throwing away your chance at a degree, it’s reckless! You’ll end up with no money, stuck in a low-paying job forever-”

“Money isn’t important to me, Mum.” He heads for the double bed, starting to throw pillows onto it.

“It will be important to you when you run out of it,” his mum replies with a sniff.

“I have a job,” Dan says slowly, as if drawing out the syllables could help her understand the one thing she’s always failed to. In his hand he clasps a pillow, ready to be screamed into at any moment. “I have savings, and a place to live. I’m getting by just fine. I don’t see what the point is of forcing myself to toil through a degree in a subject I hate, to secure a job I’ll despise, racking up a load of debt.”

“You’re being naiive,” she says, for what must be the hundredth time. Dan sighs, flopping down onto on the floor by the Fitzgeralds’ bed, abandoning all attempt at continuing the clean. “The world won’t be kind to you if you’re unintelligent and unqualified. What do you suppose you’re going to do with yourself? Change beds in a hotel up God-knows-what-mountain forever? It’s just not realistic-”

Dan looks at the pillow he’s still holding, wondering if she’s somehow able to sense that he’s doing exactly that. “I didn’t say I would be doing this forever.”

Dan’s arms wrap around the pillow, miserably. He’s trembling slightly, because he detests so much as thinking about his future given that it’s so uncertain. He’s here now, for the foreseeable weeks ahead, and that’s some stability at least. He curls his fingers into the pillow’s soft material, trying to breathe through the anxiety attack he can feel brewing.

“It’s not too late for you to come back, you know,” his mum says; her voice is kinder now, the edges softened. It would be so easy to fall into the trap of her mumsy words, to run back down the mountain into her arms. She’d waste no time in calling up the University and re-enrolling him in his awful law degree, then locking him straight back into his prison-cell dorm room. “Your dad and I would sort it all out for you,” she says, like she can read his mind, “it hasn’t been too long, we could talk to people, chalk this up to a minor blip in judgement.”

There’s a pause. Dan mouths some things he wants to say, but won’t. Why can’t you try to understand me properly? Why don’t my opinions matter just because I’m young? Why would I want to be a lawyer, miserable in my office for the next fifty years just like Dad’s been, living for the weekend like that’s the way life’s supposed to be lived?

“You know, I saw on Facebook that Beth is still single,” his mum says in a hesitant voice, and that’s the moment Dan decides the catch-up is over.

“I have to go, mum,” Dan says, proud that his voice cracks only a small amount as he reaches for the phone. “I’m in the middle of my shift.”

“Wait, Dan,” his mum says quickly, and something about the urgency of her voice makes him listen. His thumb hovers over the red ‘end call’ button. “I... had Vanessa and Darren round for lunch yesterday. They were talking about some scandal that’s been in the news. About that young heir of the Swiss Royal family. The gay one, you know.”

Icy fingers wrap around Dan’s heart. He reminds himself to remain calm, that there’s no way she could possibly know he has any involvement. “He’s bisexual, actually,” Dan corrects in a mock-casual voice. “Vanessa and Darren had fascinating insights into the situation I’m sure, but Mum, I really have to-”

“I didn’t think anything of it at first,” his mum continues, like Dan hadn’t spoken. There’s something wrong with her voice. It’s too shrill, too forced. “But I was thinking it over later, and I realised I knew the place this Sir Nicholas’ husband is rumoured to be. It’s the same mountain you told me your hotel is on.”

Dan’s eyes flutter closed. This surely cannot be happening. His mother barely remembers his birthday, let alone the specific mountain in the vast range of the Alps he decided to run off to.

“Huh,” Dan says, because anything else would be too incriminating.

“Oh, God,” his mother says in a small, strangled voice. “Oh, God, it’s you darling, isn’t it?”

“What’s me?”

Dan’s eyes squeeze together; but even as he wishes for anything else, he knows she’s guessed the truth. Her shame is like poison, seeping out of the phone into his ear, plucking Dan’s worst anxieties from their dark corners.

“I always knew there was something you were keeping from me,” she half-wails in a soft, crackly voice. “Some reason you tucked away inside that you felt made you- you different from everyone else. Oh Dan, honey, this is so not the way to deal with it.”

“I don’t know what you’re-”

“I didn’t want to believe it when I had the thought, but I went back through those texts you sent me when you first arrived,” his mum says in a rush. “About the famous guest who you didn’t get along with, how you were dreading spending so much time alone with him. It’s him, isn’t it, Dan? It’s the one they’re all saying is- is- cheating. With a waiter.”

Dan lets the disdain in her voice slip through his skin, burrow into his well of shame that’s already deep and bubbling.

He doesn’t respond for a while, weighing up all the things he could try and say to dissuade her, to convince her that she’s wrong. Instead, wearied by even the thought of exerting himself to insist such a lie is true, he just corrects her.

“I’m a concierge, not a waiter.” His mum lets out a sort of sob-noise. “Mum,” Dan says quickly, frightened by her reaction suddenly, “you can’t tell anyone. Mum, do you understand?”

She breathes thickly. “Oh, God, Dan, this is- why did you-”

“It’s not like I planned it,” Dan says, feeling his hackles rise. “This is so typical of you, Mum, judging me from afar, all my choices and decisions when you have no idea about any of it-”

“So explain this to me!” she cries, still unbearably shrill. “Is this as bright of a decision as dropping out of university, or breaking up with your lovely girlfriend, or running away to scrub toilets up a mountain?! What on earth are you thinking, you daft-”

“I love him!” Dan interrupts, the words surging out of him like vomit. His eyes widen as soon as they’re out, as if he can see them hanging in the air before him, hovering like flies above the Fitzgeralds’ bag of trash. “I- I mean, I care about him. I don’t- I don’t know why I said- forget that. But I do care. His marriage is toxic, Mum. If you knew the truth, if the rest of the world knew - if Vanessa and Derren knew what Nikolai was like-”

“Then what?” his mum asks, weakly. “They’d fall in love with him, too?”

Dan leaves the Fitzgeralds room without finishing the clean; his conversation with his mother has left him too agitated to focus on something so mundane. He remembers now - too late, of course - why he’s been so reluctant to call her back. He had not left home on good terms with his parents - his father refused to even say goodbye. They’ve always been hideously conservative in their views, so Dan with his liberal politics and marginally effeminate ‘emo’ dress sense growing up had never really been their idea of the perfect son.

Through school he’d rebelled against them, which only made everyone unhappy, so once he was older, he tried the opposite - to do what they wanted, to conform to their ideals of being a straight, cisgender young version of his father, on track to be a lawyer. But this was never good enough for them either, probably because it made Dan so miserable that he never truly gave it all he’d got. It’s always seemed to Dan that nothing he did would ever quite please them, so he’d run off instead, done the thing he knew would upset them and said ‘fuck the consequences’. There’s no point trying to explain his actions to either of them - not that his father would so much as speak to him, probably - because Dan doesn’t have answers or reasons for his actions right now, and that’s not what they want to hear.

To distract himself from the thousands of pounding, unpleasant thoughts rampaging through his mind, Dan heads for the stairs, intending to try and creep through the mezzanine without being seen. At a furtive glance, Dan sees the lounge area is rammed with people, some of which are spilling out onto the balcony, through the doors that have been opened. The sleet storm is dying down, but it’s not completely over, meaning that some speckles of icy water are flying in.

Dan doesn’t know for sure of course, but he highly doubts that Mona would have been the one to allow this, so it’s probably a Nikolai-request. He’s almost across the room, at the top of the stairs leading down to the lobby, when Mona spots him.

“Dan!” she near-shrieks, sounding seconds away from an even wilder tone of voice. “Dan, could you come here, please? Now?”

Suppressing a loud scream, Dan fixes a wobbly smile in place, and heads towards her. He notes that every single chair is occupied - people have pulled out beanbag chairs, trunks and stools, and crammed around the scatter of tables. It’s unnerving to see the room so teeming with bodies when it’s usually empty enough that Dan could dance through it in his underwear (provided Louise didn’t choose the wrong moment to look through the serving hatch).

Some of the people are familiar to Dan and some are new to him. Most of the people he doesn’t recognise are huddled together in matching slate grey suits, or grouped around enormous cameras, microphones in their hands. The Fitzgeralds have managed to snag their own table in the midst of it all, looking far too excited (minus their daughter, who is plugged into her iPhone, looking extremely like Dan at that age whenever he was forcibly taken to a social situation he didn’t want to be at). The Fitzgeralds are talking animatedly at Max the security man, who has squished all of his beefy, six-foot-two frame into a beanbag, arms folded, staring stoically ahead.

Ms Stone and Ms Harris are here as well, sipping tea and looking mildly alarmed - but interested - at their unusual surroundings. Dan also spots Cornelia in the corner by the TV, talking into a mobile phone and looking decidedly unhappy about something Dan is sure would push anyone except her into crisis mode. Bryony and Hazel are leaning through the serving hatch laughing about something with Louise. PJ is flitting about, stuck to the walls with his camera to his eye, photographing seemingly everything from the sleet stains on the wooden floor to the whiskers decorating Max’s chin. And Nikolai is here, of course, strolling in through the balcony doors in his long stylish coat, brushing sleet from his shoulders like it should have known better than to settle there.

When he sees Dan, he grins widely, and Dan senses the oncoming hug before it happens. Engulfed in Nikolai’s cold, damp arms, the only thought pumping through Dan’s treacherous mind is, most helpfully, your husband fucked my brains out last night.

He manages not to let this slip off his tongue, mercifully. When Nikolai releases him, he grins again. “My favourite concierge!” he bellows, slapping Dan on the shoulder. Dan wonders if Louise was right about him instantly forgetting the names of people he doesn’t care about. “I was wondering where you were being kept! Didn’t let the place fall off the cliff then, I see.”

“Hah,” Dan says, managing a weak smile as he surreptitiously rubs his shoulder. “Didn’t get the chance. Mona took over responsibility before disaster struck.”

“Atta boy,” Nikolai says; his weird accent does not suit the phrase and he seems to know it, judging by the way he clears his throat and claps his hands, distracting attention. “Right everyone, I know we said an outdoor shoot would be preferable, but the weather is against us, so I suggest you set up right here. I’ve been informed that he will be five minutes.”

Dan badly hopes that the ‘he’ in question is the abominable snowman, but somehow he doubts it.

“...doing my best to make sure everyone has a drink and a place to sit, but you’ll need to help me keep an eye…”

Dan realises, belatedly, that he’s been so busy half-glaring at Nikolai’s big, dumb head that he hasn’t been hearing a word Mona is whispering to him.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, yeah, of course.” Dan leans in a bit closer to her. “Any idea what this is all about?”

“None whatsoever,” Mona replies, then darts away from him to where a slate-grey-suit man is beckoning her.

Dan sighs, scanning the crowd of people for any signs that someone might be in need of further refreshment. Nikolai has, thankfully, gone over to talk to Cornelia, so Dan is free of further sickening smalltalk with the man. He turns around, hoping to escape and hide in the kitchen so Louise can explain what the fuck is going on, when he bumps straight into Martyn Lester. He looks… completely different to this morning. His hair is neat and coiffed, he’s wearing a suit and black tie, and he has an earpiece over one ear.

“Afternoon, Dan,” he says with a wry smile. “Having fun at the party?”

“The host isn’t one of my best friends,” Dan says carefully, inclining his head towards Nikolai. It’s a bit of a risky comment, given that this man is Nikolai’s brother in law, but he’s hoping Louise wasn’t fibbing when she claimed Martyn loathed him.

Martyn follows Dan’s inclination, smile falling away. He looks quickly at the ground. “Yeah, don’t blame you.”

“What’s with the secret agent get up?” Dan asks, gesturing to Martyn’s new outfit. He’s not sure what it is, but something about Martyn Lester gives of an inherently calming vibe, like he’s radiating the single statement ‘I have everything under control’. Perhaps it’s an older brother thing. Or, more likely, it’s because he vaguely resembles Phil with his confident stance, and exhausted-yet-amused-by-everyone’s-ignorance air. “You planning on taking him out?”

Martyn sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Wouldn’t say that too loud. Max has the ears of a Silverwing and the biceps of a Silverback.”

Dan looks at him blankly.

“One’s a bat, one’s a gorilla,” Martyn explains.

“Oh,” Dan says, “I, uh, dropped out of uni.”

Martyn looks at him strangely. “Are you blaming your abandoned law degree for not knowing your species’ of animals by heart?”

“Well, no, I-” Dan breaks off, replaying the question in confusion. “How did you know it was a law degree?”

“Right, attention everyone,” Nikolai booms, striding into the centre of the room, whipping his coat off as he goes. He tosses the garment in seemingly no particular direction and Hazel lunges forwards to catch it before it hits the ground. Nikolai doesn’t seem to notice. “My soon to be ex-husband has finally decided to emerge from his lair, so we’ll start the interview in one minute, then move on to photos, then...”

Dan stops listening, too intent on scanning the room for Phil. He spots him at the edge of the crowd, arms folded, looking perfect and polished - an action figure intent on some actual action, but being forced to remain pretty and dust-free, displayed on a shelf.

Martyn leaves Dan’s side with a murmured excuse, at once heading to stand with his brother. Across the room, Dan notices Cornelia notice Phil’s appearance as well, and take a step in his direction, but upon seeing Martyn, she stops dead in her tracks, eyes wide and round, then turns abruptly away again. Dan frowns at the peculiar behaviour he’s just witnessed, vaguely recalling something Louise mentioned about she and Martyn having to argue out publicist-related drama between Phil and Nikolai a great deal when Martyn still worked for Phil.

At present, Martyn looks a lot like he still does work for Phil; he’s currently steering Phil into the centre of the room, pushing quite firmly as he obviously doesn’t want to move. Dan tries to catch Phil’s eye, to smile sympathetically, but Phil won’t look at him. He notes that Phil is wearing a tightly knotted scarf-thing around his throat, which was smart of him. Dan knows far too well that the hickey that scarf hides is, as of last night, just as vibrant as ever.

Martyn stands Phil on a small wooden crate that’s been put out, and Nikolai hops deftly up onto another at his side, unfazed. Everything about Phil’s body language screams discomfort, only growing worse with all the eyes on him. Along with the pang of sympathy that surges up in Dan’s chest, swoops the echo of what his mum said earlier - what Dan had said earlier even - how that ‘L’ word had just slipped out. Effortless, like it had been poised on the tip of his tongue for days.

Dan’s never used that word for anyone outside of family before, not even Beth. It must have been an accidental slip-up, born of a desperate desire not to let his mum win the argument, but how bizarre that it chose now to make a random appearance. He cannot possibly have fallen for Phil of all people, the man who consistently infuriates and aggravates him, who has a husband that would feel no remorse if he stepped on Dan’s face on his way out of the building. To fall in love - even the word is terrifying - with anyone, let alone the person he should resist developing any feelings for whatsoever, is not comprehensible. He refuses to so much as dare to believe it.

Even so, Dan wouldn’t wish this kind of horrible, judgemental scrutiny on anyone, let alone Phil (who he does, admittedly, care for - he wasn’t lying about that).

Martyn nods at Phil seriously, telling him something with those matching blue eyes alone, and then steps aside. Nikolai glances at Phil, who doesn’t look back, and sighs. “Okay. First question.”

Hands shoot up; there are four reporters as far as Dan can see - each with their own mini team of tech crew. The first is a woman in a bright red blazer, who Nikolai gestures to with a silky wave of his hand.

“Sir Nikolai, how are you feeling in the wake of your husband’s desire to divorce?”

“Devastated, of course,” Nikolai says sombrely, hands clasped at his waist. “I’ve tried to give Philip all he could ever wish for, but evidently, that was not enough.”

Dan’s hands curl into fists; he looks at Phil, wondering what he’ll add, but he’s just staring at the floor, lips thin and tight. Nikolai gestures to the next reporter, an attractive, honey-haired woman with dark lipstick and a darker fitted blazer tight on her skinny waist.

“Sir Nikolai,” she says in a low voice, ducking her head in a small bow, “would you address the recent rumours of your husband’s adultery?

Nikolai laughs, straightening his tie. “No more than idle gossip sold for a price,” he says airily; Dan tries to keep very still, but he gets the sense that several people are watching him closely. Probably Louise, for one. Nikolai laughs again in a long trill. “For starters, who on Earth would he be cheating with up here-”

Phil’s loosening his scarf, drawing Nikolai’s attention, making him break off before the sentence ends. It’s a subtle move, barely noticeable to anyone else, but Dan catches it. Nikolai pauses, zeroing in on something that Dan can’t see, that nobody can see except him, standing right beside Phil, but that Dan can easily guess at.

What the fuck is Phil playing at? Dan wonders, heartbeat pounding in his ears. It’s almost like he wants Nikolai to see- Oh.

In a flash, Dan understands. He does want Nikolai to see the bruise. He wants him to know that the media had been right, there is a ‘someone’. Phil wants to hurt him. Nikolai is still not saying anything. There’s a shadow passing over his sharp, handsome features. And then, in the next instant, it’s vanished, flicked away out of the balcony doors, his easy, carefully morose expression back in position. Dan lets out a sigh of relief, quietly. Phil re-knots the scarf.

Nikolai gestures to a man with a dark widow’s peak cutting a severe expression into his forehead. “Next question?”

“Sir Nikolai, it’s a pleasure,” the man says in a deep, slimy voice; Dan likens it to gooey, dark molasses. “What prompted the sudden split?”

“I wish I could tell you,” Nikolai says with a sad smile. He looks at Phil, who is still staring straight down at the ground, and heaves a long-suffering sigh. “But alas, Philip is the only one who could answer that question. I’m still very much in love.”

Dan snorts, the sound loud and obvious in the hushed room. He brings his hand to his mouth, immediately feigning a coughing fit. As he’s spluttering, he snags Cornelia’s eye across the room; she’s laughing silently at him.

“Yes, my question is for Philip?” the large, bespectacled lady Nikolai has waved to says, peering over her glasses at Phil. Phil doesn’t move, but Dan senses a collective intake of breath shudder through the room, which is then held in thirty or so sets of lungs. “How has your marriage to Nikolai been?”

Slowly, Phil lifts his head. He stares the lady full in the face; there’s no mistaking the white hot fury in his eyes now that they’re visible. “Go to hell,” he spits out. “Maybe you’ll experience it for yourself.”

A moment of shocked silence stretches, elastic and loaded, and then it snaps, the room erupting into noise. The reporters abandon Nikolai’s ‘hands up’ system and start angrily yelling their questions, shouting over each other as chairs scrape backwards and Nikolai’s various staff members jump up to keep everything under control. The most angry of the lot is the reporter Phil told to go to hell, perhaps understandably, and she charges towards the makeshift podiums, only to trip on her way and launch forwards into Nikolai’s legs.

Nikolai stumbles and falls backwards, landing directly on his ass on the wooden floor behind. Shrieks of distress echo through the room, most of them coming from Mrs Fitzgerald, and seemingly everybody rushes to help Nikolai up, except Dan and Phil, who both stand rigidly in the midst of the commotion, turning to lock eyes across people’s bobbing heads.

Finally, Dan is able to send him that sympathetic smile, but Phil just looks desperately miserable, and doesn’t manage to return it. So instead, Dan mouths ‘you fucked that up’. The corner of Phil’s mouth twitches then, just a tad, but still enough for Dan to know he got through. Warm, syrupy pride courses through Dan’s veins, just from knowing he’s able to make Phil feel even a tiny bit better in such a horrendous situation. Phil turns to watch Nikolai being dusted off for a moment, and as he looks away, Dan realises what the sweet, soft, melted-butter-on-toast feeling consuming him must be. He loves this pompous idiot with a fuse shorter than most matches.

Phil fixes that gellid blue gaze back on him and rolls his eyes in regard to Nikolai’s theatrics. And right then, in that moment Dan knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’s completely, Royally fucked.

(Chapter Eighteen!)

#too high #phanfic #phan #enemies to lovers au

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elanorjane · 6 years

Text

California Soulmates Chapter 2

Summary: Pop princess Belle wants to write her own music. Single father Gold wants to put his failed music career behind him. When inspiration hits, there's only one problem...the songs they're writing are each other's. "Telepathic soulmates" RCIJ for @beastlycheese

AO3

What was this complete and utter pish?

Rumford Gold sat cross-legged on the wood floor of the living room. Well, in a bedsit technically the whole thing was a living room. But it was the sliver of space he and Bae had cordoned off as shared. The window was open and a minuscule breeze, along with a lot of traffic noise, filtered in. With fifteen years of practice, he blocked out the horn and engine noises easily. The windows were old with wooden frames that had warped over the years and been painted over dozens of times, so having it shut made no difference.

He plucked at the strings of the acoustic guitar in his lap, the chain and cord bracelets wrapped around his right wrist shifting with the movement. He scowled at the illegible scribbles on the paper in front of him. He had some song about a drunken night at a club sung in a girl's voice in his head. It sounded like something out of a 16-year-old girl’s diary. He shook his hair out of his eyes and tried to concentrate on the radio jingle he was supposed to be writing for a local car dealership. He should be focused. He was lucky to get the gig. But lyrics about summer and beaches and sex kept ending up on the page instead. He must have picked it up from somewhere, but he swore he hadn’t heard it before. He didn’t even turn on the radio anymore because there was nothing on it worth listening to. The radio dial in his beat to hell Dodge Charger didn’t even work anymore after he’d mashed it a few too many times out of frustration for the drivel it was playing. Bae was always on about Sirius XM, but he could add that to the list of things Bae wanted and Gold couldn't afford.

Gold turned back to the song scratched in pencil on music sheets scattered around him on the floor. He couldn’t have penned it himself. For starters, it sounded way more pop than anything he’d ever written. More tellingly, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex. He doubted that he could aptly describe it anymore. He glanced over the page of lyrics, all of them inappropriate to sell cars. He’d probably inadvertently picked it up from something Bae was listening to. Despite Gold’s extensive schooling, Bae’s tastes still ran tragically pop. He sighed. Too bad this rubbish wasn’t his. The damn thing would probably be a hit. Gold balled the sheet up in his hand, crumbled it into a tight ball, and lobbed it across the room where it bounced off Bae’s bedroom door.

It wasn’t a bedroom door so much as a curtain Bae had rigged up around his bed in the corner. By the light filtering through the one window Gold could see the outline of his son sprawled out on his bed. He could hear the din of Top 50 seeping out of his headphones. Gold’s own bare mattress was pushed against the opposite wall. It was the best they could do to give each other some sense of privacy. Gold studied his son’s form then lamented the now blank page in front of him. A fourteen year old boy should have his own room. He should have grown up with a yard to play in. Gold blamed himself for not giving Bae everything he should have and keeping them in L.A. long after they should have moved back to Scotland. Or any other place besides this godforsaken city.

This was not how it was supposed to be. Gold was the founding member and brainchild behind what was an up and coming English rock band. Formed in London in the early 80’s, they were on their way to hitting it big. They were going to make real, industry shattering, mind blowing music and get rich doing it. Until it had all fallen apart.

Gold had written music his entire life. He’d picked up a slew of instruments along the way. First guitar, then piano. He spend his formative years learning every part to his favorite songs. He loved early Rolling Stones and Small Faces. In his teens he’d started a band, like every young kid in Glasgow was doing in those days. But while his friends had eventually grown out of it and moved on to football and girls as their main pursuits, he never lost his obsessive focus on music.

In his early twenties he’d moved to London and worked on finding other serious musicians and together they formed a band, focusing on heavy-sounding rhythm and blues. That’s how he’d met his ex-wife, Milah. She’d auditioned for keyboardist. They were young and she seemed just as invested in the music as he was and it wasn’t long before they were spending all of their time together. In the intervening years, the band crashed on a series of friends’ couches. Gold spent all day writing music and as many evenings as possible in whatever disreputable bar would let them play, fronting his band, playing guitar and singing lead. They were struggling musicians barely scraping by in the city and they had been the best years of his life, full of love and music.

Then, Killian Jones came in to audition after they’d lost their bassist. Gold remembered the moment vividly. They sat in a dingy basement bar of a restaurant that rented the space out to them for rehearsal during the day. Gold, Milah, and the rest of the band sat in creaky old wood chairs and on sticky tables while Jones, under the dusty overhead light, played a Led Zepplin song. That should have been Gold’s first clue. He was always a bigger fan of The Who. After Jones played his last note, Gold peppered him with questions about his abilities, experience, and musical tastes. The same litmus test he’d give anyone who wanted to join his band.

Milah and the rest of the musicians were immediately sold on Jones and his leather jacket joining the band, but Gold was the lone holdout. Reminding him that they couldn’t play their already scheduled performances if they didn’t have a bassist, Gold agreed to let Jones play on a trial basis only.

It was after one of these tryout gigs, while they were packing up the gear, when Jones sheepishly admitted to the rest of the band that he was really was a frontman at heart.

“We don’t need a singer,” Gold immediately responded. He wrote the songs, he performed the songs, it worked. No need to fix what wasn’t broken.

But Milah wasn’t so dismissive.

“Give the boy a chance, love,” she told him, gesturing at Killian. The boy had a look, Gold guessed, though it seemed to hover somewhere closer to Boy George than Rod Stewart. He found everything about the new guy cloying. Jones’ eyeliner rimmed baby blues peered up at Gold in what he imagined was supposed to be a charming, unassuming grin.

“You don’t even like being up front anyway,” Milah told Gold. While he’d taken the lead singer position out of necessity, Gold had learned to enjoy it and thought he’d grown into it. But the whole band looked at him expectantly.

“Alright, fine,” he’d caved. The kid could try it out and when he didn’t remember any of the lyrics and bombed, they’d go back to their original lineup.

So at the next gig, Gold stood stage right, playing bass and singing backup. He watched dumbly as his words came out of Killian's mouth and everyone fell over themselves. And the performance after that. And the one after that.

Crowds, for some reason, gravitated towards Jones. Droves of women, who Gold knew weren’t there for the music, began attending and standing up front. Gold wanted the music to speak for itself. But Killian was a born entertainer. He chatted to the girls in the crowd, making them titter. Gold glanced across the stage at Milah, who was laughing and shaking her head at his antics, completely won over. He’d remember that look in her eyes and the way her face lit up for the rest of his life.

“He’s sexy,” Milah had told him in bed one night, when he was still on the fence about Jones officially joining the band and taking over lead.

Gold had asked Milah to marry him the next day. He could see now, in retrospect, that he’d sensed her slipping away from him. He had loved her, he truly had. But marrying her had been his way to try and hold onto her, to keep her from leaving him. Not that it had done any good in the end. I didn’t matter, he would have married her anyway because, unbeknownst to them at the time, she was already pregnant with Bae.

With Killian Jones on the mic, the band started to gain more attention. It was so gradual at first, Gold almost didn’t notice. The rooms they played began to fill a little more. The venues got a little bigger. Until one day, at a party after a show, he looked around and realized he in the same room as Jeff Beck and Ronnie Wood, breathing the same air. All because of their mutual love of making music.

It was only a matter of time before America began calling. The lure of recording contracts and bigger audiences was too great. The band boarded a plane from London for L.A. Upon arriving, they found a place downtown to squat in and seamlessly fell into the music scene. They spent their days recording demos on borrowed studio time. Gold remembered seeing a proper mixing board for the first time and spending hours pouring over it with a single minded intensity. When Bae was born, he joined their caravan of bohemians, riding along in vans to various gigs. Sometimes even living in a van. But it didn’t matter because Bae was a happy baby and they traveled as a band, a family.

One that wasn’t destined to last.

They signed their first record deal with a major label within six months of arriving in L.A. Moe French, a record producer so famous Gold recognized him on sight, happened to be in the audience when they played one of their best shows. He cornered them when they exited the stage. Riding high on one of their best performances ever, they signed without even reading the contract he thrust at them in his glass fronted office the next day. Within the next week they had studio time of their own and twelve of their best tracks laid down. They got so far as to even have an official photo shoot for the album cover, with Killian in the middle and the rest of them fanned out around him.

It looked like Gold had been wrong. Killian Jones had been their ticket to success in the L.A. music scene.

But he had also been their downfall.

Within a year of landing at LAX, Jones and Milah had fell for the drinking and the drugs and each other. The two ran off together and the rest of the band members, burned out by the polarizing drama, vanished, getting gigs in established bands or as session players.

He should have put himself and an infant Bae on a plane the day their family, and the band, broke up. Instead, his pride got the better of him and Gold, with Bae, had stayed in L.A. He'd stick around to show them all. While Jones had been part of their meteoric rise, he was nothing but a pretty face. Gold wasn’t going to let him ruin everything he had spent decades building.

He was in Moe French’s office the next morning.

“I’ll get another band together,” he’d promised Moe.

“No, you won’t.” Moe answered confidently. At Gold’s perplexed look, he continued. “We own your songs now, boy.”

A horrible pit formed in Gold’s stomach. “I don’t understand.”

“The contract you signed,” Moe informed him casually. “Those songs now belong to the record label.”

“But I wrote them!” Gold defended. “We already recorded them!”

“In a studio the label paid for,” Moe countered. “You wasted my time and my money. That album will never see the light of day.” He remembered the bloated face of Moe French baring down on him. “Now get out of my office before I sue you for breech on contract,” he growled.

He’d once ran into Eric Clapton on a regular basis. Now he was in a bedsit in east L.A. His best friend was a 14-year-old who would rather closet himself in his ‘room.’ He wrote jingles and whatever else anyone need him for, just to stay involved in music somehow, using the same Gibson that he used to write the songs that were supposed to make him and his band famous. The piano had been sold long ago to pay for this place.

He looked around the room. He used to live out of a van. In comparison to that, this was nothing. It was all Bae had ever known. Scraps of paper with song lyrics scribbled all over them were tacked all over the apartment walls. After seeing A Beautiful Mind at a friend’s house, Bae had come home and asked Gold if he was schizophrenic.

All Gold had left of his blossoming music career was an unreleased album and a trail of broken dreams. And Bae. He had Bae. If he had to do it all again, knowing the outcome, if it got him his boy, he’d do it.

Gold shook his head. He hadn’t thought of his bitterness about the music industry in a long time. He’d focus on Bae and doing what he could to keep the apartment under them and cereal in the cupboards.

He unconsciously played the first few notes of a song he’d written for Bae when he was little. It was meant to comfort his son when he had nightmares, but in truth it gave Gold just as much solace. Now that he was older, Bae didn’t need it anymore. But obviously Gold still did. He’d give in to his despondency and play it through, just the once. Then, he’d get back to work.

#rcij #rumbelle christmas in july #rumbelle fanfic #rumbelle fic #fic: california soulmates

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