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babykatsu · 4 years

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PAIRING: katsuki bakugou x fem!reader

WORDCOUNT: 7k

RATING: nsfw ⛈

GENRE: smut!

WARNINGS: slow burn, swearing, kissing, no intercourse, foreplay, car sex, little bit of degradation, a littleeee rough!

⤷ SYNOPSIS:

as though fate had its worst intentions, bakugous car had broken down on the way to your high school reunion with you in the car as well. GREAT! Not only was it getting dark and chilly, you were also in the middle of nowhere... That really didn’t ease the atmosphere, especially when Bakugou was already hesitant on lending you a drive to the reunion. But with the discomfort, there always comes a way to ease it ;)

AUTHORS NOTE:

a special thanks to @laylahoran for not only helping me proof read and pick out the title for this scenario BUT also for just being there to support me through out this whole thing! Literally the purest friend🥺🥺💕💕 ilysmmm!!!

Also, this is my first detailed smut imagine so sorry if it’s a bit sloppy :(

Life after high school proved to be a lot more different than expected. For starters, after having moved to find better work opportunities in the city, you found yourself deprived of nearly all social interaction with your previous friends. Yes, you still caught up over text and call, but it was safe to say it was not quite the same. Not only did the hectic schedule of working for a hero agency clash with your friends’, when you were on your days off all your friends seemed to be busy with their own goals of becoming high ranking heroes. You sort of started living a more solitary lifestyle, a drastic change from your previous one.

So when you flopped down on your couch, your body sluggish and desperate for sleep after a bustling day of work, you felt suddenly energised. Eyes wide as you could just barely believe what you were reading. An email had illuminated on your phone screen, reading the following:

“Greetings class A! It has been nearly a year since we have all graduated and I’m in complete aw as to how far you have all come :) On a more dejected note, however, we have all seemed to grow more distant due to our work. I have missed you all dearly and believe the connections we all formed are amazing experiences we should not forget about! Though we may have kept in contact here and there, it’s evident that we all have been lacking. This is why I have taken it upon myself to set up a reunion party! More information is soon to be delivered in the next email, and I’m super excited to hear from you all. Arrangements with your agencies will take place as soon as confirmations come through. You’re previous classmate, Tenya Iida”

As though your prayers had been answered, you were greeted with that email. Now, this was an offer you couldn’t pass up! Without hesitation, your fingers started typing away at your phone, the pads of your fingers darting across the glass as though they had a mind of their own. You were determined to go, excitement flooding your sense at just the thought of the whole event! As your eager fingers hit send on the email a sudden thought crossed your mind.

Shit...

You hadn’t thought about it previously, mind racing and occupied with the general idea of a reunion, how were you going to get to the location of the party?

As said previously, life was not as expected after graduating, and though heroes lived a life with above-average pay, bathing in luxuries at times, it all took years of experience. No way could you have reached such a high status having worked for less than a year in this field. With the lack of money to your name, there were no chances of you owning a car at this very moment in time. Maybe public transport was a good option? But the delays, need for time arrangements and the entire coordination of your journey was already giving you a headache. The travel aspect was less than fruitful.

But you were going to get there one way or another.

Taking in a deep breath, you gently pressed the off button on your device, sinking your body further into the couch as you allowed your body to finally relax. Your mind pondered of all the different options, from uber’s and cabs to all the different forms of public transport available. But as your unresting thoughts echoed around in your head, you finally concluded. A conclusion that churned your stomach, a fluttery feeling pricking the goosebumps along your chilled skin.

You could ask Bakugou for a lift.

Though this plan seemed faulty, a high chance he would decline the offer to attend the reunion filled with “extras”, you still had your hopes up high.

Out of all the people who could have moved to the same part of town as you, Bakugou was the one. It was pure coincidence that you both had ended up not too far from each other, a block away in fact. Though throughout all three years that you attended u.a you had barely spoken to him. You had your exchange in words here and there, the occasional insult would be thrown your way, but oddly enough out of all people in the class, you received his harsh treatment the least. You just figured, he barley knew you so acknowledging your existence was a waste of his time. Yet his subtle acts of warmth towards you didn’t go unnoticed by your subconscious, a strange feeling invading your body. You developed feelings for the boy.

Shockingly, you found yourself attracted to him, even with the lack of a solid foundation for a proper friendship. You didn’t know what exactly enticed you so much, maybe it was his toned chiselled frame or perhaps his confident exterior. Whatever it was, it had your heart thumping faster at every glance you two shared, and the thoughts that lingered with these unexplainable emotions were even more hectic. It was as though every second you spent alone, confined by the four white walls of your room, you lay wondering of all you wanted him to do to you. A peak of curiosity soon turned into a full-fledged lust for him. The moment you batted your eyelids shut, you’d picture his muscular body towering yours, his hands pinning you down as he’d shamelessly make you a mess under his touch. A thought of him could make your entire body explode. It was all far too complicated for you to process.

That’s why when you moved to a new part of the city, in hopes to start work as well rid yourself of your weird infatuation, you went pale at the sight of him only a couple streets away from where you newly lived. You tried to convince yourself this was indeed a one-time occurrence, yet you’d see him again and again... and again. He most certainly lived near you, it was undeniably true.

Every time you’d return from work, shoes hitting the concrete sidewalk with an echoing tap, you’d always pass him. At first, you shared no words, not a single exchange between you two until one day he randomly spoke up. You remember that moment like the back of your hand, as though it happened just a few minutes ago. Admittedly, the conversation was nothing spectacular, but it still caused a rapid shock to strike through you as the memory of you exchanging numbers with him lurked your brain. The whole event was so bizarre and it still seems unreal now.

Snapping from your daydream, you came to a solid answer. This was probably the best time to put his number to good use. Unlike you, he had a car and could most likely drive you to where ever this reunion will take place... That’s if he decides he is going to attend as well. That’s where your plan seems to not be so successful.

Yet, you had no other choice. He was your best shot at finally getting a break from this borderline isolation.

Nervously, you picked your phone up once more, gently scrolling through your contacts until a familiar name was visible: ‘Katsuki Bakugou’. A nervous feeling burnt at the pit of your stomach as you anxiously went to type out a message. Your shaky fingers tapped the keyboard, with every additional letter that was added to your sentence, your heartbeat sped up even faster until you felt it pound against your ears. Who knew you could feel so nervous about a generic message... It was Bakugou you were texting after all. Not only was he known for being an uncontrollable hothead, but he was also the guy you often fantasied about. You were more than flustered by this point.

Finally, after rereading your message frantically over and over again, you hit send. You felt your heart quickly sink before a chill ran through your entire body. Now you play the waiting game...

On the other end of the line sat a pouting Bakugou. Just like you, he had received the same email, his face crinkled into a frown as he read the disgusting email present on his screen. Like he’d show up to watch a bunch of extras overly excited for no reason. The entire thought of a reunion made his blood boil. At the same time, however, he wouldn’t mind seeing a few faces.

Sure he hated the class, but there was no denying he missed the ‘old days’. He rolled his eyes and let out a huff, in complete annoyance at how soft he’d become. Was he really contemplating going to that shitty reunion? Apparently so, as he decided to type up a quick response to Iida's invite.

A thought he had tried awfully hard to suppress soon made its way to the surface. It was you. Out of all the people he’d want to meet at the reunion, it had to be you. Though he didn’t necessarily have to be at the reunion to view you.

Similarly, he found himself drawn to you for some obscure reason. All throughout high school up until now. During school, he would always gawk at the way your skirt swayed side to side as you walked or even the way you leaned against the desk arching your back most perfectly. It had Bakugous eyes adhered to you. He just wanted to run his hands across your entire body, his lips bequeathing marks on every soft sweet spot on your skin. You’d be his, the deep hickeys that scattered your delicious skin marking his territory. Never had he felt so sexually frustrated, desiring a person so bad it was making him lose his mind. He had better things to worry about, like brining the number 1 hero for starters, but no matter how much he tried denying his deepest desires they just wouldn’t leave.

He tried so hard, he even moved just to get away from you. Of course, that didn’t work, when he saw you strutting down the sidewalk, your clothes hugging all your curves in a way that made his mouth water. He wanted you, and he wanted you bad!

And Bakugou gets, what Bakugou wants.

Just as that memory swirled his mind, a ping came from his phone, the gentle vibration of the device in his palm breaking him from his fantasy. His vermillion eyes went wide as he glanced down at the notification that had just gone off. The name he wanted to see most displayed.

‘Hey! It’s [name], hope I’m not being a bother :) I’m sure you also received the email about the reunion party, I hope to see you there. That’s if I can get there... Maybe you could give me a lift? Don’t worry if you don’t want to, I understand!’

Bakugou bit his bottom lip as he squinted down at the information in front of him. As much as he wanted to agree, his pride didn’t permit him an agreement to your proposal so easily. Rather than cooperating the way he wanted to, he typed out a message juxtaposing his real desire.

And there started your exchange in messages, the back and forth and your “convincing” to give you ride. Though we all know Bakugou was going to give in to it either way.

Weeks had passed since then, the texts that followed after between you two was kept to an evident minimum. The only exchange included a catch up on your plans for the reunion and that was about it. You were more anxious by the day, knowing the reunion date was coming closer to existence.

Next thing you knew, the day had arrived.

You were seated in the passenger seat of Bakugous car. Nervously, you shifted in the leather seat, hand resting on the inner door handle as your eyes followed the passing trees that came in and out of view.

The sky was faintly clouded, a ray of golden sun piercing through parted clouds, dripping a soft sunset hue over the ivy leaves of the trees. You sat inside the car, yet you remembered the faint chilly winds that caressed your skin. Overall, the weather was decent, far from perfect but not awful either.

The tranquillity that filled the car was apparent, the most noise that was present was the hushed sound of the radio playing, the music placid. It only intensified the awkward silence that was held between you both.

Playing with the hem of your dress, you spoke up in an attempt to spark up a conversation. “well, aren’t you the conversationalist” you spoke sarcastically, a hint of playfulness in your voice. Though you spoke suddenly, Bakugou didn’t seem to divert his focus from the road. His face stayed in its usual state, not even a smirk dared to spread across his lips. Clearly, your playfulness was not reciprocated. The silence engulfed you both for a while longer before he finally responded. His reply was less than adequate, a simple hum.

You shifted your attention back onto the view outside, watching as the car drives deeper and deeper into some sort of forest. The trees grew larger, the suns light being swallowed by the towering greenery above. Cars began passing more infrequently until you had not seen one in ages on the road that had become more narrow.

It felt like you had been in this car for an unbearably long amount of time. You couldn’t tell if time was just moving slower than usual at how bored you were at this very moment in time or if your destination was farther than you expected.

Pulling your phone from your bag that rested atop your lap, you checked the time.

‘6:23 pm’

It was confirmed that time was just moving awfully slower than usual. You had only been in the car for a little under 15 minutes. There was still a fair amount of time left until the party started, so there were no worries on being late though you still had quite a few kilometres to cover. Relieved, you placed your phone back into your bag. You slowly let your eyes rest shut, hoping a quick nap would pass time more sufficiently.

And as you had just calmed your nerves enough to sleep, your body suddenly jolted forward. Your seatbelt immediately binding around your chest, pressing your body flush against the seat as you braced the impact of the sudden stop of the car.

“For fuck sake” Bakugou finally spoke up as he kissed his teeth, gripping the steering wheel remarkably tight that his knuckles were becoming white.

“what just happened?”. Out of curiosity, you questioned the man, his face now looking more annoyed than ever. His hand fiddled with the car keys, the engine roaring repeatedly as he tried turning the car on. “What does it fucking look like, dumbass?” he barked at you, still frantically trying to turn the car on. It didn’t help that he had now started slamming the steering wheel between each attempt.

“Are you out of gas?” You spoke up innocently. There was no denying you were now, in fact, feeling less hopeful that you had enough time to make it to the reunion.

For the first time, he finally made eye contact with you. His rose eyes staring at you in frustration, in complete disbelief at how oblivious you were.

“Of course not! You fucking moron, the shitty car just broke down” He barked at you before flinging the car door wide open, slamming it with a harsh bang as he made his dramatic exit.

You watched him pace up and down with distinct stomps, muttering something under his breath while typing away at his phone. Taking the hint, you exit the vehicle as well. “So, what now?” you irritate him further with your persistent queries.

“How the fuck is there no service? HOW AM I MEANT TO GET THIS SHIT FIXED?” his yells echoed through the vast scenery that surrounded you.

With him stressing, you couldn’t help but taste your mouth go dry as panic began settling in as well. It was no use having the two of you in a frenzy. Rationally, you walked over to Bakugou, your phone gripped in your hand as you formed the only logical suggestion. “Try my phone”

He didn’t even question or ridicule your suggestion like he probably desired to, instead yanking the phone out of your hand and attempting to dial-up a number. It didn’t take long until his eyes rolled back in failure and his jaw flexed with gritted teeth. No luck there either clearly.

“Guess we aren’t going to the shitty reunion. You're fucking welcome!” He yells once more, slapping the phone back into your palm. The worst somehow ended up playing out, complete defeat washing over your body.

Resting against the car, you dropped your bottom lip into a slight pout, the chilly air growing cooler.

You were in the middle of nowhere, the only form of transport for miles was now down and to top it off you were getting cold. Your body rapidly began to shiver, goosebumps pricking along your exposed skin.

“Aren’t you fucking smart” Bakugou scoffed as he stared at you, arms crossed over his broad chest. “didn’t even bring a jacket while wearing some stupid dress”

Rather than yelling like he had been doing for the last couple minutes, he was calming his nerves by teasing you. It may have been the adrenaline that made him feel so open to being more playful, or maybe he attempted to distract himself from how much of a loser he currently felt with a broken car. Whatever it was, he was now smirking at the girl in front of him, tantalising her about the cold.

“I didn’t know I’d be stuck outside, did I?” You teased back, rolling your eyes at him. The fact he was being so calm on the outside was making you feel less worried, yet more nervous at his sudden change in mood than anything.

His eyes stared you up and down, analysing your shivering state as the wind began picking up. Another sigh left his parted lips before resuming to speak. "Go sit inside the car. No use shivering like a dumbass if you can't handle a bit of wind" he chuckled slightly as he spoke, as though to assure you his comment was in fact not as rude as he intended it to come out.

Though you obeyed, taking careful steps around the car to sit back in it, you decided to throw your own snarky remark his way. "Not one to talk when you're wearing a jacket". You give him a 'look', before fully submerging yourself in the cars shielded warmth. It may have broken down not too long ago, but it was still well heated. An instant chill rolled down your spine as your body quickly adjusted to the sudden change in temperature.

"Sorry, princess. Didn't realise I had royalty as company". That devious smirk sprawled itself across his tanned face as he followed your move, getting in the car himself. Something about the way he addressed you made you quiver, the innocent word was also oh so seductive. That sudden feeling of arousal pent up inside you, fogging your thinking.

"I- don't get too cocky now". Your reply came out as a jittery stutter, senses overwhelmed by his playful tone that had you heated. Senses scattered, too flustered by his seemingly unintentional words. It's not like he knew about your fantasies of him or how your sinful thoughts begged for him to call you such names. And now as you were in the midst of it all, you couldn't help but lose yourself.

He let out another husky laugh. The way you broke apart at the simplest words only stroked his ego. No denying he purposely chose those specific words to see how you'd react, and to his surprise, it went far better than expected. "Here, have my jacket then if you wanna keep yapping about it"

Speechless, your vision was once again fixated on him. Gawking at the leather jacket that slipped of his physique, revealing his toned, muscular arms. You swallowed the nervous lump in your thought down, butterflies invading your system as you watched.

You expected him to carelessly throw the jacket your way, alternatively he leaned over. His significantly larger body mounted over yours as he placed his jacket over your exposed legs, instant warmth tickling your chilled skin. His hands felt so smooth as they lightly brushed against your thigh, the accidental touch shooting straight to your core. It was humiliating at how quickly you discomposed around him, cheeks red and breath hitched. You just couldn't help it, a presence like his was way too intense. Especially, at this moment.

"U-um, so what are we going to do now?" you try to change topics as you felt your current heated state become far too overwhelming, whole-body hot as your thoughts began drifting to all the wrong places.

He peeped his eyes, as though deep in thought."Wait until someone hopefully passes, I guess?". The uncertainty in his tone had you feeling concerned again. The worry bombarding you, diverting your inner emotions elsewhere. You've wanted to meet your classmates so vigorously for ages, all fired up for weeks as you obsessively counting down the days, only for this to happen. Not a single car had been in view for ages, god knows until the next one would come. That's also assuming that the car would even stop for you two. This was so disappointing, a hollow feeling in your chest as you sulked.

"I guess? For god sake, we aren't even going get to the reunion in time!"

Bakugou had noticed your sudden change in mood. In all honesty, he didn't quite understand why you wanted to see those annoying dickheads anyway, but he felt strangely sympathetic towards you. "Oi, I'm fucking sorry. I'll drive you to see your friends another time".

"What if there isn't another time?" you mope at him, facing your body towards him. He doesn't reply right away, mirroring your actions instead to examine your current behaviour. There was no way he could make this situation better unless the car magically fixed itself. Which to be fair, would never happen. As his eyes scanned you, he noticed the way you were still shivering, the once heated car losing its warmth. It was his best shot at diverting the conversation.

"You're still shivering, dumbass". His red orbs were fixed on you as he reached out his arms towards you. They felt considerably warmer than you as they rested on your shoulders. You followed his gaze that watched his own hands as they rubbed you up and down carefully. The slight friction between his hands and your skin bringing you some heat. It only sunk in then that his large hands were tracing your arms, his warmth transferring to you. Flusters took over your sense again. As much as you wanted to speak up right now, you knew you'd only choke up on your words, far worse than your stutters. As your stomach swirled, you felt ardour rush to your face. A rose haze coated your skin, eyeing the way Bakugou rubbed his hands against you.

"Looks like you've warmed up, that's for sure" he grinned at you, noticing the way your chest began rising and falling, heartbeat thumping rapidly. The way your face flushed scarlet as your eyes danced around your atmosphere, all at his touch. He noticed it all. And boy was it rubbing his ego.

"I-uh, yeah. I mean- no?". Your words came out jumbled, unable to form proper sentences when his ruby eyes finally gazed up at you. The mysterious glint in them made you feel overwhelmed, unaware of what move he would make next.

"So you need to be warmed up a bit more, huh?". His hands swiftly grazed your arms, just about hovering over your soft skin. Careful touches traced it, your words departing from your brain. The entirety of your focus was on the way Bakugou's fingertips tickled you delicately, the electric feeling flowing throw you. "Speak up for me. Do you still need to be warmed?". He snapped you back into reality without warning, only to put you in a trance again. The way he spoke with such dominance, demanding for you to speak, only stirred your imagination further. You had pictured moments like these so many times, him ordering you to do as he says. And as these thoughts rushed to the surface, you started to feel heat build between your thighs.

"Yeah, sorry!". Frantically, you attempt to respond, a nervous giggle followed your sentence as it came out of your mouth. "If that's what you want, princess". He emphasised the nickname, his lips curling into a sneer as his hands began to wander. The soothing touch travelled upwards, his hands gliding over your skin, one resting on your warmed rosy cheek. His sudden action had your breath hitching. You'd portray such touches numerous times yet nothing could have appointed you for this moment as your nerves fell apart.

As you tried to ration the situation out in your mind, his eyes finally locked with yours. The intimate stare had you holding your breath. Gently, he massaged his thumb against your cheek as he slowly moved his hand to the back of your neck, chills dripping down your spine. His eyes flickered between your eyes and mouth, hinting at a kiss. Was he going to kiss you? You must have been dreaming or something. But it was all happening, right now. There was no time to contemplate the event at hand. His face was edging closer to yours only inches apart, his proximity to you titillating. As you waited for his lips to finally come in contact with yours, you began losing patience. It's like he purposely was a millimetre away from your lip just to taunt you. You took in one more breath, easing your nerves before crashing your lips against his.

Your initial cold shivers were a way for Bakugou to change the subject from his broken car, and it all had worked out in his favour. Admittedly, this was not the outcome he was intending for, but he was not complaining either. He was finally able to seel a kiss with a girl that had invaded his thoughts for years. A dream come true if you will.

His tender lips felt so soft against yours, the sweet caramel taste engulfing your senses as they oozed from his lips. The once overwhelming anxiousness that had you falling apart beneath his touch was now easing as you melted into the passionate exchange between the two of you. Bakugou's lips moved in sync with yours, sucking and tugging at your bottom lip hungrily, undoubtedly smudging your lipstick. His pearly whites sunk into your bottom lip, giving them a smooth tug before sliding his warm tongue in. As he did so, his hand explored your body, slowly descending down the side of your torso, gripping you tightly. His other hand, that had itself placed at the back of your neck, suddenly wrapped around your throat. A rough squeeze was given, encouraging a gasp to erupt from your voicebox. His unforeseen move made you feel sensitive, clenching your thighs together to relieve the desperate ache between your legs. The warm wet muscle that had slipped inside your mouth earlier adventured in your mouth, swirling around your tongue and trailing every inch. It all felt so unreal.

Suddenly, Bakugou pulled away with a string of saliva connecting you both. His hands were still firm on wherever they were on your body. Through parted lips, he panted as his gaze darted. "Fuck, looks like you got me warm as well now". His signature smirk was back, his hand that held you by the neck pulling your face closer to his. Vermillion eyes analysed you, watching the way your face was flushed, lips were wet and lipstick was smudged. Realising he probably had some red on his lips as well from your makeup, he brought one hand to his face, wiping his plump lips with the back of his hand. The image before you only made you wetter, thighs already tightly clutched. And as though he could read your mind, he brought that same hand down to your thigh with a slap. The impact of his hands against you instantly shot to your soaking core, though the actions didn't hurt you much. You felt a tingling sensation to dance across your skin. Rubbing the impacted area, Bakugou continued to look at you, his eyes occasionally diverting to were he was soothing your thigh. His hands began needing your thigh higher and higher until his fingers dipped into the gap where your two thighs made contact. Teasingly, he drove one thigh from another to part them. "And you're definitely warmed up now, baby". His words insinuating how flustered you were.

He brought his lips back to yours as he worked his fingertips up your leg. His touch was so close and you felt so sensitive, you couldn't help but let out a shaky moan into the kiss. You wanted him so bad, craving to feel every inch of him against you. Your hands eager, you brought them up to his shirt. Clenching your hands around the piece of fabric, you tugged him closer to you, the distance between you two unbearable as you sat in separate seats. Your actions brought him to a sudden pause, causing him to pull away. "Are you that desperate for me?". His seductive tone made your face heat up and even more aroused. By now, you sure as hell knew your cunt was drenched. "You want me so fucking bad, don't you?". His hand was back in motion, fingertips almost touching you through your underwear. All you could do was moan in response as you craved his touch. "I can't fucking hear you". He taunted you once again, before his fingertips finally stroked your wet panties, massaging your folds through the cotton. You felt your breath tremble as he applied gentle pressure.

"Y-yes, I've wanted you so bad for a long time". Voice unsteady, you could just barely articulate. You felt the way his fingers caressed you through your underwear, index finger circling your clit so that the fabric would trigger your sensitive bud. Another moan emerged out your lips as you took in a profound breath. "I can tell. Your fucking soaking and it's all for me, babygirl". His cool breath trickled down your ear as he murmured against it.

You couldn't bear it anymore, the distance practically eating away at your patience as sexual frustration overflowed your senses. His fingers continued to shower you in affection but it was no longer enough. You needed more. "Please, Bakugou. I-I want you so bad right now". Hitched breaths and shallow moans rolled off of your tongue as you spoke, Bakugou's eyes sinful as he observed you.

"You'll have to be more specific than that". The same mockeries filled your ears, craving to see you flush as you spoke of all your desires, embarrassed by their explicit nature. As he awaited your response, he slowed his movements down, only teasing you further as it stript you off the pleasure you so desperately yearned for. "Shit, I want to feel you. I want to be closer- please".

The words dripped from your mouth as though it was second nature, the thirst for him more than unambiguous by your needy state. With that, his hands left your core, the cool air surrounding you as his warmth departed. You watched him carefully with longing eyes. The way his cherry centres locked on you as his grip came to your waist. His firm hands grabbed hold of you as he granted your wishes, placing you on his lap.

You sat on top of him, his toned legs holding you up and his hands pursued your body. The way your thighs rested atop his, your sensitive core throbbing against his hardening cock and the way his palms massaged your curves felt all so surreal. Subconsciously grinding against him, you felt his cock brush up against your folds, and with every stroke of your hips, the friction was shooting an electric buzz through you. "Didn't know you were such a needy slut for me". He purred at you with that deriding look in his eyes, smirking smugly. All you did was hum in return to his taunts.

Wrapping your hands around his neck, you lingered your fingertips along his neckline, gradually pulling his face in for another kiss. Devouring each other's lips once again, Bakugous hands slipped beneath your dress, lifting it to loosely drape around your waist. Your legs fully displayed, the frigid air hurried to leave goosebumps along your skin. Resuming his excursion, his fingers wandered back to where they seized you previously. As he leaned into the makeout, he rested your back against the steering wheel before tearing away from your mouth. Keen set of eyes watching you."Tell me exactly where you want my hands to go, baby. Your lucky I'm willing to take directions". For a moment you realised the exception he was making.

Bakugou was known for listening to no one but himself. So the fact he considered something like this, even if it was during an odd time, spoke volumes. It only stabilised, if not boosted, the feeling that you harboured for Bakugou. Yet there was no time to ponder over his actions. You hesitated to respond at first, slightly embarrassed to provide him with an answer.

"I want you to touch me". You deeply flushed at your reply but Bakugou only squinted at you. "Babygirl, your such a needy bitch but won't even get into specifics. Come on, you can be open with me". His words only strengthened the blush that overlaid your skin to deepen, if that was even possible. Even in your profoundly flustered disposition, you needed him and retaining your mouth shut was not an option.

"Bakugou, you know what I mean. Here". You childishly whine before grabbing hold of his hand, guiding it to your heat. His firm hand was resting on your bound cunt, not making a single move but rather looking at you intently. "Good enough" was his only response.

Swiftly, his slender fingers submerged under the fabric of your underwear, coming in contact with your wetness. The suddenness of his actions provoked a gasp to emit from your mouth, his fingers already exploring you. The feeling of his warmth travelling tenderly up and down your folds, with the occasional attentiveness to your clit made you squirm as you sucked deep breaths in. Your chest came up and down as air raced to pervade you, your moans getting gradually louder as you rubbed and arched against his touch. His attentive touch began centring more on your delicate bud, picking up his pace as he soaked in the sight of you falling apart atop him. Your heavy breaths and moans that filled the air and the way you desperately moved against every circular motion of his finger. Fuck was the sight something he had dreamt of for so long, and it was far better than he imagined. "You fucking like that huh?" he uttered through gritted teeth as his face crept closer to yours, observing the way you tightly squeezed your eyes shut, mouth dropped open.

"Shit, yes. Just like that" your breathy response came out as just above a whisper, too caught up in the pleasure of his touch. And just when you thought it couldn't feel any better, you felt his two fingers slip inside you. Your warm pink walls instantly sucking his fingers in, frantically tightening against them. A lusty moan shot out of your mouth, the overwhelming feeling of him fully submerged within you, pumping in and out. His fingers curled to hit just the right spot before you could fully adjust. The sensation was all too much and you felt the desire consume you. Panting and moaning, you could barely make sense of your surroundings as he didn't hesitate to advance his movements by pumping harder and faster, your wetness trickling down his bronzed palm.

His pace only intensified, his fingers gliding in and out of you, rubbing against your contracting walls that made your stomach burn. Burn in a way that made you almost lose control as it tied knots in your abdomen. Every spot that made your body arch against its will, legs jutting and twitching, he hit it all. And just as you edged nearer to your orgasm, moans building up at the back of your throat, ready for release as your nails dug into Bakugou's forearms. He came to a sudden pause, retreating his fingers, now soaked in your juices. You felt the dissatisfaction of his lack of attention, yearning to be touched again. Thick pants filled the car as Bakugou smirked at you and at the way you couldn't help but grind against him to supply for his loss of attention towards you.

"Princess, you didn't really think you'd get it that easy" he spoke tauntingly, rubbing your thighs as he trailed kisses on your collar bone. He'd wanted to mark up your delicate skin so many times, his presence forever embedded on you. Sinking his teeth on your flesh, he sucked and licked it, earning a soft moan from you against his ear. The tickling sensation of your breath against him accompanied by your lewd noises only hardened his growing erection. The restricting tightness of his trousers becoming infuriating for the boy.

He left mark after mark, immersing in the way you rubbed and groaned into him. "Bakugou... I need you. All of you.". Your words were like music to his ears, a combination of sounds he'd wanted to hear for so long. You begging for him to please you, make you his. It didn't even take him a second thought to know what he wanted to do to you, almost agreeing instantly. "Show me how bad you need me then". The challenging statement made you feel more heated, already in complete aw at the way his lips marked your skin.

You gently pushed him off you, pressing his back into the black leather seat, planting a delicate kiss on his lips before ducking between his legs. The position was cramped, the compact space of being under the steering wheel, legs crossed as you shifted your body further back until you could feel the disengaged pedal of the vehicle.

Bakugou sat with eager eyes on you, waiting for what you'd do next. To be honest, he felt uncomfortable at his lack of control at this very moment, already plotting how he'd regain it once more once he caught onto what your plan was. "Is this your way of proving yourself" he snickered at you, your hands on his belt, the clinking of the metal drowning out his voice. Through the material of his trousers, you could see the outline of his bulge, tight around the fabric restraints.

And just as you went to undo the restraints, unravelling the package that was contained, your head had hit the soft padding of the steering wheel. The sudden beep of the car horn went off, alarming the two of you. "What the fuck," Bakugou spoke up first in confusion. The car had obviously broken down only a few minutes ago yet it had finally decided to cooperate and disturb your guys' self-indulgence.

"Perfect timing" You giggled as you let your hands fall from his belt, slightly disappointed by the interruption. You wanted to continue this fantasy, see where it would take you both but you had other priorities on your mind as well. Like getting to the reunion for starters."Don't look so distressed, baby" Bakugou spoke softly as he lifted your chin, admiring you and the marks he left all over. "We will finish what we started, after all, I've been wanting this for so fucking long" He admitted and you couldn't help but redden at his remark.

You delicately slipped from under the wheel, dragging your dress down to cover your flashed skin. "I'll be looking forward to that then" You fire your own flirt his way, tipping over to leave a gentle peck against his lips before cleaning your lipstick from his face. He responded with a scoff and a rolling of his eyes, diverting his attention to the road to start driving again.

"I would say cover up the hickeys, but I want all those damn extra's to know who you belong to now" He smirked giving you the side-eye. Only then did you notice your wrecked state, desperately trying to fix your appearance in the small overhead mirror.

Bakugou steadily drove to your destination as his large hand rested on your thigh, you both wondering where you'd finish this excursion...

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yandere-sins · 3 years

Note

Hello! You're super talented 🥺 anyway if it isn't a bother I'd like to request a story about Belphie kidnapping MC to stop them from leaving devildom. Like perhaps MC waking up somewhere they don't recognise and Belphie saying to them he needs more time with MC

Thank you so much!! I hope you enjoy your request ♥

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

The thing you missed the most while you stayed in the realm of the devils was the sun. The beautiful, warm, shining son. Rays of sunlight dancing over your skin, illuminating your day, shimmering in the eyes of the people you talked to. Waking up and not being clouded in darkness was naturally for you, and yet, you gave away the comforts of the sun in favor of staying the year with the demon brothers.

All had been well. You managed to complete your year with many fond memories and grades to show off with, considering you were the first of two humans to ever attempt a year there. But if there had been anything that had made it hard to go through with these successes, it would have been the darkness. There had been weeks that thoroughly depressed you, waking up and going to bed while it was dark, never being able to sunbath, and taking vitamines to withstand the lack of sunlight - it had been though.

However, now that it was over, you had mixed feelings. You loved the brothers, and you had an amazing time with them, and yet, you were so happy to go home to your ‘real’ family, your own bed, and your sunshine. It was the last night now that you’d sleep in this whimsical house full of demons and ghosts. You retired after way too many rounds of board games, laughing and celebrating with the people that had grown so close to you this last year. When you’d wake up, it would all be over, but you looked back at it with tears and a smile.

That was until you really did wake up.

If you believed Diavolo’s words, you should have been sent back in your slumber, quiet and peaceful. But you expected your eyes to hurt when you finally opened them; the light flooding your room should have made you sensitive. In your dream, you had already seen the sun again, walked the streets around your home, and explored the sceneries you had been away from for so long.

What you didn’t expect was to be in the same dim light as you were no matter where you went in Devildom, flames on candles being the only thing keeping the darkness away from engulfing you. You could move your eyelids, but when you tried to heavy your body up, your hands didn’t budge. Slowly, you awoke fully from your nightly slumber, glancing around what you could see. Not even your head would move, and a slow panic rose as you noticed that you laid face down in some kind of fabric, fearing you might suffocate if you breathed it in.

But it didn’t come so far, luckily. Your body was swayed around, a deep breath being let out from above you. “Are you awake already?” a voice asked, sleepily. More fabric shifted as the person the voice belonged to rubbed their eyes before hooking their arms under yours again. “It’s still so early...”

You were pulled up, coming face to face with the person you now realized you had been sleeping on and held by. A smile crept on Belphie’s face as your eyes widened, surprise and shock to see him. “Good morning ~ Slept well?” he asked, and you opened your mouth, unsure if you could actually speak.

“Belphie? But... I should be back at home...”

Shaking his head slowly, it irritated you that his smile never ceased to be, one hand coming up to brush over your head tenderly. “You are home, remember? The House of Lamentation is your home.”

“No! I mean... my real home, back in the human world.”

A tiny pout finally replaced his soft expression, Belphie merely humming in thought before you felt him move under you. You felt so incredibly heavy, but despite him not being a muscle-bound hunk, Belphie managed to flip you over just fine. You sink into the comforts of the soft attic bed, pillows surrounding you while Belphegor climbed on top of you.

“I couldn’t let you go yet,” he announced, very straight-forward. His expression shifted to what you thought could be a feeling of hurt. It was incredibly hard to say if those were his sincere emotions, as you had seen this expression both in situations where he lied to you and such where he had been sincere. “I barely had time with you! We’ve only known each other for the last few months of the year, while everyone had you around for the full year! You understand that, right?”

He reached for your hand, lifting it as if it was easy. For you, it was such a damn struggle to even curl your fingers, but Belphegor had no such problems. Bringing your hand to his face, he caressed his own cheek using you, let your fingertips slide over his lips, kissing them in passing. It was bizarre. You two had gotten along well after the initial problems that were caused. You’d even say you two had been close. But this was different.

“I-... I should go talk to Lucifer about this. Can you help me? It’s so hard to move.”

Immediately, the previously shut eyes of his opened, a piercing glare staring down at you and sending shivers down your spine. This, too, you were familiar with. The hatred in his gaze; you had seen it before a good handful of time. “There is no Lucifer here. We’ll stay here as long as we want with no one bothering us.”

“Isn’t this the attic?” you asked, looking around unnerved by Belphie’s behavior now. “It may be,” he admitted, but before your eyes, you saw the walls change, the room converting into... nothingness. “Or not.” Grinning mischievously, Belphie gave your palm another peck with his lips before settling it against his chest.

“It’s convenient to use a room you know, but we are somewhere that only we can be. Somewhere no one will find us. Where we can be all by ourselves.”

You felt his heartbeat under your hand, rapid, quick bumps. It felt like his heart was ready to explode out of his chest any second. “Belphie... That all... We...” It was hard to find the words to say anything. You knew how it was to get him angry, and you didn’t want that. But this was wrong! You wanted to go home! Your time with the brothers was over.

“Tell you what,” he picked up your sentence. Letting go of your hand suddenly, it plummeted to your side, hitting your stomach and his thigh on it’s way down. “Let’s do everything that we missed out on while I was locked in the attic, and then, we’ll see about returning ‘home’, alright?” You wanted to say no, shake your head, but the only thing you could do in your compromised state was nod hesitantly, Belphie leaning forward.

“Let’s start with... let’s say a hundred kisses for every kiss you gave my brothers?”

There was no time to refuse and no possibility to keep him from doing as he pleased. When Belphie leaned down, you simply squeezed your eyes shut, hoping that this would be over quickly, and it would be enough for him to let you go.

But in this realm, where only you two existed, much more darkness awaited you than even Devildom had to offer. Darkness from all around you, darkness from his shadow. And most importantly, darkness from deep inside Belphegor that you hadn’t been aware of back at the time where you still thought you could escape back into your world.

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janeofcakes · 3 years

Text

Soulmates: How John Met Sherlock...Again Chapter 6

Sorry I'm late this time, my friends. I had a busy weekend and have now fallen victim to the blasted cold that's been making its way through my family. I don't seem to have it as badly as my husband did, thank goodness. I'm going to post and answer some comments, so if you get one from me that sounds a little bizarre, it's the cold medicine. Lol.

---

Monday morning is a busy one at 221B. Greg calls with a case in the middle of breakfast that has Sherlock scrambling to conscript Mrs. Hudson into taking Olive to school. He places his daughter’s lunch on the kitchen table next to her backpack and throws on his coat. Tipping down to kiss Olive on the cheek, he whispers I love you and have a good day. With that, Sherlock grabs a piece of toast and rushes from the room.

Olive sits at attention, the adrenaline of watching her father hurry around the room still in her veins, but it wanes as soon as she hears the click of the flat door. She lets out a long sigh and slouches a little into her chair. After the bits and pieces she had observed at Mycroft’s birthday party, she was even more curious about Gracie’s dad than when they left the park on Saturday. Something was off. John had absolutely no problem with her or her father until he met him, but had he only just met Sherlock two days ago? Olive isn’t so sure, especially after the way her uncles acted yesterday when she brought up the playdate refusal.

Olive raises her fork and chews on the eggs thoughtfully. Her father had been extremely irritated yesterday, in spite of trying to hide it, and Uncle Myc was definitely the cause. She has seen them argue before, of course. Perhaps heard is the better word. They avoid it when she is in the room and Uncle Greg usually distracts her somehow. Every so often, curiosity gets the better of her and she sneaks away from Greg to listen. Her father doesn’t seem to have ever gotten on well with his brother. Olive used to wonder if that is why she has no brothers or sisters, but dismissed the idea when she was five. She likes that it’s just her and her dad. The two of them against the world. Olive smiles to herself. Now she has Gracie too.

With that thought, Olive’s mind turns back to John. She had planned on cleverly asking Sherlock questions about him over breakfast and had even started working their conversation in that direction, but then Uncle Greg had phoned. To make matters worse, Mrs. Hudson will get her to school later than usual, effectively robbing her of all the time she has to talk to Gracie before classes start.

Olive grumbles around another bite, cursing the fact that she has to wait until lunch and that’s when inspiration strikes. Their class has library time at 10:30. She and Gracie can go to the computers, but search up John instead of books. Maybe if they know more about his past they can figure out how their fathers know each other because Olive is convinced they do.

Olive is just beginning to determine how best to communicate this to Gracie before library time when the door to the flat opens.

“Yoohoo,” calls Mrs. Hudson pleasantly, “Are you ready, dear? We really must be on our way.”

Olive glances at the clock to see how much time got away from her. Too much. She hops up and places her empty dishes in the sink. Pulling on her coat, she grabs her bag and lunch. Mrs. Hudson is smiling brightly as Olive runs down the hall.

“Good morning, Mrs. H,” Olive breathes as they hug one another tightly.

“Good morning, my darling,” Mrs. Hudson laughs warmly. “I take it Uncle Mycroft’s birthday was a success?”

“Yep,” Olive pops the P as she pulls away to look at her with twinkling eyes. “The cake was delicious. Thanks for the recipe.”

“My pleasure, dear,” Mrs. Hudson waves a hand as they pass through the door. She pulls it closed as Olive starts down the stairs. “And his presents?”

“He loved them,” Olive grins back at the older woman. “We pinned the donkey eight times and I won the most times.”

“Did you? That’s wonderful,” Mrs. Hudson chuckles to herself as she catches up with Olive in the foyer. “I’d give my good hip to see your uncle playing a party game. Must be Gregory’s influence.”

The mention of her other uncle jogs Olive’s memory and she turns, her face filling with glee, as she swings open the door to the building. Mrs. Hudson pauses in front of her, excitement already growing at just the look on Olive’s face.

“Uncle Greg asked Uncle Myc to marry him!” the girl all but shouts, throwing her arms in the air.

“Oh my goodness, that’s wonderful,” Mrs. Hudson clasps her hands together at her chin. “I always knew we’d find one for your uncle. Now we just need to find someone for your father.”

“Yeah!” Olive exclaims before she really considers Mrs. Hudson’s words. She frowns as they walk outside and down the steps to the pavement. They cross to the sleek black car waiting for them. The driver greets them as he opens the back door and they are soon on their way. All the while, one question rattles around in Olive’s mind.

“Do we?” she asks after the car has started moving. She slides her eyes to Mrs. Hudson, who looks at her inquisitively. “Do we want to find someone for Dad?”

Olive swallows loudly in the silence that follows. Mrs. Hudson’s face does not change, she merely tilts her head to the right as she considers. It doesn’t make Olive feel like she has asked something bad, but it was definitely unexpected.

“I mean, it’s always been the two of us,” Olive ventures with some uncertainty, “and things are good. Why add someone else?”

“Don’t you want your father to be happy?” Mrs. Hudson asks and Olive frowns mightily, clutching her bag to her chest tightly.

“He is happy,” the girl mutters defiantly.

“Oh, of course he is. That’s not what I meant, sweetie,” Mrs. Hudson reaches for her arm and touches it gently. Still glowering, Olive raises her grey eyes to meet the older woman’s soft brown gaze. “Your father loves you dearly and he is certainly very happy. It’s just that his heart has so much love to give and it’s a different kind of love. Like the kind Mycroft shares with Greg. I call it romantic love.”

“Romantic love?” Olive raises a skeptical brow, tiny wrinkles forming on the bridge of her nose.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hudson continues in a solemn tone. “You will feel it too one day when you meet a boy or girl you want to spend your whole life with, to kiss and hug.”

“Like on the mouth?” Olive asks, straightening her spine a bit and pulling her head back. Mrs. Hudson nods with a little smile. “Like Anna and Kristoff?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Hudson laughs. “Just like that. Like Mycroft and Greg.”

Olive’s expression becomes very serious. She shakes her head and releases the vice grip hold on her bag.

“Uncle Myc and Uncle Greg are nothing like Anna and Kristoff,” she says flatly. “They’re more like that older one. Beauty and the Beast.”

“Ha!” Mrs. Hudson crows, throwing up her hands. “I won’t even ask which one’s the beast.”

Olive grins mischievously and ducks her head, laughing with the older woman. The car stops outside the school as their merriment dies down. Mrs. Hudson puts her hand on Olive’s before she moves to leave the car.

“Know that having someone in your father’s life will never make him love you less,” she tells the girl tenderly. “There’s nothing on earth that could ever do that.”

“I know,” Olive says with a grin. She dives for her godmother and gives her a big hug as the first bell rings.

“Oh no. Hurry, dear, get to class,” Mrs. Hudson shoos her toward the door. “Sherlock will never forgive me if you’re late.”

“Thanks, Mrs. H,” Olive says, popping open the door. She runs for the three-story school building and is inside in minutes.

***

“So we are up to the number five in our multiplication table,” Mrs. Jennings finishes writing a large five next to a line of smaller numbers running from one to nine. She turns to face the class as she explains. Gracie is watching intently like most of the other kids, but Olive’s head is down while she scribbles on a scrap of paper. “As you know, these numbers are basically how many times five is added to itself, but there’s a secret to the number five that makes it one of the easiest to multiply. Start moving along the number line, writing your answers on paper and raise your hand when you know what the secret is.”

Heads go down as everyone begins working through the equations. Just as Gracie jots down twenty-five, she notices a folded scrap of paper on the desk between she and Olive, who is watching out of the corner of her eye. Gracie glances to the side and up to the whiteboard where Mrs. Jennings is slowly walking from side to side to make sure everyone is on task. Gracie licks her lips, leaving just the tip of her tongue poking out as she casually covers the scrap with her palm and slides it close. With the paper on her notebook where it can blend in with her work, she unfolds it and peers at Olive’s writing.

Your dad doesn’t like my dad.

Gracie blinks and furrows one brow while simultaneously cocking the other one. She nearly turns to look at Olive to ask an incredulous ‘What’ with her face, but resists the urge and scratches out a quick response instead. Folding the paper in half and sliding it back to the middle of the desk, Gracie raises her eyes to the front of the room again.

“All right. Who knows the secret?” Mrs. Jennings breaks the silence. “Teri?”

“You start with five and basically count by fives all the way up the line,” the girl answers from her seat in the second row. The pencil in her right hand is poised to write while the index finger of her left hand winds her long red hair around itself. Gracie watches knowingly at the nervous tell. It is just one of the many keys to observation Olive has taught her.

“Perfect. So why don’t we do that together, and remember to write it down as we go,” Mrs. Jennings moves to the whiteboard to write as well.

“Five, ten,” Teri begins and the rest of the class starts in with her until they reach forty-five.

“And there is our multiplication table for the number five,” Mrs. Jennings remarks and turns back to the class. “Does everyone see how we got that?”

Heads are bobbing up and down when Gracie notices the scrap of paper again. She slips her hand over it and moves it close.

“Good,” Mrs. Jennings is saying. “Let’s move on to number six. Write out the number line with six as your common denominator.”

Gracie quickly does this, if a little messily, and opens the note. Olive’s words are clearly printed under Gracie’s own message.

(Gracie) He just met him.

(Olive) But he doesn’t like him.

Gracie frowns and glances at Olive, who is staring straight ahead at Mrs. Jennings so as not to give them away. Gracie underlines her previous statement and slides the paper back toward Olive. It is back on her side of the desk in no time.

There’s something going on though. He kept looking at Dad like he’d seen him before and he freaked out about a playdate at mine.

Gracie glances in Olive’s direction, wondering how she wrote all of that so quickly. Getting a little irritated by the accusation, she writes hastily in a jerky script.

He didn’t freak out.

She passes it back.

“Good job, Michael,” Mrs. Jennings interrupts Gracie’s train of thought. “Now, what is six times four?”

Gracie quickly scrawls twenty-four in her notebook and looks up to see the note again. She huffs quietly at Olive’s words.

I don’t think he wants to come to my flat.

Gracie is about to pen a disgruntled response when Mrs. Jennings calls on her. Apparently, her frustration is more evident than she realized.

“Doing okay, Grace?” the teacher asks. “Are you having any trouble?”

“No, Mrs. Jennings,” Gracie answers respectfully. Mrs. Jennings nods and then asks Gracie for the answer, which she gives succinctly.

“Yes, Grace. Excellent work,” Mrs. Jennings commends her. “Six times four is the same as adding six to itself four times.Does that make sense to everyone?”

Gracie scribbles ‘That’s ridiculous,’ beneath all the other messages. The scrap is getting full now, but her two-word response fits in the space perfectly. She pushes the paper away and starts writing the table for seven. Olive’s reply awaits her when she is finished.

No, it’s not. They obviously have a history.

Gracie grumbles deep in her throat and pointedly underlines ‘He just met him.’ again as Olive watches. The little blonde adds an exclamation point and looks at her friend smugly. Olive purses her lips, turns the scrap over and begins writing feverishly. ‘They KNOW each other.’

Gracie rolls her eyes and tears her own corner from her notebook. She writes quickly and shoves it at Olive, who reads it immediately.

Wait til library time.

Olive looks to her friend and gives a shallow nod right as Mrs. Jennings calls on her.

“Do you have an answer, Olivia?”

“Thirty-two,” Olive says smoothly, directing her eyes to their teacher.

Gracie’s eyes go wide and she looks at her friend’s notebook as their teacher compliments her work. Olive has already written the number line for eight. Gracie is a line behind, in spite of being sure that she was paying attention while reading and writing the last few notes. Thank god Mrs. Jennings had not called on her.

Gracie looks at Olive’s now smug face and blows out a breath that ruffles her bangs. How does Olive do it? It’s like she has two separate brains sometimes. The girls exchange a smile and return their attention to the white board, each one anxiously anticipating the day’s special.

***

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Gracie whispers from her seat across the table, leaning forward for emphasis. After what seemed like days, but was only an hour, their class had lined up and walked to the library. Gracie and Olive immediately went to their usual table where Olive presented all of her evidence, as she called it, that proved their fathers had known each other before meeting in the park. She pointed out everything from eyes widening slightly to changes in tone and bloody shuffling of feet. She noticed Gracie’s dad curling his left hand into a fist, which Gracie has never once seen him do. How did that mean he actually knew Sherlock already and how on earth did Olive notice all these things?

“It makes perfect sense,” Olive insists, her neck craned toward Gracie. She had hunched over, pressing her chest and arms to the table side as soon as she began laying out her analysis. It is her position of choice for intense conversation and plotting. “Just look at all the clues. There’s no other explanation.”

“There are plenty of explanations,” Gracie counters. “Maybe your dad reminds mine of someone.”

“And yours reminds mine too?” Olive barely contains a bark. “Nonsense. No such thing as coincidence.”

“If they know each other, why wouldn’t they just say so?” Gracie throws her hands up as far as she dares in this setting.

“Adults have secrets, Gracie,” Olive mutters in a low voice. “Just like we do. There’s something they don’t want us to know.”

“Like what? They robbed a bank together?” Gracie snorts quietly. “No. I’m sorry, Olive. I can’t believe it. My dad never met Sherlock Holmes before we met you in the park.”

Gracie’s words slow as she reaches the end of the sentence. Olive starts in on trying to convince her, but her voice fades into the background. Things click inside Gracie’s head and for the first time since the conversation began, it all makes sense. Or doesn’t, as the case may be. If her father knew Sherlock, why wouldn’t he just tell her? Why keep it to himself? Gracie presses her lips together in thought. ‘You can have a playdate eventually. Just give me some time,’ he had said. Sherlock is obviously someone he had not expected to run into, but he must have been special to John at some point. Why else would he…

“Are you even listening?” Olive’s irritated tone suddenly breaks through Gracie’s thoughts. She blinks and looks at her friend with wide eyes. Olive huffs. “I’m not going to tell you all over again.”

Olive sits back in her chair, arms across her chest and a petulant look on her face. It only takes a second though before she reads Gracie’s expression and leans in again. Her grey-blue eyes shift rapidly between Gracie’s and she cocks her head slightly in consideration.

“What is it?” her voice is low and brimming with excitement.

“They do know each other,” Gracie breathes, “and they must have liked each other a lot.”

“Why? Why?” Olive can barely stay in her seat and she struggles to keep her voice down. “What is it?!”

Gracie wets her lips, her eyes darting to the right and left, as she leans close.

“My middle name is Holmes,” she tells her friend quietly.

“What?” Olive gasps in a hushed voice. Then her face swiftly morphs into irritation. “And you’re only just NOW mentioning this?”

The librarian shushes her from across the room instantly and Olive looks at her apologetically. When her focus is back on Gracie again, her expression is less disgruntled and more eager. Still, Gracie starts in right away, wanting to beat her to the punch.

“It was that first day with Jones and everything in the lunchroom,” she says in a rush. “She kept calling you Holmes and I thought she meant me at first. It was so weird, but I got distracted with hitting her and just sort of forgot about it.”

Gracie stops and watches Olive for a moment. The pieces are clearly falling into place for her too as she stares back with wide, luminous eyes. Her lips are shaped into a perfect O, but she hasn’t made a sound yet. Gracie hops a little in her chair, skooching forward to its edge and placing her hands flat on the table.

“Why would Dad name me Grace Holmes Watson if your dad wasn’t important to him?” Gracie takes in a quick breath when Olive gasps loudly, her hands flying to cover her mouth.

The librarian shushes them again and Gracie smiles a timid apology this time. She nods at the librarian’s silent warning, promising they will do better and then turns back to Olive. Her friend’s face is absolutely astonished, her eyes filled with shock and wonder. Olive knows something. Gracie’s words have pulled some key observation to the front of Olive’s mind and Gracie must know what it is. Now.

Gracie opens her mouth to speak, but Olive’s lips part first. Her voice comes out shaky with emotion.

“Olivia Watson Holmes,” is all she says.

Gracie’s eyes double in size and her face goes slack. They sit for a moment in utter silence, unmoving while the world slows to a stop around them. Gracie’s body is tingling and feels like it’s floating. It is almost too much to believe, like it can’t be real. Surely their fathers must have been best friends for them to name their daughters after each other. But then what happened? How did Gracie’s dad end up in Bath and why did he never mention Sherlock?

“Gracie?” Olive’s eyes are on Gracie when her own come back into focus. Their gazes meet and both brows crease with determination. They are of one mind. There is only one way to find the answers they want.

“Google,” they say together and rise from their chairs decisively, hands planted on the table to push them up.

Minutes later they are each seated in front of a desktop computer in the library lab. As luck would have it, they even got two next to each other and in a corner where their whispers are unlikely to bother anyone. Olive is scrolling through links to article after article from ten to twelve years earlier, all of them solved by Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Meanwhile, Gracie does much the same, though she has just stumbled across a goldmine.

“I can’t believe this,” Olive murmurs in a breathy tone. “Look at all these cases. Your dad is the partner in his stories. Dad’s man, Friday. His conductor of light.”

“Oh my god,” Gracie mumbles in disbelief.

“What?” Olive crowds in next to her and reads the title of the blog on Gracie’s screen. “The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson.”

“They’re all here,” Gracie’s voice sounds far away. She just can’t believe this is all real. “All of Dad’s bedtime stories. The Mayfly Man, The Hounds of Baskerville, The Deadly Tealights, A Study in Pink. Every last one, and more.”

“What do you mean?” Olive asks in a confused tone. “These are all Dad’s cases.”

“Our dads are Sam and Dean,” Gracie stares at the screen, selecting one of the links and scanning the page rapidly.

“Sam and Dean?” Olive furrows her brow. “What are you on about?”

“Remember I told you my dad has these mystery stories that he tells me at bedtime?” Gracie turns to look at her friend urgently. “Two guys named Sam and Dean solve them all. I always thought Dean sounded kind of like Dad, but…” Her voice fades away and she looks back at the screen. “He actually is.”

“Go back to the home page,” Olive says. Gracie complies and Olive points. “Look at this one. ‘My new flatmate.’.”

They both read quickly and then eyes meet, wide with shock.

“They were flatmates,” Gracie breathes, astonished.

“No way,” Olive mutters. “No wonder your dad doesn’t want to come to my flat.”

“Wait, wait,” Gracie clicks back and scrolls, not finding what she wants. “But what happened? Why did he move away?”

She clicks on different links and they both read as their library time ticks away. With only minutes to spare, both girls sit back in their chairs, completely overwhelmed with the knowledge they now possess.

“Dad faked his own death?” Olive is dumbfounded, her face slack with shock. “He never told me that story.”

“Dad got married and just stopped,” Gracie shakes her head in disappointment. “Your dad even wrote the blog about the wedding. I just… I don’t understand. Dad obviously loved what he was doing and with his best friend too. Why would he stop?”

“All right, everyone,” Mrs. Jennings calls from the stacks. “Line up and back to class.”

The girls close their searches after clearing the histories. Olive is always on about covering their tracks. They walk to the end of the line in defeat. Their investigation turned up more questions and confusion than answers. Standing in silent thought as they wait for the line to move, Gracie makes a decision. She has to have answers.

“I can’t not know,” she says sternly, determination bright in her blue eyes. “I’m going to ask Dad about it tonight.”

“What? No!” Olive grabs her arm and Gracie turns to glare. “We can’t just ask them about it. They won’t tell us anything.”

“Then how are we supposed to find out what happened?” Gracie growls with frustration. The line begins to move and she has to turn her back on Olive to walk.

“We’ll carry out our own investigation,” Olive says in her ear. “This is our case. Our first case.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Gracie grumbles without so much as a glance backwards.

“I do,” Olive’s voice has some of its usual tenacity again. “I’ll teach you at lunch and we can talk to them tonight.”

“I don’t know,” Gracie replies hesitantly. “I’ve never done anything like this before. What if I’m no good at it?”

“Ha,” Olive huffs. “You’ll be a natural. Trust me.”

***

Gracie raises her eyes from the book propped on her chest where she lies on the couch. Lifting her chin just a bit gives her the perfect view of her father sitting in his chair with the day’s newspaper in his hands. At this point in the evening, he has it folded in half so she can easily see his face. Olive said that was of the utmost importance because Gracie will see what John doesn’t say.

Still not sure if she is ready for this, Gracie runs through the list of features to watch for. There are obvious ones like eyes and eyebrows, knee-jerk expressions that are schooled away, mouth movements. Olive went on for some time about how different ways of wetting one’s lips mean different things. Gracie had never realized there were distinctions. Then Olive went on about twitches and other such things that were lost on Gracie. Given the time, she is sure she could learn and understand quite a bit about it all, but certainly not from what little she gleaned at lunch.

Gracie looks at her father again where he sits completely unawares, his eyes moving from left to right across the words on the page before him. With a fortifying breath, she clears her throat and starts with a question she hopes to build on without giving anything away.

“Dad, how long did you have a best friend?” Gracie asks as casually as she can manage, but it comes out sounding more like she placed air quotes around the words best friend. She closes her eyes immediately, supremely disappointed with herself and then pops them open quickly to check on her father. Allowing a tiny sigh of relief upon seeing that John has not even lifted his gaze from the paper, Gracie’s confidence level bounces back up.

John is frowning in thought at the page, so he has definitely heard her. His mouth opens and he looks about to give some cursory answer, but cocks a brow and shifts his gaze to hers instead.

“What?” John replies with a tone of confusion.

“Your best friend,” Gracie continues, lowering her book to lay flat on her chest. “I know you had one.”

“Oh. Right,” John pauses, glancing back at the paper and then looking at her over the top of his reading glasses. “I feel like we talked about this already.”

“We did,” Gracie answers somewhat abruptly, not wanting to give him much time to think on that, “but you didn’t say anything. Just that you solved cases together.”

“Medical cases,” John corrects and Gracie wants to smirk as she thinks ‘Medical cases, my foot’.

“What was he like? What did he do? What’s his name?” Gracie rattles off, even as she hears Olive’s voice in her head reminding her that they can’t just walk in and demand names. Gracie nearly shudders, but hides it with the movement of pulling herself up to sit.

“Whoa, whoa,” John lowers his newspaper to let it rest in his lap. “Where is all this coming from?”

“Well,” Gracie pauses a moment to try and get her thoughts together. She has to salvage this. “Now that I have a best friend, I want to know more about yours. Did you really like him? The way I like Olive?”

“I loved him,” John answers without hesitation and he looks like the candid response surprises even himself. Gracie’s eyes widen tenfold as John clears his throat and shifts the newspaper pages noisily. “We were quite close.”

“Wow,” Gracie breathes. Now she is getting somewhere. She wonders if Olive is having this much luck with her dad. “You must’ve done everything together.”

“We spent a lot of time together, yes,” John says somewhat absently. Gracie tilts her head in amazement. He is trying to affect indifference, like the whole friendship was perfectly normal and not at all a special part of his life, and Gracie can tell. Empowered, she continues.

“Solving cases,” she nudges in a light tone.

“Working on cases,” John corrects for the umpteenth time. “Medical cases.”

“Hmm,” Gracie hums in thought. When John cocks a brow as if wondering what she is up to, Gracie moves for distraction with another question. “Did you have lots of sleepovers?”

Unabashed laughter bursts from John’s lips and the clever girl smiles to herself. Distraction successful.

“No, sweet pea,” John chuckles and then back tracks. “Well, maybe in a manner of speaking. We shared a flat, so I suppose you could say every night was a sleepover.”

“Wow. That would be so awesome,” Gracie repeats, truly in awe for a moment as she thinks of it. Living in the same flat as Olive so they could play all the time and do schoolwork together and she could help with Olive and her dad’s experiments. The thought of Sherlock brings her back around to the task at hand. She aims for idle curiosity when asking the next question. “So what happened to him?”

“Erm,” John’s body visibly gives a slight shudder and a feeling of concern begins to rise up in Gracie’s throat. She bites her lip and considers brushing the inquiry aside when John straightens in his chair. “Sometimes…things happen. Sometimes friends can hurt you. And then Mary wanted to move and we just...left.”

“So Mary wanted to go to Bath,” Gracie has never once called Mary Morstan her mother. John has always just called her Mary, so Gracie does too. It is hard for her to think of Mary as anything since she has no part in Gracie’s life. She found an old wedding photo once, but has never met the woman. “And you just went with her?”

“She was my wife, sweet pea,” John answers simply.

“Well, why didn’t you call him?” Gracie frowns. “Or text?”

“It’s hard to explain,” John sighs. “Sometimes the things adults do are hard to understand.”

“Dad,” Gracie says in a dull voice and blinks her eyes into a roll like she is already a teenager, “I’m eight and a half years old. I can totally understand complicated things and I want to know. I don’t want that to happen with me and Olive.”

“It won’t. Of that I have no doubt,” John assures her with a quiet huff of a chuckle.

Gracie shifts on the couch to face him fully and sets her book aside. Fixing him with a serious expression, she goes in for the kill, a move Olive had explained very carefully.

“You said friends can hurt you sometimes,” she begins, already seeing that her words have the desired effect. “I’m sure they don’t mean to. Can you honestly say that will never happen to me and Olive?”

John lets out a weary sigh, sets aside his newspaper and rises to join her on the couch. He looks at her with soft eyes for a long moment and smoothes back her hair. Gracie licks her lips, looking at him expectantly.

“He hurt me very badly,” John’s voice is little more than a whisper. Gracie can hear the pain and regret in it. “I tried to pretend it wasn’t there, but...it was hard. Very hard. Mary saw it. SHe didn’t like him much in the end, so she did a little looking and found us a place in Bath. We broke off everything, all communication with all of our friends in London. We started over.”

“Damn,” Gracie murmurs before she can think better of it.

“Language, Gracie,” John scolds with a fond frown.

“Sorry,” she says quickly and then pauses a moment before asking tentatively: “Mary’s gone now. She has been for a long time. Would you ever want to be friends with him again?”

John takes a deep breath and stares over her shoulder for a moment. His eyes are far away and almost wistful. She can already see his answer in his expression, but waits to see if he will put it into words.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I think I would.”

Victory.

John blinks and returns his gaze to his daughter, who is trying not to look too satisfied with her success. He smiles and pulls her into a hug, kissing the top of her head.

“It’s getting late, my Gracie girl,” John says affectionately. “We need to get you to bed.”

“Okay,” they both stand and head for the loo. “Are you going to call your best friend while I’m sleeping?”

“Ah, no,” John answers as if the proposal is absurd.

“What?” Gracie stops cold and stares up at him, looking for clues. She was sure she had solved it. Why wouldn’t he want to call Sherlock? “Why not? You said you want to.”

“It’s been too long, sweet pea,” John says almost sadly. “It’s all in the past and can’t be salvaged. It just happens that way sometimes.”

“But Dad,” Gracie starts, determined to make him see why that is stupid. John’s hands are on her shoulders now and he is gently guiding her to the loo.

“That’s enough for tonight,” he says good-naturedly. “You’ll be grumpy tomorrow if you don’t get enough sleep.”

“Dad!” Gracie lets out a loud declaration, looking back at him as she walks. “I will not be grumpy.”

“Still bedtime,” John reminds with an amused smirk. Gracie turns to face him and crosses her arms over her chest. She narrows her eyes and gives him a stern look, the bridge of her nose wrinkling.

“Fine,” Gracie mutters and quietly stomps to the sink to show her displeasure without enough defiance to get in trouble. John walks away with a half chuckle.

Gracie considers their conversation as she readies her toothbrush and brushes. Her dad would clearly like to be friends with Sherlock again. Gracie thinks he still likes him very much and Sherlock didn’t seem mean or anything when they were at the park. Plus, she has Olive’s word for it too. Why couldn’t they be best friends again?

Olive will have a plan, Gracie resolves as she spits in the sink. Once she tells her friend all about this at lunch, Olive will have a plan and they can put it into action. Satisfied, Gracie rinses her toothbrush, puts it away and heads to her room for a bedtime story.

---

No mortal danger in this story, but still so many compelling questions! What will happen?? Only The Shadow (ME) knows. Mwahahahaha! Maniacal laughter. Next couple weeks are going to be busy, but I intend to keep on my posting schedule. See you all soon! Love, Jane

@johnlock-rocks

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock loves john #john watson #johnwatson #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #sherlock fanfic #John loves Sherlock #Mystrade

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eagles-translated · 3 years

Text

Answering Eagles questions before the season 3 finale (Part 2/2)

I've received a bunch of questions since 3x08 and 3x09 dropped, so I compiled all the questions into two posts. I had to split them up because Tumblr only allows 10 images per post. Anyway, keep reading to see my answers and enjoy! 👇

There might be some kind of collaboration between Amie and Ludde like last season—we have only heard snippets of Ludde's song submission to the music school and it wouldn't surprise me if we saw Amie perform the song in its entirety in the last episode. I touched on this a little in part 1 of answering these questions.

It seems like Amie singing at the end of the season has become kind of a recurring theme. She performed “Follow” in 1x08 and “Second Sight” in 2x10 (on the radio, but my point still stands). I wouldn’t be surprised if they followed this trend by having Amie perform a new song in the season 3 finale.

I'm not sure if she'll recommend Ludde to the record label, though. I honestly still feel like Amie's whole storyline with sending in a rather basic demo written by two teenagers with little to no experience and then getting praised on it with comments such as "it's going to be a real summer hit" felt so unrealistic to me. Maybe they only said that so Amie would accept their offer or something, but that's still very strange because she would have still said yes without a doubt.

I can understand that they thought Amie was marketable as a person and there was this bonus with her having gone viral before on Felicia's Instagram, but that demo did not seem good enough for me to be immediately released as a single and then have them decide on the spot that Amie would be given a contract.

I mean, come on. It never felt earned because we never really saw Amie struggling with her songwriting journey to achieve this dream. Sending in one demo to one record label and having them immediately want to make a whole album with you just doesn't happen in real life unless the song is extremely good or you have a very unique voice. Amie is really talented but there are hundreds of people just like her, if not thousands. I was never convinced by her getting signed so quickly in season 2.

I understand that they wanted to establish her as a successful artist, but that felt so rushed. I was so sure that the record label would screw her over and steal the song rights to record it with another artist who was already established, and that we'd have to see Amie work even harder to achieve her dreams. But we didn't get that at all. Where was the struggle?

Anyway, I'm getting a little off-topic here. To be honest I have a lot of problems with the writing sometimes, even if I still love the show and its characters. Of course I wanted to see Amie achieve success (and I was happy when she did), but the journey there was so bizarrely easy.

She didn't start to seriously work on making her music career become a reality until season 2. Amie had dabbled in music prior to that, like when she auditioned for the school band and did that performance of Follow, but she didn't truly start to work towards it until season 2 when she decided to have her work sent to professionals in the business. And then, just five episodes later, she gets contacted by the record label in Stockholm.

To put this into context—season 2 took place somewhere around March, and episode 5 around three weeks into April. So when Ludde first started helping Amie it took less than two months for her to get signed. You could argue that the song was just that good or that Amie is just that talented, but it never felt like a realistic storyline to me.

So, back to your question! I need to stop getting so sidetracked while answering these haha. I don't think it would be realistic for the record label to hire a teenager with no professional songwriting experience, likely a very small portfolio of his own work in both size and variety, having a criminal record, and on top of that being infamous in the press for abusing his ex-girlfriend. If Amie offered the ultimatum to her label that she'll only return with Ludde, who has an incredibly bad reputation right now, it feels like she would be running the risk of losing the contract entirely.

There's only so much her label can put up with. We've seen Amie ignore their calls with no intention of reassuring them that she's coming back soon. Honestly, with the way things are looking right now it makes the most sense for the contract to be dropped. By Amie or by the label, I don't know.

The episode description for the season finale says that Ludde will get some sort of justice and it could be about his music (or something related to whatever Andreas is doing).

I believe Amie will be doing a live performance of Ludde's song at a New Year's Eve party in episode 10 but I doubt that Ludde will be picked up as a producer. If he actually does I would find that to be a very unrealistic plot point, to be completely honest with you.

This is an issue I had with 3x08 and 3x09 as well. I had a hard time actually enjoying the moment between Felicia, Klara, and Amie knowing that her family was getting increasingly worried for her and even thought for a short moment that Felicia was lying dead at the bottom of the ocean. All that could've been avoided.

To add, it didn't make a lot of sense to me that when Klara finally decided to call someone she called Amie instead of Elias. An ex-friend of Felicia's instead of her brother who could've helped a lot more. What was Amie supposed to do when she showed up at the hotel, exactly?

I know there was the thing with Klara only knowing Amie's number off the top of her head, but there is no reason why she couldn't have gone down to the reception while Felicia was sleeping and asked to use a computer just to get a quick message to Elias. Like, "hey, Felicia attempted something bad but she's safe with me, we're at this hotel in this room but she didn't want me to call anybody, I don't know what to do". That would've been so much better than keeping quiet about the situation for nearly 24 hours.

I know that Klara probably has trauma from leaving her dad at the hospital after his suicide attempt and that she probably didn't want to go against Felicia's wishes. I understand the first part 100%. But Felicia was in a very bad place emotionally and was thinking that her whole family hated her when that wasn't the case. I feel like in a situation like that you kind of have to be the bad guy just to ensure the family that Felicia was safe. Even if everything turned out alright in the end, it could've gone so much worse if Felicia had wanted to be kept hidden for longer.

The ending of 3x08 was super tough to watch and I can't imagine the feeling of thinking your only daughter/sister drowned herself after you just yelled at her and showed no support. Klara couldn't have known any of this, but I feel like she should've at least contacted Elias if she wasn't taking Felicia to a hospital.

Elias calling Amie would've been an easy solution to this whole debacle but we would've lost the drama. It's still somewhat of a plot hole though, like you said.

Thank you for reading that whole post @detectivejulesohara!

The clip you're referring to was posted on Yandeh Sallah's Instagram account, so not in a trailer for this season.

I think that was either just fanservice or it will appear in season 4 since it was posted in May of this year, and I believe the filming of season 3 had already wrapped by then.

It might indicate that Elias and Amie will be a couple by season 4 (this actually seems very likely regardless if this is actually part of a scene or not).

I think Elias is getting increasingly frustrated with hockey and the fact that he doesn't really have any other ambitions to strive for. He was raised with nothing but hockey surrounding him and it's in his blood. Elias got drafted to the US at around the same age as Mats, but Elias left after a year because he just wasn't progressing.

That must feel like a huge step back, and on top of that Mats was probably thriving in his successful career around the age that Elias is now. It's a tough difference in success to have weighing on your shoulders when you're in a team that's second to last in the rankings.

There's even the accusation in the press that Mats paid for Elias to advance in the rankings, and I'm sure that's going to affect his career negatively.

I think Elias overworking himself could also be the result of him feeling like he has to prove that returning to Eagles—a small club that is probably having their worst season ever—was in fact the right choice and not the death of his elite hockey career. That choice was very questionable from the very start and his agent advised against it. Even Mats found it strange. Elias said that he didn't really have a choice most likely because of the clause in his contract, but then he also claims to Mats that things just turned out that way.

Ludde: You don’t regret coming back [to Eagles]? Elias: I didn’t really have a choice.

The idea that he didn't have a choice in the matter doesn't seem accurate. His agent told him there were other alternatives like Jokerit (a professional ice hockey team based in Helsinki, Finland) and that they could find something better than Eagles. Elias seemed kind of defeated already and the decision to return to Eagles didn't feel thought-through at all. It's almost like he just didn't care.

Agent: [...] Jokerit has called and I’ve had a great conversation with them, so they’re on. Elias: You know what? Let’s skip all the trouble. Let’s go with Eagles, it’ll be great. Agent: What? Elias: I’m so tired of moving all the time anyway, plus I’ll be close to my family. Agent: Wait, I thought that you— Eagles has big economical problems, and… Sorry, but their season started awfully. We can get a better team. You understand, right? Elias: Yeah, but we can’t get a team that needs me as much. Plus— If they say they want to see development, I’ll give them that. Agent: Wait— They’re under the line. We’re talking about qualifying down directly. You can’t in earnest believe you’ll change that on your own. Elias: It’s perfect. I’ll only go up, as you like to say.

It also seems like he's maybe realizing that hockey isn't everything and that there are other things he might want to explore and pursue in his life. I think Elias is feeling kind of stuck right now. He's been training his whole life for one purpose which is a professional career in hockey, and maybe he feels like Mats wouldn't allow him to quit. That option doesn't exist to him.

Like you said, Mats had that comment where he labeled Ludde a "quitter" and Elias stressed the fact that there shouldn't be anything wrong with losing interest and deciding to pursue something else.

Mats: Can you imagine that he’s just quitting? I mean, I’m completely— He really didn’t strike me as a quitter. So fucking close. [...] Elias: [...] Ludde, he’s… He’s not a quitter, he’s just didn’t want it anymore. That should be fair.

However, quitting is seen as failure to Mats. Mats dropped everything when he got drafted. He left his relationship with Petra seemingly without a second thought, because hockey comes before everything for Mats. Felicia even mentioned back in season 1 how her father was just a voice in a telephone for most of her childhood. He barely had any presence in her life because he was busy with hockey.

When Klara tells Elias that he's always putting hockey first, he gets angry but he doesn't outright deny it. In fact, he kind of changes the subject to shift attention away from Klara's claim.

Klara: This— You haven’t changed at all. You’re always putting yourself first. Elias: Excuse me? Klara: Yes, it’s either you or hockey. Elias: Stop! What the— Klara: I can’t take this. Elias: Are you leaving now? I wasn’t the only one you dumped. You’ve been acting like shit to Felicia. Yeah, and Amie and Ludde too, for that matter. You haven’t thought about that? So don’t come here and say I’m the egoist.

This is kind of an interesting thought—that maybe Elias subconsciously knew that was Klara is saying is true to some degree and that he has been putting hockey first. He decided to get on the train to the draft combine in Seattle instead of staying with Klara, and a year later he realizes that things didn't turn out the way that he'd planned and he returns to Eagles.

Maybe Elias is trying so hard to be someone who he just isn't, and it's affecting so many aspects of his life negatively. He lost Klara, he had to repeat almost his whole last year in high school because of moving to the US, and now he seems to be stuck in Oskarshamn. He's previously expressed to Amie that this isn't necessarily where he wanted to end up.

Elias: [...] Hey, is it just me or is there something about this town that… It sort of feels like no matter how much you try to get away, it… It pulls you back somehow.

It's kind of strange that he doesn't want to be in Oskarshamn, and yet he was the one who chose to return. Maybe he somehow feels like he has some purpose there because it keeps pulling him back. He just doesn't know what that purpose is.

Elias tried coming back to Eagles to turn things around for them, and they did win a game against the Capitals but that victory was later tarnished by the fight that broke out between the two teams (and to add to this, the loss of Ludde who used to be one of the star players and Klara as a sponsor). That kind of overshadowed their whole victory. Elias was very determined to do something to help and it very much feels like he needs Eagles to succeed—he needs to sort of "redeem" himself.

Elias: [...] Can I do anything? Can I go talk to— I could go talk to the sponsor. Mats: Let’s deal with it later. I’ll solve this. You have to go to school now. Elias: But we can finish talking— Mats: You can— No. Try to think of something else. Alright?

I think that Elias's desperation for Eagles to do well could absolutely lead to him eventually deciding to be a coach. He doesn't really seem to want the life that Mats had after seeing how success turned out for him—a broken family that he barely cares about because hockey occupies his mind more than caring for his children or repairing the relationship with Leila.

I think Elias being a hockey coach could suit him, but I would also love to see him exploring things outside of hockey—maybe even his interests outside of sport entirely.

I kind of agree with you on this. Klara has apologized to Felicia and been forgiven, but we've never seen her properly apologize to Amie for filming that video of her and posting it on social media. Amie and Ludde were in the wrong, yes, but that video being posted was humiliating for both of them. They had to deal with the ramifications of that for months after with the whole school judging them in silence.

To be fair, the video was posted a long time ago in the show's time frame (nearly two years ago if I'm right?) and they all kind of moved on from it. To add to this, maybe she felt it would've been kind of awkward to apologize with Felicia in the room.

Felicia was so hurt by that video being posted and I think it would feel very weird for her that Klara would apologize for posting the video when it's the sole reason Felicia found out what had been done to her. Without that video, she would've probably gone a few more months without being told what happened at the Halloween party.

I'm waiting for a Klara and Amie reconciliation in this season finale. I feel like this is something that should be discussed between just the two of them, and maybe they'll sneak in some blessing from Klara with the whole budding Elias and Amie relationship? I'd be happy with just a reconciliation, though, but I'm unsure if we'll get one. I have a feeling they'll start the season finale with a time jump and I don't know if Klara is even going to be in Oskarshamn by that time.

If we don't see them reconnecting in the season finale I will be pretty disappointed, to be honest.

Thank you! I really appreciate you too @lunawedlers (your gifsets are absolutely magical)!

This question was sent in a while ago but as season 3 had just started airing I was very excited to see the development of Elias and Amie, mostly because the director had been hinting on Twitter that something would happen between them this season. I've been really interested in them ever since 1x03 and so far the wait has been worth it.

I think all episodes have great visuals, but if I had to pick one I would probably say 3x06. All those shots of Elias and Amie on the walk through the park, the drone shots, and then the view from that bench spot were so gorgeous visually. That answer is more of a scene rather than a whole episode haha, but I think they really made the beauty of Oskarshamn stand out in those shots.

I think Amie will have some sort of performance in the final episode of a new song and that Elias will be watching her! After reading the episode description for the final episode and seeing that there will probably be some New Year's Eve party going on, I have a feeling that Amie will be performing. She's always had a performance of a new song in every season finale and this one should be no exception.

They tricked us a little in the season 3 trailer with us thinking that Elias would be at one of Amie's concerts in Stockholm, but now I'm sure that this scene fits in at the New Year's Eve party.

I think we should keep our expectations low for a kiss between Elias and Amie. They just started developing their relationship, and I like the slow pace they're going in. They're not rushing anything. I also have this feeling that their development has deliberately been so slow because they're sort of "saving the best for last".

Elias and Amie are fan favorites and their relationship has been very talked-about from the beginning. I can see the writers maybe having decided to push their relationship more towards the end of the show, which is why we haven't really gotten any Elias and Amie content until now. That's frustrating if you're impatient and I've seen some people thinking that maybe Elias and Amie won't happen at all, but I don't think we need to worry at all. The fact that Elias and Amie's development has been so slow should indicate that they're much more likely to be endgame.

A kiss in episode 10 could definitely happen, but I don't know. Maybe they'll drag it out further. As I've said before, if they don't get one in season 3 they will absolutely be getting one in season 4. I've noticed that it's always best to keep your expectations low when it comes to this couple.

The episode description for the season finale said this about Elias, which some have interpreted to be about Amie.

New Year’s Eve is here. [...] But is Elias brave enough to say what everyone else already knows?

This could mean anything, really. I'm actually leaning more towards this being about an individual thing rather than Amie being involved. It could be about Elias admitting that he's been overworking himself and not eating properly, or coming clean about the fact that maybe he doesn't want a career in hockey. This is something that everyone else already knows, so I think it might be about hockey.

Felicia has observed the overworking, Mats has told him to stop with it, and Ludde might've had some inkling about it while he was still on the team. Even Amie has probably also noticed that he's been spending a lot of time at the gym lately.

I could absolutely be wrong about this though.

Thank you for the question @lunawedlers!

This is a hard one because season 3 has had so many strong episodes already, and usually my favorite episode ends up being the season finale because it's basically the culmination of the whole season. I really loved 2x10 for this very reason since the ending montage was so well done.

If I had to pick between 3x01 - 3x09 though I would probably have to say it's a tie between 3x04 — Date night and 3x05 — Wounds! These two episodes showcased what Eagles should be all about so well, which is relationships plus the struggles you go through as a teenager in a small town, and then of course hockey. The hockey game episodes are really good, even if I don't think 3x05 topped 2x05 (the game where Ludde got tackled and knocked out).

I loved the contrast in Date night of the budding relationship between Elias and Amie and then that fight between Felicia and Ludde on the cliff. That whole scene between Felicia and Ludde on the cliff was actually really beautiful, especially when the sun had gone down.

It was interesting to see how this sweet gesture from Felicia turned into a fight between the two of them. I thought that was very realistic, because no matter how big of a gesture Felicia made to apologize there were still underlying problems that they needed to talk about.

I also loved the "non-date" between Elias and Amie in this episode. It was cute to see them goofing off before the movie started and then talking about it on the way home. I liked how Elias could connect to her on how they had both returned to Oskarshamn.

The recent episodes that dropped last week (3x08 and 3x09) were very strong and discussed some important subject matters, but I had a few problems with them that I discussed in a question above. They were dark, but not necessarily bad because they needed to happen.

However, I have to say that I prefer Eagles when it's about hockey and teenage relationships. 3x04 and 3x05 made me kind of nostalgic for season 1 and I liked the vibe they both had.

I agree, but I think we could maybe get a combination of both! Relationships can have all these romantic and sweet traits like you described, but also be more passionate and show public displays of affection.

I think Elias and Amie fit the more laid-back and sweet characteristics, but we have yet to really see what Amie is like in a relationship. We've seen her with a crush on Ludde and we got a glimpse of that thing she had with Robin (which was apparently a relationship but I did not pick up on that at all), but we don't really know what Amie is like in a relationship. Maybe she's never really had a "real" one, either.

Nevertheless, I'm excited to see what's in store for Elias and Amie. I'm very positive that they will eventually become a couple in season 4.

#eagles svt #svt eagles #after writing this i kind of want to do a separate post discussing the writing in eagles because i have a lot more to say about it

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thecandywrites · 3 years

Text

The Beginning of Stormbreaker Part 2

So cute.

Part 2

Rhosland woke up just before sunrise, bright eyed and energized and couldn’t wipe the giddy smile off her face if she tried as she and her twin sister left right at sunrise just as their mother finished baking the overnight bread, and also conveniently just after Drad and Sarg came and delivered more “gifts” to them, Sarg gave Esri a fishing net and fishing lures and lines along with a big set of big baskets so they could keep the fish and whatever else they foraged together as Drad gave each of them the stone timber axes, and a large, thick quilt blanket, so large it would cover three bedrolls. Each square was stuffed with cotton, wool and down feathers so that each square was puffy in the quilt so that they would not get cold in their tent just in case the bitter cold of fall and winter came early, which the girls happily took and hugged those men goodbye as Drad and Sarg helped push as the girls pulled their rowboat to the biggest stream as the women rowed their little boat down the stream that cut through the village, underneath all the bridges and soon were out to sea before they rowed it north towards Hurricane Breaker until they found the estuary between Skull Screamer Clan and Hurricane Breaker and rowed upstream, happily finding all kinds of fish and seafood in the creeks before they found the perfect camping spot right on the edge of a forest next to a fallen tree that was the perfect bench height and set up camp and ate the fish they were able to easily catch for breakfast with their bread that thier mother had sent them with.

“So you must have had really good dreams last night, you won’t stop smiling.” Esri teased her sister even though she was in a similar state.

“I did,” Rhos nodded.

“Well go on, tell me about them.” Esri requested as she scooted closer to her sister as they sat on a fallen log by their camp fire since they had pulled the little row boat up on shore and the log had been covered in wild, edible mushrooms which the girls readily cut off and were in the process of drying them to preserve them while eating a few of them, cooked in their pot over the fire with their breakfast since one of their bride gifts from the clan had been a few logs of smoked and preserved fat as they had sliced off a few pieces of the cow and hog fat and fried the mushrooms in that in their pot which only made the mushrooms taste even more meatlike.

“I had a dream that Drad came back from the raid and claimed me as his wife instead of Tar and we built the most perfect house together and we had so many kids and we were just...so happy. And it’s like my intuition is telling me that it will come true.” Rhosland whispered, afraid that if she said it too loudly it would tempt the fates and not come true.

“That’s funny, because I had a similar dream about Sarg.” Esri beamed.

“Oooh, and?” Rhos giggled.

“Oh, very good, I had a dream we sailed out to sea on this big sailing ship and that rocking of the boat made the rutting so much better.” Esri giggled in turn.

“Do you think it will come true?” Rhosland asked.

“It better! Cause my mind and heart keep telling me it will come true, plus they were both there to see us off and got us both gifts to help us on this hunting and gathering trip and just hugging Sarg this morning felt...amazing.” She insisted with a wistful sigh.

“Me too, but with Drad obviously.” Rhosland confirmed as the girls continued to eat to their satisfaction for the first time in a long time.

“Come on, I have a good feeling that we will kill some deer today, we should build a smoker to smoke the meat.” Rhos suggested as they used their new axes and chopped down a good stone timber tree and other kinds of trees and began building a really good smoker out of the wood before they fashioned the bigger baskets to hang off of their hips and immediately started finding all kinds of wild edible berries, cattails and other wild edible plants, edible mushrooms all around them and so many different kinds of herbs for seasoning and medicine and even an abandoned bee hive full of combs, thick with honey which they gladly took all of it that they could reach and harvest before they shot down a couple of deer and drug the deer back to camp and immediately got to work dressing them and putting their meat in the smoker and tanning their hides and then used the net and caught a bunch of fish, gutted and cleaned them and put those in the smoker too.

It was single handedly the best day they had ever spent gathering because this spot had an overabundance for them and they quickly had to use the dried grasses to make bushel sized baskets for all that they harvested since all the baskets that they had packed were now full as they sat on the log, watching the gorgeous red sunset and just about the time they got done weaving their new baskets and organizing everything into those baskets and put it all inside the tent just as the sun went down- a very thick fog came in from the sea with a chill and settled over them as Rhos and Esri both instinctively went into their tent and rested and for dessert, dined on the honey that they dipped their wild berries into before falling into a restful, sweet sleep, curled up under the wonderfully big, thick, and supremely warm blanket that kept the cold completely off of them as suddenly the winds kept changing in the most bizarre way, blowing in different directions so that it felt like it was blowing in from all sides and picking up speed, making the smoke of their fires take up an odd pattern within the fog itself before it blew in heavily towards from the west again, inland from the sea.

Meanwhile Tar was disappointed that “his Rosey” had already left for a hunting and gathering trip, so he couldn’t try to lay with her real quick before the raid, he was celebrating as if he had already had a successful raid and noticed that a thick fog blew in that evening but that didn’t deter him or his father or the rest of his family. The next morning, the fog was still excessively thick. So much so that they could barely see the road from their houses but Zash and his sons felt confident in their ability to still use their inner compass and that the fog would conceal them and that they would attack the Rush Fang Clan completely by surprise and it would guarentee their victory over them and set off with their men that morning and disappeared into the unusually thick fog while Orcoth had promised Sarg and Drad that he would keep a careful watch over their mother Grat and Rhos’ and Esri’s mother Shari and assured both women that they would see their children again soon as the three of them kept to themselves as Grat invited Shari to stay with her while her daughters would be away so the two would not get lonely which Shari greatly appreciated as Grat also invited Orcoth to stay as well, to play games and enjoy each other’s company since Grat’s house that Wolvish had built her was still big enough to fit all of them comfortably.

However- Zash and his sons got hopelessly lost and turned around several times, not even recognizing their own walking paths in the tall grass in the thick fog that soon enveloped them and their raiding party as Zash and his sons were adamant that the fog would clear and that they would find Rush Fangs and ignored and rebuked and rebutted any who had left signs along their path to show that they had been walking in circles before Zash felt confident that he was turning Southeast, when in fact, he was turned Northwest and heading straight towards the much bigger and more fearsome Hurricane Breaker.

And when the fog did partially clear, they found Hurricane Breaker, their bright golden bronze breast plates glinting in what little sunlight finally was able to push through. Whose shaman had sensed that they were coming and were ready for them and were outnumbering them twenty to one as Drad and Sarg both looked worriedly at each other when they saw that their comparatively smaller raiding party was completely surrounded before the fog quickly enveloped them all again as the clash of warriors played out as Drad did everything in his power to keep Sarg by his side after he saw Tar and everyone in Tar’s family fall to the ground dead from the fatal blows, before he smelled...smoking venison with a hint of smoking fish as the words of his new adopted father Orcoth replayed in his head but it was like he was the only one who could smell it and by this point Sarg and Drad were both injured, almost fatally so and knocked off their horses, as Drad took Sarg on his injured side while Sarg did the same, pushing their injured sides together so they could use their good sides to manage to get out of there and Drad followed his nose in the smell, as the scent itself seemed to be in a wiggly pattern but the wiggly pattern helped both of them avoid the other warriors of Hurricane Breaker as the fog itself was so thick they could barely see their hands in front of their faces but kept them practically invisible as Drad continued to slowly and as quietly as possible, follow the smells as Drad could pick up more on the scent of smoking venison while Sarg could smell the scent of smoking fish stronger as they both followed the same trail of scents until the scent led them out of the warzone and the father away they got, the lighter the fog became so that they could see more and smell more and by now, the scent was very strong and it gave them hope that they were close as they both hobbled towards it and just as the fog thinned out even more, they saw a camp sight, just as Rhosland and Esri were leaving a tent and Drad had never thought Rhosland looked more beautiful in his life.

“Drad?” Rhos asked when she and her sister were brave enough to leave their tent when they woke up to the sounds of a battle as their instincts told them to stay in the tent because it sounded like it was very close by before the sounds faded as if the war zone was traveling farther and farther away before they ventured out, only to be met with the sight of Drad and Sarg, both trying to hold up the other and trying to walk despite their injuries.

“Rhosland! Help me!” Drad called out to her as she and Esri quickly dropped their axes and ran towards them and helped them back into their tent as a pop up thunderstorm came and started raining and washing Drad and Sarg’s bloody trail away before moving towards the east on the western wind again as Rhosland and Esri both got to work cleaning and dressing Drad and Sarg’s wounds with the herbs that they had found and were turning them into poultices.

“What are you doing here? I thought you guys were supposed to be raiding Rush Fang.” Rhos asked worriedly as she worked on stabilizing Drad’s wounds and to stop him from bleeding out right there in their tent, calling on all of her medical knowledge she had acquired up until that point to help her do so.

“We lost our way in the fog, got turned around several times over but Zash and his sons wouldn’t listen to anyone about it and the fog was so thick, we couldn’t tell where the sun was, let alone where we were going.” Drad answered in staggered breaths.

“The fog was so thick we couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces and Zash wouldn’t hear of any objections to waiting until the fog cleared to go raiding because they were sure that the fog would help us, instead of hinder us.” Sarg added as he hissed and then grunted and whimpered as Esri set his arm back into place then used a piece of wood and a strip of cloth from her skirts to tie it off to keep it straight as she then used her fishing line to sew up the bigger wounds after cleaning them off through the poultices and their left over cleaned water that they had boiled to make tea with as Rhos was doing the same to Drad’s ankle that he had somehow rolled and twisted.

“So how did that turn out?” Rhosland asked.

“I watched as Zash and all of his sons fell, their heads rolling away from their bodies. It was only the smoke of your smoking the venison that I smelled that I followed that saved us, I don’t know if anyone else will survive.” Drad answered honestly as he was hissing and biting back curses as Rhos was doing her best to heal him and set his ankle right and stitch up his bloody leg that had been hacked almost to the bone as she tried to put the blood vessels and veins back together as she pushed them together and stitched it shut.

“The venison.” Rhos and Esri both said in unison as they realized that that scent could lead Hurricane Breaker to them too before they heard hoof beats in the distance.

“Don’t make a sound.” Rhos and Esri both breathed in a whisper to Sarg and Drad before they quickly left the tent and took the fishing net and ran towards the river to wash the blood off their clothes before they were surrounded by a group of shield maidens only moments after the blood washed away from them and their campsite and was carried downstream, the blood dissolving completely into the river. Once they saw that Rhos and Esri were unarmed but simply in water up to their chests and barely grunt sized orcs, they assumed that Esri and Rhosland were younglings, barely subadults, struggling with a fishing net as they came to the conclusion that Rhos and Esri posed no threat whatsoever and noticed the axes were purely for cutting down trees, not warfare and thus, they were unarmed which put them at ease.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” The captain Tilge, a shieldmaiden herself demanded.

“My name is Rhosland and this is my twin sister Esri, we are on a hunting and gathering trip, we are from the Skull Screamer Clan, but we didn’t see any markers on this land and thought this was unclaimed and neutral land, did we miss a marker or something?” Rhosland asked innocently enough.

“No, this is unclaimed and neutral land, because mosquitoes and malaria are thick here. So you should be careful. But are you aware that the Skull Screamer Clan attacked us?” Tilge asked them.

“Who’s us? I assume you’re talking about Hurricane Breaker? Skull Screamer was not supposed to attack you, everyone knows you are much bigger and fiercer clan than even Typhoon Breaker, Zash and his raiding party were supposed to raid Rush Fang which is in the Southeast, that’s what Zash and all his sons were talking about in the great hall two days ago when we left Skull Screamer to come here to go on our fall hunting and gathering trip, we specifically chose this spot because it was in the opposite direction they were supposed to be headed, you can ride to Skull Screamer now and ask our mother, Shari- she is a widow and has no husband or son to raid so that just leaves my sister and I to take care of her, she lives in the mud and mud brick hut right on the outskirts of town. If Skull Screamer came against you, the only thing I can think of is that they must have gotten lost in the fog, once the fog came in from the sea, my sister and I took shelter in our tent and we’ve only come out once we heard the roar of the fight die down.” Rhos explained nonchalantly as Tilge could tell by the way Rhosland was speaking along with her body language that she was speaking truth and trusted her words.

“We are Hurricane Breaker, and my name is Captain Tilge, and you’re correct. Skull Screamer did attack us and they were clearly lost and must have been out of their minds to do so. Have you seen any of your warriors come towards you? Because the scent of the smoking venison is what brought us to you.” Tilge answered.

“No, only you, at least so far.” Esri answered as she and Rhosland both shook their heads no with a shrug as they focused on getting the net into position to try and catch something in the water.

“So since we pose no threat, might we be friends? The fish that we caught earlier should be done smoking by now, would you like some?” Rhosland asked as she and her sister managed to catch a school of fish in their net before they came up on shore, dragging their catch behind them in the net so that Tilge and the other shieldmaidens could see that they were small, still developing and obviously young and far from dangerous.

“Yes, thank you.” Tilge smiled as she and her group dismounted and let the horses graze nearby as they all took a seat on the big log by the fire as Esri and Rhosland took out the now smoked fish and the smaller pieces of smoked venison replaced them with the new fish they caught after quickly gutting them and gave the shieldmaidens the smoked fish and the smaller pieces of smoked venison as they all enjoyed a nice impromptu meal, using the big, broad leaves of a nearby plant as plates as Esri and Rhosland were sharing what they had gathered so far and casually picked up their stone timber axes and let them lean against the log, between them and the tent and sat with the shield maidens, and felt an uncommon ease and calm in their beings so as not to give any suspicion that they were hiding anything.

As they shared a meal, Tilge and her other shieldmaidens began sharing with Esri and Rhosland more secrets about the land that they were on, about where to find good mushrooms and what they looked like and what they tasted like and herbs and especially where to find the best shellfish which was in the biggest river more north, closer to Hurricane Breaker as Tilge promised Rhos and Esri that they would tell the rest of the army and the clan that Rhos and Esri were here and to leave them alone and to give them a wide berth in order so that they could hunt successfully and take care of their widowed mother and that they meant no harm which Rhos and Esri greatly appreciated.

Tilge even told Rhos how there was a wild rose bush nearby that should be blooming and a special group of trees that had special nuts that were very oily, that they called Butternut because once you ate the delicious fruit and found the big nut inside, and crushed and ground up the nuts into a paste and cooked the nut paste, their oil would come pouring out and once it got skimmed the oil from the paste and the oil got cold and solidified, it looked like butter and it was really great for making soap with and that they could make wild rose soap with it since that’s what Tilge and the other women in Hurricane Breaker did when they wanted to smell nice and also found the wild citronella weed and told them about the five other bee hives around them that they could get honey and then use the wax from the hives and the crushed up citronella into an oil to make a special candle that would keep the mosquitoes away too before they told Rhos and Esri about the old cursed cave made of stone that was nearby that was most definitely haunted and not to go anywhere near there and Rhos gave Tilge one of the pearl necklaces she was wearing to signify their friendship and alliance that Tilge happily accepted as Esri gave Tilge one of her carved shell totem bracelets as Tilge gave them a citronella candle to keep them safe from the mosquitos and the malaria that the mosquitos carried and agreed to the alliance as well before Tilge and her warband of shieldmaidens left in peace and happiness with full bellies as the fog soon fully lifted and cleared as they went back to the warzone to pillage from the fallen as those who didn’t fall had run home to tell everyone else the news of the defeat as Rhos and Esri came back into the tent.

“Thank you so much, you handled them perfectly, I doubt they suspected a thing.” Drad thanked Rhosland once she came back in to see him sitting there, with his weapons in hand just in case Tilge and her shield maidens had poked their noses into the tent and once he saw that it was Rhos and Esri, he and his brother put their weapons down and off to the side.

“You’re welcome, how are you feeling?” She asked.

“Much better, those herbs are helping so much, they’re taking most of the pain away. We would have been lost for sure without you. Thank you.” Drad thanked her.

“You’re welcome.” Rhos offered as she continued to dress his remaining wounds as Drad and his brother tried to take off their broken armor and most of their clothes so that their many wounds could be attended to before Drad got into his pack and gave Rhosland the rose scented soap.

“For you.” He said as he offered it to her as she took it and unwrapped it and smiled when the wonderful scent soon bloomed in their tent as she could clearly see the dried pink rose petals in the soap itself.

“Rose scented soap.” Rhos smiled and couldn’t help but laugh before she used it to help clean his wounds so that they wouldn’t get dirty as the cloth it was wrapped in made the best wash cloth, soft and fine enough to wash the wounds without ripping or damaging them.

“Thank you.” Rhos offered as she was cleaning off his back.

“You were supposed use it on yourself though.” Drad offered even though the scent was heavenly and having her dress his wounds was surprisingly intimate this time since it was just the four of them.

“I will, but your wounds need to be cleaned first, I can’t lose you to infection or gangrene.” Rhos gently countered.

“If I survived an unwitting attack on Hurricane Breaker, I doubt anything can ever take me from you from now on.” Drad managed to say as Esri’s jaw was on the floor of the tent as she looked to Rhos who was frozen again, but instead of it being fear, it was just pleasant surprise before Rhos simply smiled and leaned forward and pulled him back so he was leaning against her chest and pulled his face to the side and claimed his mouth with her own as her answer as that seemed to settle the matter before she had him sit back up so she could finish cleaning him up as she brushed off any dirt or debris from the bed so he could lay back down and rest as Esri had done the same since the bedrolls were side by side before she got out and went to gather more water before she heard Esri’s giggle before Esri came back out.

“And?” Rhos asked as they came back to the river to get fresh water and dump the now dirty water away.

“And my dream came true, just like yours did.” Esri giggled as they got their new empty baskets and went over to the bigger river with the net and found it was teaming with giant mussels, scallops, clams, little lobsters and crabs and other shellfish as both girls used their hunting knives to knock the mussels free from where they were anchored and put them in the baskets that were now practically overflowing before they found a giant catfish in a hole in the water and caught it and killed it and dragged it towards their camp site and started cleaning them up.

When they opened the giant clams and mussels and found all of the mussels completely laden with all these huge, beautiful, bright pearls of all colors but mostly of gold, peacock, black, purple, pink and blue pearls, pink pearls were a sign of passion, but also the deeper the pink and the closer to red, meant signs for a male child, made in love and passion. Purple pearls were was a sign of prosperity and wealth of resources like food, clothing and shelter, gold pearls meant tangible wealth, like gold and other riches. Peacock pearls meant multifaceted protection and care, especially between a bonded pair. Blue pearls were a sign of wisdom and insight, black pearls meant independence and strength, as even most of the clams had pearls too as both girls happily took them and quickly put all the pearls into their pockets which were threatening to overflow before tossing the meat in the pot to cook up a seafood stew again, using what was left of the herbs as flavoring and the other smoked fish to make a good broth before they loaded up their bowls and brought it inside to Drad and Sarg gratefully ate it and sucked it down but refused to eat any more until the girls had their fill which Rhos and Esri appreciated as they did and Drad and Sarg happily ate the rest as Rhos and Esri washed all the pearls that had been in them before they each presented the biggest and finest of the pearls to Drad and Sarg so they wouldn’t have to go home empty handed which Drad and Sarg happily agreed to accept before the girls brought the deer hides into the entrance of the tent to sleep on those so that Drad and Sarg could continue to sleep on their bed rolls comfortably while the large blanket was barely big enough to fit over the four of them sleeping like that.

“Drad?” Rhos whispered once Sarg and Esri had fallen asleep and were softly snoozing.

“Yeah?” He answered, keeping his voice to a whisper too.

“How did you know to follow the scent of smoking venison?” Rhos asked.

“Rhos, I care for you enough to never lie to you.” Drad began.

“I trust you enough to know that you never would either.” Rhos answered as Drad smiled as softly as Rhos did the same in the darkness.

“Two nights ago, right after we parted from the marsh, an old shaman by the name of Orcoth came into the village, he was hobbling and obviously in pain as he walked and I helped him, I took him to my home and he gave me that rose scented soap and he said that it was what I had promised to give you in my heart which only a shaman with great magic could have discerned that, even though I had wanted to give you more than just one bar, I had wanted to get you a whole case but just that one bar was all I needed at the moment and he told me that the day of the raid, that it would be so foggy that I wouldn’t be able to find my way, but that the scent of smoking venison would, and that if I followed the scent, I would find salvation. And that’s exactly what happened. Zash and all of his sons were arguing and bickering the whole time and our whole party got turned around several times so that we didn’t know what way was up and the others were getting irritated by the confusing leadership and then when the fog cleared up partially, it revealed that we were completely surrounded and outnumbered at least twenty to one and then the fog closed in on us as did Hurricane Breaker. And I was just swinging blindly before I got knocked off my horse as did Sarg and once I was on the ground I just kept trying to keep Sarg at my back and when we both got partially cut down, I caught the whiff of your smoking venison and Orcoth’s words were called back to my mind and so Sarg and I followed the scent of the venison, it had the most bizarre route in the fog but in hindsight, the route kept us out of sight and sound of the rest of Hurricane Breaker and just as the scent got strongest and straightened out, we were far away from the warzone and when the fog partially lifted, we were here.” Drad confessed as Rhos remembered the wind in the fog the night before and how the wind had seemed to come in from all sides as she realized now, that it was fate, that even when Zash and Tar led their raiding party astray, that Orchoth knew how to save Drad and knew that because Drad had been so kind and hospitable, that- that, is what saved his life and Sarg’s life and led them straight to Esri and herself. And only a shaman with the gift of true prophecy would have been able to predict that.

“Well when we get back, I’ll have to meet him and thank him for giving you a prophecy that saved not just your life but Sarg’s as well which I know Esri would be lost without him.” Rhos offered.

“You will, we adopted each other. He said he had already lost all of his sons and readily adopted me and I- him, after he gave me the soap and told me about today.” He answered.

“Do you think anyone else in Zash’s raiding party made it?” Rhos asked thoughtfully.

“I don’t know, I don’t think so.” Drad answered.

“Well I hope Shadi and Baka have sons then, because otherwise Skull Screamer will be leaderless.” Rhos pointed out tiredly as Drad realized she had a point and realized that if Sarg and himself could get back and as long as no one else in Zarsh’s personal warband had lived, since Drad was himself second in command to Tar who was first born, that he was now the highest ranking survivor and they could claim the status of Warchief and Warlord of the clan and Orcoth would be the clan’s shaman since the other had been killed since Zash had taken his own with him and had died right alongside him.

Drad realized he could actually start a new clan, with whatever was left of Skull Screamer and whoever else wanted to join, with Rhos as his wife and warchieftess, his one and only. Even if Shadi and Baka ruled in Tar’s place until their sons grew of age. He could start his own clan. All he needed was a name. It needed to be big and grand and fill those who were part of it- with confidence. And those who weren’t, with fear. Something not at all realated to Skull Screamer but something Breaker. Hurricane Breaker was already taken. So was Typhoon Breaker. So...storm? Stormbreaker? Yes. Stormbreaker, that sounded right in his head as he smiled happily and fell asleep to a dream like fantasy of being Clan Chief or even a Warchief, of Rhos being his Clan Chieftess or even Warchieftess and felt confident that it would work, all he need to do was heal, which judging by the way his wounds were already healing faster with Rhos’ medicine than they normally would was the best sign that she would continue to heal him and care for him.

#Of Heaven and Fire Prequel #The Beginning of Stormbreaker Part 2 #orcs #orc love story #orctober 2021

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angelofthebau · 3 years

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Your Majesty [Part One of Three]

Aaron Hotchner x Female OC/Reader

Word Count: 3204

This town is full of gangs, it always has been, but one woman is in charge of them all. When the BAU team are called onto a dangerous poisoning case, the PD captain tries to reject their help. But the team aren’t leaving, and they’re going to be dragged into a bizarre town with a interesting queen who seems to have taken a shine to the BAU Chief.

Angel Note: I already began this story using smaller parts, but the second part somehow got deleted (thanks Tumblr). So I’ve rewrote it. I am still taking my Tumblr break, but this was a request that I really wanted to do.

Jet briefings were always the worst. They meant that time was of the essence, an unsub desperately unravelling further at each moment, but the case that the BAU were about to be thrown into was far more complex and dark than they could have initially thought. True, it was already dark enough - as Penelope Garcia explained over the video feed from back in her ‘cave’ in Quantico - three children and two teenagers dying of mysterious causes, all in quick succession, with no link between them available to see at the local PD’s surface view.

‘Eight year old Susanna Rose, six year old Jaxon King, eleven year old Jessica Baker, sixteen year old Michael Barren and nineteen year old Austin Rivers. All lived in different parts of town, Susanna and Jaxon went to the same school, Jessica went to a different school just outside of town. Austin worked at a gas station and she still lived with her parents, and Michael was in high-school with no job,’

Going back and forth over the case file, agents Prentiss, Jareau, Rossi, Morgan, Hotchner and Dr Reid threw around possible links and early theories. The possibility of an unknown disease was thrown out by the local PD, due to none of the family members from the victims’ households becoming sick. An interesting toxicology report on Susanna, Jaxon and Jessica found an unusual concoction of substances within their system. The ME was still finishing their report on Austin and Michael, but they were betting the same mixture would show up too. A lethal, rare compound of chemicals that created havoc on the human nervous system and causing the body to attack itself, eventually shutting down completely. A poison.

“We’re landing,” Hotch interrupted the conversation, hushing it to a silence as the plane descended.

“Detective Mills, it’s a pleasure to have you here,” Mills greeted the two agents with an outstretched hand as they walked into the precinct. He was met with a firm handshake from the BAU chief.

From the back of the precinct, Captain Halloway happened to glance up from the case file, catching the end of Mills’ handshake with a stranger. A suit. Tailored. Serious. FEDs.

“SSA Hotchner and Jareau,” Hotch spoke lowly, accepting the formality. “The rest of my team are with the ME and the latest victims’ family,”

“Mills,” Halloway bellowed, striding over to his detective and the two FEDs, a scornful look plastered on his features.

Mills flinched as the Captain stopped beside him, facing the agents.

“Captain Halloway,” He introduced himself. “I’m sorry, Agents. We have this case handled,” Halloway spoke sternly, before turning towards Mills. “What did I tell you about calling the god-damned FBI?”

Mills’ mouth fluttered open and closed, like a fish, as Halloway stared him down.

“Sir, with due respect, this case is incredibly time-sensitive and my team has agreed to be at your disposal,” Hotch interrupted, sensing the tension.

“This is still your case, we are just here as a resource to stop more people from being killed,” Jareau soothed.

“No-one else is going to be killed, agents. Apologies for your wasted journey, but things are under control here,”

“Captain, how can you be sure that you have this handled?” Hotch questioned, his arms crossed against his chest, his face smouldering.

“Agents, you don’t know this town. I can assure you, this is being taken care of,”

“Why is there information missing from your case file? Surely, if this case is being taken care of, then you have a suspect, or a lead, or something more than what’s in this file,”

JJ held up the dull, thin file. Halloway took a sharp intake of breath, staring up at the ceiling to compose himself for a second.

“Please, Agents. Go home,” He mumbled, trying to sound as authoritative as possible, but he knew he was in a difficult territory. The FEDs would never back off from a case like this and the precinct truly had no leads or suspects as such. Halloway had a secret weapon as such - not enlisted by him, but someone that he knew would put an end to the killings. Someone who was better at catching a killer in this town than the cops were.

JJ and Hotch stood still, showing no signs of moving at all, and bore a glare into Halloway.

Halloway shot a scowl towards Mills. Mills shrank into himself further.

“Do you want to start a fight with the Queen?” Halloway spat at Mills.

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“So, what’s with the Queen business?” Rossi asked as soon as he entered the conference room that Halloway had reluctantly given the BAU, Prentiss following behind. Morgan and Reid were already in the room, relaying information from the ME report to Hotch and JJ.

Hotch looked up from his casefile.

“Something’s not right about the case,”

“Mills clammed up as soon as Halloway got close to him. Something’s happening, but we’re not sure what yet,” JJ added.

“Corrupt cop maybe?” Prentiss offered, but Hotch shook his head.

“He’s allowing us to stay on the case. Why would a corrupt cop do that?”

“To avoid suspicion?”

“But who’s the Queen?”

Halloway opened the conference room door, just catching Reid’s question as he entered. The agents became silent, watching his every move. He exhaled loudly, shutting the door behind him. He drew the blinds in the conference room and flicked on the huge screen at the back of the room, remote in hand.

“This town is gang territory. It has been for years, most of our cases were rival gangs fighting over turf. Usually open shut investigations, until five years ago,” He began. He pressed a button on the remote, illuminating the screen with three group photographs, with each photograph titled by gang name.

“There are more gangs, but these three are the main groups that run in this town. Caana, Arc and Silver. Caana…”

Halloway clicked the button again, showing a collage of photos of at least twelve different people, some mugshots - some candid.

“They’re the oldest. Dating back to before this town was really a town. Drug smugglers mostly, forever thinking they’re a cartel but they’re just drinkers and fighters now, with the occasional pill selling,”

He switched the screen again, showing another collage. Only five people, all candid shots.

“Arc are clever bastards. Own half of the town, cooked their books, ran an on-ground black market operation. We’ve always been two steps behind them, and they’re in and out of the town regularly,”

“Past tense?” Reid wrinkled his nose. Halloway nodded.

“They’ve never been tied to any of our old cases themselves, but Arc get the blame for most of Caana’s fighting with…”

The next screen was a huge collage, over thirty different people. Only one mugshot.

“Silver. Silver are the worst. These guys are into everything. Half of them came from The Silk Road collapse, huge dark net presence. We suspect some hitmen run with them too,”

“Why was the government never notified of these gangs?” Morgan asked, chewing on the end of his pen. Halloway shook his head.

“Five years ago, our cases slowed. Calls about Caana’s bar-fights stopped. Arc’s name stopped being mentioned. Most of the members of Silver seemed to drop from the face of the earth. The black market stopped - everything just seemed to halt. We found out that there was a hierarchy controlling all three of these gangs, keeping them out of trouble with the law and calming down their rivalries. The gangs started keeping to themselves, Arc even improved the community significantly. We knew they wouldn’t just stop their activities, another group had to be controlling them and covering them all up. But the town became more peaceful and we hadn’t had a homicide case hit our desks until now,”

“So which group was overseeing them all?” Hotch asked.

“Not a group. One woman,”

“The Queen?”

“A few gang members from Caana mentioned ‘Queen’ if we ever spoke to them. It was always ‘Queen will handle it’ or ‘Queen will punish’. Almost biblical, in a sense,”

Halloway clicked to the final slide. There was only one photo, it was candid but the woman’s features were clear enough.

“Elizabeth Tatiana Leighton. Known as Tate Leighton. We ran into her three years ago…I ran into her three years ago. She’s the Queen. She runs all three gangs. She stopped the rivalries, she oversees every single thing that the gangs do. I have no idea what she holds over them, she has no one else by her side, but she controls every member. She’s ruthless,” Halloway paused to look at the photograph, a ghost of a smile flickering in his face. “But, in a way, she’s on our side. The activity from the gangs went cold years ago, no-one knows what they’re doing now or if they’re even operating anything anymore. There’s only been one altercation since she took control. From what I heard, the members involved in the feud were scared onto the straight and narrow by her,”

“So you can’t track anything to her?” Prentiss asked. She was almost in awe of Tate.

“No. A note was on my desk a few days ago, just before the first body was found,”

Whilst Halloway dug into his pocket, searching for the note, Hotch stared at the screen. He memorized Tate’s face, noticing the youth in her features. She must have been only twenty-something. He wondered how she got into this business, and how she controlled so many people.

“It is under my control. Accept my grave condolences to the families of the victims. I do not tolerate killing of innocents, especially children. I am taking care of this. Do not follow this up. I will give you my word when everything is clear. I will pay for the victims to be remembered. Signed, Majesty,” Halloway read. The team were stunned silent for a moment.

“So, we have a young woman in control of three dangerous gangs. She has morals and a rule-book,” Rossi commented.

“The issue is, we can’t leave this case alone,” Morgan sighed.

“Why not?” Halloway asked in worry.

“I have a feeling that this woman is going to take an eye for an eye to whoever is responsible for this,”

Mills bounded into the room. He stopped for a brief second, lingering beside the door as he noticed Tate’s photo on the board, before quickly snapping out his gaze.

“There’s a call about another body,” Mills burst out. Halloway nodded to the team as they all stood up from the chairs.

“I won’t lie, I’m uncomfortable, but I’m glad to have you here,” Halloway muttered to the room. The agents shot a glance at him, before leaving the conference room.

Tate was the first to find the body. She hadn’t heard from Olen in a few hours and now his body lay on the beach, next to Caana’s old smuggling cove, unused as a passage for the last decade, in bad shape. She kept her distance from the body, but spent a minute in silence. Olen was a good man. She respected him immensely - he was intelligent and cunning, but understood Tate’s viewpoint in life and supported her from the moment she took over the lowers.

When Deacon had come to her only a couple of hours ago with news of an FBI presence, Tate had already set a plan in motion. Her most trusted lowers were assigned to tail the agents, ordered to stay in pairs for their own safety. She only wanted to know what they agents knew, purely to aid her own investigation. Before Deacon had left to begin his assignment, he’d handed her a file, filled with pictures and information on the FBI agents working on the case. She’d spent a good half hour memorising their names, their faces, their accomplishments - trying to find any weaknesses to play with in case the agents turned on her.

In a way, she wished that she could share information with the law. The poison was called Keltrox, which Silver had acquired from a known gang contact. They’d given it to Tate in order for her to analyse it and create a cure. With the business that her lowers got up to, they pissed a lot of people off - Keltrox was a hot new thing on the market, according to Silver, with a high chance that someone seeking revenge on one of her lowers would use it.

Sadly, knowing where the Keltrox came from couldn’t narrow Tate’s search, as any of the gang members could have gotten their greasy hands on it - not just Silver. Hell, maybe even the drunkest in Caana had a stash somewhere.

Tate’s blood began to boil the longer she stared at Olen’s lifeless body. The kill felt personal, as if Tate had been poisoned herself. Innocent people dead, and now one of her most loyal lowers. It was a message, and Tate could hear it loud and clear.

The agents hadn’t been to the beach according to her hourly reports. Olen wouldn’t have been at the beach unless he had good reason to slip away from his assignment. The killer had to be one of the most trustworthy lowers to pull something like this. Her most loyal lowers knew that Tate would be at the beach, in this very spot, if she was unable to be found anywhere else. It was the beach that she washed up on years ago, on a tiny lifeboat she’d managed to get onto when Alzena began to fail and wreck. The moment that she’d found the freedom that she’d been looking for was completely within this spot - now, there was Olen’s corpse.

His eyes were still open. She badly wanted to close them, to sprinkle sand over them, to keep his vision away from what would happen now. But even Tate knew that the FBI would find something more within Olen’s corpse, and her compulsion would ruin that chance. She didn’t want to lead them down the wrong path.

“The call said the body was next to Caana’s cove, it should be just over this hill,”

Halloway’s voice sent Tate running into a dip in the rocks of the cove, poking her head above to see two agents accompanying Halloway towards Olen’s body. She ducked back down as they drew closer to her, cursing her sandy footprints that she’d left behind. After a few seconds, she ducked her head back up, recognizing the agents as Prentiss and Hotchner. They talked for a little while, their conversation indistinguishable to Tate, until Prentiss left the beach with Halloway. Hotchner stayed, seemingly staring at the ground until his face turned towards Tate’s direction.

He’d clocked the footsteps.

He raised his head, locking eyes with Tate immediately. His hand automatically grabbed onto his gun holster, but Tate stood up fully, hands above her head. Hotch relaxed his grip.

“Tate Leighton,” He addressed her, but Tate shook her head.

“Close his eyes please, Agent Hotchner,”

Hotch stared at her for a brief moment, then silently leaned towards the body, gently brushing Olen’s eyes closed. Within those seconds that he turned away, Tate had taken off, vanishing as he turned back to look at her.

He stayed on the beach for a minute or so, dissecting his encounter with the Queen herself. She looked even younger than she did in the photo that Halloway had shown him. She knew his name. They were being watched.

What he never expected was her empathy. They painted her to be ruthless and uncaring, almost numb. He didn’t believe that her request to him was a plan to get away, but instead a compulsion of emotion, compassion.

He made his way back towards the car, meeting up with Prentiss and Halloway.

“Did you find anything else?” Prentiss asked, opening the back car door.

“Tate Leighton,” Hotch spoke lowly, settling himself into the driver’s seat of the SUV.

“The Queen was there?” Halloway burst out.

“She was there before us, there were footprints from the body to where she was hiding,”

“Is she a suspect?” Prentiss asked, and Hotch shook his head as he started the car engine.

“I don’t think so. She asked me to close the victim’s eyes, and then she left.”

“Huh,” Prentiss thought aloud.

“She knew my name. She’s watching us,”

Hotch began to drive back to the precinct. At a red light, just before the turn for the precinct, he glanced out of his window. Tate stood there on the sidewalk, watching him.

“Thank you.” She mouthed to him.

As quickly as she appeared, Tate left, losing herself in the small straggle of people on the sidewalk, making her way back to the beach. She called her lowers, checking on their status. They’d heard the news about Olen by now, but were sticking to their assignments. Deacon and Clarke followed the agents to the beach, seeing Olen’s body, and they’d noticed her on the sidewalk, but said nothing about her encounter with Agent Hotchner. It wasn’t their place to ask her. Deacon was slightly worried about what he’d seen, though. He didn’t like his Queen getting involved with law enforcement, let alone the FBI. What he’d seen on the sidewalk - the way she’d gone back to the car to say thank you to Agent Hotchner...it made him feel a little sick.

Meanwhile, back at the precinct, the team felt like they were hitting dead end after dead end. Sadly, Tate’s work meant that most of the gang’s activities were covered up to the maximum, even Garcia was having a hard time finding out any recent information, and Tate was a ghost in the system. No information could be found on her regarding the last ten years, almost like she vanished during her teens, only to resurface on the beach following a shipwreck five years later, somehow becoming the leader of three gangs in a small, dangerous town. Hotch’s mind replayed Tate’s behaviour over and over again, trying to dissect it further than he already had, but he never found anything new.

“That’s weird,” Garcia’s voice interrupted Hotch’s thoughts and the team’s conversation over the phone speaker.

“Whatcha got, baby girl?” Morgan answered.

“When I was digging into the Queen, one of the things I found was that the boat that she was on when she was at sea was called Alzena - you know, before it was hit by a bad sea storm and she ended up sailing on the lifeboat,”

“And?”

“Now, here’s the thing, I was tracking packages into the town to see if anything suspicious had been reported and nothing had - however, there was a package that was sent about a month ago and the address it was sent to was an abandoned building, so it was sent to the posting office because it couldn’t be delivered. No-one went to pick it up from the office and that package was reported missing four days ago by staff,”

“That could have been the poison,” Prentiss said, looking to the team.

“Guys, the name on the package was Alzena Smith,”

Prentiss shot a look at Hotch.

“We need to bring in Tate Leighton,” He declared, rising from the chair to find Halloway.

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Angel List:

@aaronhotchnerr

@psych0crybaby

@mortallythoughtfulgurl

@arganfics

@rachelxwayne

@ellvswriting-deactivated2021010

@pumpkin-goob

@xessx

@fuxking-insxne

@ptrs-prkrs

@passionatelyacademic

@averyhotchner

@rousethemouse

@whoreforhotch

@baumarvel

@iconicc

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inscribed-in-asteroids · 3 years

Text

AN: WHAT’S UP? Got chapter five ready to go! More info is always on AO3, as well as better formatting.

Title: The Ripple Effect

Characters: Odessa and OCs, feat Entrapta and Hordak

Pairing: Entrapdak

Read on AO3.

Inicos

LINEAGE LOG: DAY 1

Today marks the start of our journey! I have brought the essentials for potential excavation of bodies or relics, as well as the brain from the Prime clone aboard the Velvet Glove. It may be needed to see if there are differences in the formation, even if they’re genetically similar. But, admittedly, it’s more to keep it someplace out of the way. I am not sure what we may uncover, but this is bound to be illuminating.

LINEAGE LOG: DAY 7

I’ve been informed by my father that Mermista was none too pleased to hear that Tristan had come along on this expedition. He and my mother assured her that he was perfectly safe. Seahawk made the error of agreeing with them, however, which led to Tristan having a long, long argument with his mother over it. I don’t find any problem in him wanting to explore space, but not every parent is the same. I suppose she merely wants to look after him. But if she really wanted to, a week is a significant amount of time before deciding to check if he was at his father’s.

LINEAGE LOG: DAY 36

There hasn’t been much occurring outside of the ship. As we have been supplied with enough rations and crystals to charge Celeste, we have no need to dock onto any planet to replenish. However, Hydrangea asked if we could stop on occasion to see some planets. I told her that she could ask me any time if she felt a desire to explore nearby galaxies. We have opted to land on— Whoafuckshit! Asteroids… Oh! Maybe I can document it as it happens—

Annnnnd one made a large dent. Never mind. Guess we’re landing for sure.

LINEAGE LOG: DAY 273

I contacted my parents earlier today. They asked how everyone was faring, and I informed them that it’s been rather standard. No fits of madness or lucidity. My mother sighed with disappointment, but I told her that if it changed, she’d be the first to know. My father told me that Adora wishes me well, again. She’s a sweet woman—has been since my infancy. How she got four terrors for children, I’ll never understand. Well, that’s from Catra, but that’s neither here nor there. She and my father share equal blame for the damage to Etheria, and she has made an effort to right her wrongs. Yet she’s more… forgiven is not the proper word. Perhaps, excused? I don’t resent her for this. It’s easier to blame what continues to be unfamiliar. However, it’s an interesting observation, isn’t it?

Time in space is a bizarre thing. It ceases to be linear. It curves. Warps. Molds around one’s cells—living, breathing matter and energy, and it performs relative to that.

Odessa feels like it’s no time at all to be traveling through space with her friends.

But she was used to this since she was born. Tristan and Hydrangea experienced a little bit of an odd hiccup when it came to living without the concept of time as it was on Etheria. Hydrangea took to meditating quite often to keep a semblance of consistency, while Tristan took to exercising in an unorthodox training room. Hordak was thorough in ensuring that physical prowess was kept up while traveling through space, so it was one of the first things she pointed out.

Tristan could sleep as often as he wanted, and he never put up a fuss, but Hydrangea became rather irritable when she realized the lack of sunlight meant her circadian rhythm would be thrown off. Odessa decided to create a fake sun in Hydrangea’s sleep quarters that gave the feeling of waking up to gentle sunlight, replacing the atomic clock with one marked by Etherian time. It helped a bit for her to feel normal, and, she knew, Hydrangea was missing her parents.

“It’s too late to take you back,” Odessa said during breakfast. “But I hope you’re not disappointed with the direction of this mission so far.”

Hydrangea smiled gently, brushing haggard feelings aside, “Don’t worry. I’ll eventually get used to it. You know I’m here for you!”

Odessa is glad to have company that didn’t mind a little change. She and her family revel in constant traveling, but it can be hard for people who don’t go through it as much.

Walking through the halls, Odessa knocks on Tristan’s door, “Hey, are you up?”

A tired groan reaches her ears.

“When you’re ready, come to the dining hall. We should go over some things.”

A grunt of understanding is given, so Odessa takes her leave. She can’t help but shake her hands in excitement, tempted to skip down the hall.

She looks down at her communicator when it beeps. Turning it on, she answers, “Hey, Mom!”

“Hi, cupcake! How are you?”

“Doing fine. We’ve been making good time. We should be arriving soon.”

Hordak pops into view, “Are all your vitals still in excellent condition?”

“Yes, I’ve been monitoring all of us.”

“Good work, Odessa,” he praises.

“You know me, I’m not into screwing around,” Odessa replies, tossing her hair.

Entrapta grins wide, “We know you’re not, my little brownie bite!”

“Yeesh, Mom,” Odessa says, blushing, though she can’t help but smile.

“Okay, honey, we’ll let you go,” Entrapta tells her. “Tell your friends we said hi! Message us when you’re set!”

“You bet,” she tells them, giving a thumbs up.

“Byyyyeee!” Entrapta sing-songs, as Hordak waves.

“Byyyyeee!” Odessa mimics, waving back.

With a beep, the communicator goes quiet. She wants this mission to come to fruition. Odessa knows their journey has just barely begun—it has so much potential for failure as much as it does for success. If she could find enough information about her people, she might be able to learn more about them as a species. It’s a longshot, but she needs to make an attempt.

She is relieved that her father hasn’t asked her anything deeper than the common query of wellness. He is attentive to health above all else. And she wants to know if that’s intrinsic to their nature, or if it has to do with his… former debilitation. It has to be on some level, or it could be due to personality. If she could learn the true ways of their race, she might be able to find out how to give them their best opportunity to live.

Her hair wraps around her recorder, bringing it to her face. She clicks it on:

LINEAGE LOG: DAY 550

It’s been a long time since we left Etheria, but we’re finally near our destination! I have informed my uncle, Kreed, of our imminent arrival. He told me that everything has long been prepared for us, and he’s looking forward to seeing me again. I’ve been jotting down, as you know, what I hope to ask and, perhaps, what he may answer.

Odessa turns when she hears footfalls. Clicking off her recorder, she looks up at her friend, “Hi, sleepyhead! I didn’t think you’d ever get up.”

Yawning, Tristan stretches toward the ceiling, fingers spreading out. “Hey, the universe doesn’t chastise the well-rested. Were those your parents?”

“Yes, they say hello.”

“Aw, I would’ve liked to say hi back,” Tristan says.

“Should’ve woken up sooner,” Odessa teases. She pats his arm. “But we’re not too far from Inicos—so you’ll be talking to them eventually again.”

“How far?”

“About several hours,” she explains. “It has changed a little since I’ve been there, so I’m excited how it looks now!”

Tristan gives another stretch of his arms, swiping them up then down as he yawns once more. Trying to get something to pop. “Glad we’ll be landing soon. I know it’s been a while, but I worry about Gea going a little stir-crazy again.”

“I adjusted everything in her room, but I don’t disagree,” Odessa admits. “Although, she’s been fine since then and she hasn’t come to me for it.”

Tristan shrugs, not bothering to say he thinks otherwise. Odessa understands the needs for physical accommodation, but Hydrangea’s emotional and spiritual needs are depleted in the never-ending darkness of space. Hydrangea always acts like she’s put together, and much of the time it’s true; but she refrains from voicing her negative opinions when she’s trying to be a team-player.

Hydrangea is already in the dining hall when they arrived, drinking tea. She smiles at them, “Hey, you two!”

“Hey,” Tristan says. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine, why?” she asks.

“No reason,” Tristan replies. Best not to pursue the issue. If she’s faking ease, let her.

Hydrangea simply smiles at him, appreciating the question. She turns to Odessa, “So, what’s the plan?”

“The plan is that we’re going to be entering Inicos’ orbit in the next few hours, that’s our plan!”

Hydrangea claps her hands, “How exciting!”

Tristan shakes his head, putting a hand over his face, “It just occurred to me you could’ve woken me up when we’re closer.”

Odessa pulls him to her side, giving him a light shake, “I’m pumped! Aren’t you?”

“Of course,” Tristan says, rolling his eyes and smiling. “But that can’t be it, right?”

“No,” she replies, releasing him to look between her friends. “Celeste has lasted this long on fuel, but when we land, we’re going to have to use signals to find where they are, and wait for them to get us.”

“Why?”

Odessa’s grin widens, thrilled.

Water stretches far out beyond their sight. A dark, vast blue that envelops the entire planet. Celeste skims the top, spraying brilliant white foam against its shining surface. Slowly, Odessa commands the ship to lower until it has settled onto the ocean.

Hydrangea stares out the window. The sunlight from above is a welcome vision. Pressing up against the window, her claws clicking gently on the glass, she takes it all in. Turning to Tristan, she says, “You should feel right at home here.”

“Eh, you see one ocean, you’ve seen them all,” Tristan shrugs, inspecting his fingernails.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss this one,” Odessa tells him. She touches her communicator, and the screen begins to beep. Within minutes, they watch water churning away from them, the waves causing the ship to move in rhythm with the slight push. Breaking the surface is a large glass dome, rising high in the air. Celeste bobs back and forth, and the distant hemisphere reveals equally tall buildings within its spacious grounds, supplanted deep within mortar and bedrock.

Tristan and Hydrangea gape up. Tristan laughs in disbelief, “Okay, well, you never mentioned this.”

Odessa smiles, “And ruin the fun if you ever came here with me?”

Beneath the glass is the foundation of metal, holding it aloft; from which, a slab slides away from the bottom of the dome. From this opening, a bridge elongates towards them. Odessa steadies Celeste as the spaceship is jostled carefully onto its ramp, pulling them back into the entrance. As it approaches, they note the flashing lights within.

Moments after coming inside, a siren blares a monotone tune. Celeste gives a slight shake, and they feel gravity tug them upward.

The sun gleams brightly above, before that same pull of gravity shifts the dome downward, water sloshing beside the glass until it is submerged in a torrent of bubbles.

Hydrangea sighs. It was nice while it lasted.

Once the dome settles, Celeste opens up. The trio walk down the bridge, and Odessa smiles at the people waiting in front of them, “Hi everyone!”

“Odessa!” comes the barrage of greetings.

Odessa waves to the clone standing directly in front of her. Eyes a remarkable amber, Kreed waits with his arms held behind him. Bedecked in gentle beige, his tunic ends an inch above the floor, a golden sash with cerulean trimming at the edges tied around his waist. His feet are sandaled, which they found to be better suited for an environment that’s nothing but water outside. An older clone than the rest, he shows signs of aging that aren't too commonplace among the rest of her relatives. She long surmised that the majority of them were young by contrast. She attributes part of that to his firm but mellower personality, a patriarchal figure where there are none. “Hey, Kreed!”

Her uncle holds her tight to her chest, pulling back to look at her, “Was your trip uneventful?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

He laughs, before addressing the rest of the trio, “Hydrangea! Tristan! So good to finally meet you both! Physically, I mean.”

Hydrangea shakes his hand, “Hi, Kreed! It’s nice to be here at last.”

“Come, come, we have prepared a feast for your arrival!”

“Nice,” Tristan says, eager to get settled in.

Hydrangea looks around, morose.

Tristan touches her shoulder, “How are you, Gea?”

“I’m alright,” Hydrangea says, giving a reassuring smile.

Tristan stares at her, slowing his strides.

Hydrangea glances at his feet, and mimics his pace, allowing their friend and her family to continue forward on their own. She looks up at Tristan, “I really am okay.”

“Yeah, now,” Tristan tells her.

“Odessa did so much for me already, I don’t want to disappoint her,” she replies.

“Odessa doesn’t get offended over crap like that,” Tristan reminds her.

“I know but still…”

“Gea, if you have problems, Des is here to help out,” he says.

Hydrangea knows that he’s right. The last year and a half have been hard on her, being away from her mothers, her people, her home. She is here to aid Odessa in anything that she needs. She wants to be a good friend, and she figured that this wouldn’t be much to handle. She’ll admit, she didn’t prepare herself very well for it, even with Odessa’s assistance.

“I understand that she’s meant to help out—and she did do a lot for me already,” Hydrangea answers. “But it felt a little redundant to even bring it up time after time.”

“I think it would offend her more if you didn’t inform her that she was unable to give you what you needed.”

Hydrangea gives a soft chuckle, “That’s true.”

“Look,” Tristan says, touching her shoulder, fingers moving around the spikes. “It’s not like it matters anymore right now, because we’re here. But if she asks us to go on a trip again, you should think about being more open about what you need to be comfortable.”

“I know,” she sighs. Then she pats his hand with hers, a small, gracious smile on her lips. “Thank you. I’ll do better.”

Tristan returns the smile, and affectionately pats her shoulder.

Resuming their walk, they note that Odessa and Kreed had halted their own steps to wait for them. Their apologies are dismissed, as Kreed and Odessa didn’t mind the two conversing amongst themselves.

The dome continues to descend, and Odessa looks to the left, watching a school of fish swim by the glass, “You’ve expanded.”

Kreed smiles, “Yes, we did! It took a couple of years, but the results have been magnificent. We’re creating more habitable spaces throughout the planet.”

“That’s exciting to hear. Has the alternative plant source been beneficial?”

“Most certainly, my dear niece,” Kreed replies. “We have been able to move forward with our latest projects using the natural resources of this planet as fuel to power everything.”

Odessa listens in rapt attention as Kreed explains each aspect of their home in impressive detail. From the large dome that blocks out harmful UV rays, to the plumbing system, sewage plant, recreational and education centers, they have made this place their home without interfering with the natives of the planet.

Arriving at their destination, opulent doors, wreathed with marine imagery, akin to Salineas, open for them. But there’s a monstrous look to it—with towering statues made of silver metal, the Delphican people’s greatest warriors of legend and history are highlighted the best way they know how: long, powerful arms ending with webbed hands, clawing the air. Their naked bodies are streamlined and muscular, hairless scalps gleaming when light shines on them. Their eyes are black, forward-facing but protruding ever so slightly enough to make it noticeable they’re different from the other humanoids that occupy their world. Their mouths are open in preparation for battle, ferocious teeth bared at their enemies.

Tristan stands to admire the artwork, giving a nod of approval. “Damn, that’s pretty hot.”

Hydrangea turns to him, narrowing her eyes and pursing her mouth, “You do know they’re attacking something, right?”

“Yes,” Tristan answers, forefinger pointed up. “And that’s what makes it hot. Oooh, do you think they do commissions?”

Hydrangea lets out a short, breathy laugh, “And what would they do for you?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious, Gea,” Tristan says. “I want them to make a statue of me . Just as naked and just as cool.”

Hydrangea laughs as he poses, and Tristan gives an inward sigh of relief.

A large table stretches out across the room, a sea-green and white carpet laid beneath its legs. Marbled walls rise high above them, ending with a cathedral ceiling, painted with creatures that remind Odessa of what Tristan would show her on deep-sea cameras on Etheria, none of them friendly, which is how she enjoys it. On the wall itself, oval windows take up half of its height, revealing a trimmed yard behind it, showing off a scape laden with roses, daffodils and several prospering fruit trees.

Hydrangea perks up, “Oh, a garden!”

Kreed smiles at her, “We make it a priority to have plants here. It helps the air.”

Hydrangea stares out the window, with Tristan joining her. She remarks, “There are a couple species I don’t recognize.”

“Yes,” Kreed says. “We have acquired new types from either Odessa or some of my brothers from different planets.”

“Amazing! I’d love to see more of your collection. Is all the soil the same?”

“In this area, yes,” Kreed replies, ears twitching up with interest, walking toward her. “For the time you’re here, you’re welcome to explore our gardens.”

Hydrangea, pleased, launches into a discussion about the caretaking, which Kreed entertains with aplomb. Odessa is suddenly tackled from behind, and she reaches around to grab the offender with both arms, raising up a young boy of 14, grinning down at her.

“Hi, Dessie!”

Her annoyed expression fades, beaming, “Nano! You’re lucky I didn’t break you in two.”

Placing him down, Nano jumps at her waist, excited, “I couldn’t help myself! I missed you!”

Odessa hugs the boy close, patting his head, “It’s good to see you again. I brought my friends this time.”

Nano, eyes an unusual bright shade of orange, turns to Tristan and Hydrangea with equal enthusiasm, “Hey! Welcome to my home! It’s about time you two came by.”

Hydrangea smiles at him, “Thank you, we’re happy to be here.”

Nano turns to Tristan, sizing him up. Then he grins, “I’m going to have so much fun kicking your butt!”

Tristan laughs, arms akimbo and smirking, “Are you?”

“You bet! I’ve wanted to race you foreeeever! Can we do it now?”

“You may have your contest after dinner,” Kreed interrupts.

“‘Kaaaaay,” Nano replies, though his grin doesn’t leave, giggling.

Various seafood has been placed on the table a few moments later, arranged to show the best of freshly caught fish and crustacean. Odessa and Tristan, used to being adventurous eaters, have no qualm with any part of the meal. Hydrangea, though she can eat it, looks for plant-based dishes, which, thankfully, they accommodated for her.

Nano plops next to Odessa, kicking his legs, scales reaching down to his feet. He’s one of the more interesting cousins in terms of appearance, having the agility, speed and strength of a clone, but the exterior switches from skin to scales, with webbed fingers and toes at the ends of his limbs, all bluish-green; his face has paler shades of color compared to the rest of his body, and his gills are closed on his neck for now. He hums to himself as he piles food onto his plate. She had checked on him last time she was here, monitoring his vitals for irregularities in either his gills or lungs. The main difference seems to be that he has to moisturize more than the average cousin, and he doesn’t seem capable of growing hair on his scalp or face like his clone half, but he doesn’t seem to have any new problems.

Opening his mouth, revealing sharp canines lined along the gums, Nano chews a large chunk of meat. He turns to Odessa, cheeks puffed out from food, smiling with his lips and eyes closed.

A surge of sisterly affection tugs at her heartstrings, and she chuckles, “Be careful there, don’t choke.”

Swallowing, Nano wipes his mouth, giving a wide grin, “I don’t choke!”

“You did earlier this week,” Kreed says, cutting his food with a knife and fork. “Mindfulness is important.”

Nano gives a quick nod, before turning to Tristan, “Hey, hey, hey, are we going to race?”

“After dinner, sure,” Tristan says, then yawns. “Or, you know, maybe after sleep.”

“Aaaww, you said after dinner,” Nano whines.

“If our guests are exhausted, they’re free to sleep,” Kreed chastises.

Odessa smiles at her uncle, “Don’t worry about it. Tris slept all day, he can go for it!”

Tristan gives her a mild glare, “Of course, Des. Why wouldn’t I?”

She sticks out her tongue, satisfied.

Nano was more than excited to race. He was jumping up and down along the dome, feet light in the ground. Tristan, despite genuinely feeling like he could sleep more, wasn’t going to crush his expectations, nor did he have the intention to.

Hydrangea stares up at the artificial sunlight coming from above, “Do you think it could be warmer?”

“I feel fine,” Odessa says, glancing up. “But I could ask Kreed for you later.”

“I don’t want to impose on anyone—”

Odessa waves her hand, “Oh, Gea! They don’t mind, really! And if you didn’t dislike it, you wouldn’t say anything.”

Hydrangea sighs, “You’re right, I know.”

“‘Course I know!”

Approaching a smoothed pearl-colored tower, Nano yells at the people located at its top, “Hi!”

A clone peers down at them, waving, then pointing to the dome’s glass.

Nano gives a thumbs-up from the ground, and he turns to the trio, “Alright, they’ll open it for us!”

Hydrangea holds up her hand to her face, “Are we rising to the surface or…?”

“Nope! There’s a tube that runs through the bottom that launches people out. We needed to bring you guys the other way because of your ship.”

“Ah, so we’re racing underwater,” Tristan remarks.

“Yeah! Is that okay?”

“Fine by me,” Tristan answers, beginning his stretches.

Nano copies his stretches, wanting to be professional.

An opening in the ground forms, and the faint sound of suction movements comes from below. Nano beams at the three of them before jumping in feet first, form perfectly straight. Tristan salutes his friends before hopping in as well. Hydrangea and Odessa jog over to the glass, and a burst of bubbles shoot out when they emerge somewhere below them.

Nano swims up to the glass, tapping it then his wrist.

Odessa nods, then signs to Tristan: Are you going to keep that form?

Tristan doesn’t often have a smug appearance, but at the question, a smirk tilts the corner of his mouth. Behind his lips, his teeth sharpen, as well as his skin, darkening to ashen grey, reaching up toward the sides of his neck, where the flesh opens, water gushing out. His legs morph together as water circulates around them, dissipating with a flourished motion, revealing a long shark tail.

Hair floating away from his face, Tristan’s eyes are wholly black, and he grins at Nano’s shocked expression.

Nano turns to Odessa, signing with excited movements: You never told me your friend could do this!

It’s not something Tristan makes known to everyone, his penchant for taking a shark shape as he swims. It’s a trait inherited only by royals, should they so choose, and the last to use this disposition was his grandfather, the former King Selachus.

Hydrangea signs to them all: Alright everyone, play fair!

Or don’t, Odessa chimes in.

Flicking Odessa on the shoulder, Hydrangea signs: Who is going to signal?

Nano signs back: The guards know what we’re doing. They’ll be watching.

As Odessa beckons Hydrangea to follow her up to the towers, where they can get a better view, Nano and Tristan line up against the dome, staring ahead. Nano raises his arm up, waving before placing it back to his side.

Odessa takes in the tower, simple and clean walls, with weapons stacked in a corner, near a chest and a small writing desk for messages. Its purpose is clearly to observe anything from below, and she and Hydrangea can see both Nano and Tristan. The guards standing inside don’t do much but give nods in regard to their being here, and continue to stand.

Suddenly, there’s a loud noise resonating out of the dome. An object shoots out above them, a fair-sized dart torpedoing ten kilometers away. Nano holds out his hand to keep Tristan in place, signing: We have to wait for it to stop. Then they’ll let us know to go.

The object, which flashes a slow red in the distance, finally stops. A split second after there’s a blast—

The boys shoot off, even faster than the measuring pod, a blur of white froth and dark shapes. Odessa and Hydrangea peer closely at their retreating forms. The water is clear, so they don’t lose sight of them, and the height helps keep track of their movements underwater. They could’ve swam on the surface, but Nano prefers being under the waves, and Tristan is flexible about location. However, from the look of it, despite Nano being smaller and more spry, Tristan’s strength is also an advantage, keeping an impressive pace.

Hydrangea turns to a guard, “You don’t happen to have binoculars, do you?”

He raises a brow before opening a chest nearby and handing her a pair.

She smiles, “Oh, thank you!”

Odessa doesn’t ask for any herself, as she has no trouble following their forms. Tristan’s frame is notable, even intimidating, much of the time, and in this form, he stands out. Nano continues to be faster, and she has to commend that he isn’t wavering.

They notice that the pod is moving, darting toward the surface. Tristan and Nano don’t break their speed, immediately changing to chase after it. They crash through the surface—a whirlwind of bubbles torrenting from the intensity, and again as they return. Hydrangea gives an excited ‘ooh!’ and Odessa grins, enjoying the competition. If the boys were holding back, they certainly weren’t anymore. The pod keeps up with them, continuing its languid red flashing. Tristan and Nano tear through the water, fast approaching the dome’s end. Nano kicks in rapid succession, gaining some momentum.

Then Tristan jets further out, having saved some energy to push at the last possible moment.

Tristan touches the glass first, faster by 60 seconds. He grins with pride, turning to Nano with a thumbs-up.

Nano, pouting, crosses his arms.

Tristan gives the boy a gentle pat on the back, causing Nano to crack a smile.

The pod settles slowly between them, and Nano takes it with him as he swims back to the entrance.

Odessa and Hydrangea watch the two pop up from the ground, landing on their feet. Hydrangea thanks the guard for lending the binoculars, and walks down the stairs with Odessa.

“You both did amazing!” Hydrangea cheers, applauding.

“Thanks, Gea,” Tristan replies, blushing a little. “But I don’t know if it’s really that big of a deal when my opponent is a little kid.”

“Actually, it is,” Odessa clarifies. “Nano is really fast, even for his age. Delphicans, even young, are quicker than even the fastest Salinean, so consider it a true win!”

“Really?” Tristan asks, surprised.

“Yep!” Nano exclaims.

Odessa waved a hand, “I didn’t mention it before because I wanted to see what would happen.” Tristan tends to hold himself back, especially if he feels there’s no point in giving it a chance. To see him go all out was a treat.

Nano is full on smiling now, shaking his head, “Well, I thought I could beat you but you really got me! I’ve never lost before.”

Odessa smirks, “You had to learn to lose someday.”

Nano places his hands on his elbows, “Yeah, I guess…”

Was he not as good as he thought? He’s been used to being the fastest, especially among his peers. It’s a little odd...

Tristan flips his hair back, slicking it away. With an encouraging smile, he replies, “You did great too! Give yourself credit.”

A spark of admiration takes over Nano’s eyes. Hero worship at its finest.

“Hey, Mom!” Odessa says.

“Odessa! There you are! Did you make it to Inicos okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. I was meeting up with Kreed, had dinner, and then Nano wanted to race Tristan.”

“Ooohh, you were already so busy!” Entrapta says. She turns to her right, “Hordak! Say hi to our baby!”

Hordak sits beside Entrapta, smiling at her, “Hello, Odessa.”

“Hi, Dad,” Odessa replies. “How’re things at Etheria?”

“Work has been progressing smoothly,” Hordak says. “We’ve begun new construction on both Beast Island and New Chelicerata.”

“That’s awesome,” she tells them. She glances to her left, motioning her friends over. “Gea, you hear that?”

“I did!” Hydrangea answers, looking at Hordak and Entrapta. “How are my moms? Is everything okay at Plumeria too?”

“Never better!” Entrapta shouts. “We’ve been keeping occupied since you all left. Scorpia has been helping us a lot! She says she loves and misses you!”

“And Perfuma,” Hordak adds.

“Right! And Perfuma too!”

At that, Hydrangea smiles, more than happy.

Hordak looks at Odessa, “Has your uncle shown you the portal yet?”

“I’m sure he will soon,” Odessa replies. “There’s a lot to see!”

“That is good to hear,” Hordak says. He turns to his right, “Imp, don’t play with that!”

He leaves to go handle whatever her brother is doing, and Entrapta leans in to the communicator, “Your father misses you.”

Odessa gives a warm smile, “I miss him too. Both of you.”

“Have you asked Kreed anything about the clones?”

“No, that hasn’t occurred yet either. I intend to do it very soon.”

Hordak returns, holding Imp in his arms, “What else has transpired on your journey?”

They regale them with details of the rest of the day, finding that they’ve needed to talk to each other more than they believed. Hydrangea interjects during appropriate moments to inquire about her parents further, where Tristan does not.

Eventually, they bid goodbye, and head to bed after a tiring day, excited for tomorrow’s venture, and everything afterward.

Hydrangea and Tristan were impressed with the ingenuity of the dome. Their rooms have been modified for their needs and wants, giving them individual freedom as guests of Inicos. Everything was incredible: from the water systems that converted salt water to fresh through advanced hydraulics, the use of the planet’s natural gifts to aid in creating everything they saw from their furniture to their food to landscapes and buildings, and occasionally being sent what they could not make here through a portal.

But what they couldn’t help except be amazed by were Nano��s aquatic brethren.

Standing at nine feet tall, his mother, Esynad, greets them this morning outside of the dome, swimming lazily past the glass, before hopping inside from the tube. She is misted with a special chemical concoction of the clones’ design, allowing natives of Inicos to partake of the dome’s atmosphere without trouble.

Possessing scales that glisten in the sun, highlighting flashes of purple when she moves, she is considered to be a stunner among even her kind. Though, to Hydrangea and Tristan, she was beautiful to them as well and could see why anyone would’ve considered being her partner. But here, on Inicos, the ‘women’ choose who to mate with. All begin life with total androgyny, with no true way to separate them outwardly. Yet at maturity, a select group of Delphicans become large enough to be considered the females of their kind, and use the female reproductive organs each one holds. Afterward, they were asked to choose who to mate with by overlooking battles of strength and cunning between those who are ‘male’. It couldn’t be simply anyone—the males had to be near equal to the stature and power of the females and granted permission by whomever they pursue.

Esynad had received hundreds of suitors, all which failed her expectations. Fickle with her hand and undeterred by their pleas, she ignored them. Years had gone by and she continued to reject everyone who attempted to court her. Those who dared to fight one another in her presence, without her blessing, were punished swiftly. Esynad had no qualm being ruthless with those who displeased her.

When the clones arrived, the Delphicans were reluctant to share their space, but once they proved they had no interest in doing much of anything except stay above the surface, and remained neutral in territory disputes between separate pods, the Delphicans were accepting of their occupancy.

Eventually, they realized there was a higher benefit to working together and coexisting harmoniously. Esynad, being a de facto leader, made it her business to cooperate with their newfound friends. This led to her meeting Kreed, who took it upon himself to help his brethren and the people of Inicos. Not a few months later, she announced that he would be her permanent husband.

Kreed had been an unorthodox decision, both from being another species and that she refused to have him battle with anyone, saying that it was unnecessary, for she would have him alone. However, being customary, Kreed abided by their rules and triumphed over every single challenger. With that completed, they were given freedom to be together, and it eventually became part of their culture that clones could participate in the rituals of Delphican folk.

In time, due to the existence of hybrid children, it became apparent that it was important to adopt aspects of the clones as well. As they had no way of going about it on their own, they called on Hordak to inform them of his own child-rearing process. There was less fighting amongst each other for mates, and it became a community for raising offspring, however they were born. If bloodlust suited anyone, on either side, they were allowed to do battle; but the parents of said hybrid children were off limits for coupling, forming into monogamous pairs.

Esynad was still no one to trifle with, but being part of a partnership mellowed her a fair degree. She turns to the trio, a gentle smile on her features, dark eyes reflecting the kindness.

Odessa comes up to her, “Esynad! You’re looking spectacular as usual.”

Esynad lightly taps Odessa’s shoulder, “You’re so sweet, young one.”

Nano rushes to his mother, hugging her leg, “Are we showing them to the portal?”

“Yes,” Esynad replies, giving a slow wave of her hand. “Please, follow us.”

Kreed and Esynad both decided to take the liberty of escorting them, the six of them walking through the halls.

Kreed looks over his shoulder, “Odessa, I understand that you arrived in Inicos with some intended purpose. Is it too early to ask you to illuminate the subject?”

“No, it is not,” Odessa begins, glancing between her relatives. “I wanted to ask about Horde Prime.”

This gives her aunt and uncle pause, turning to appraise her, mildly bewildered.

Understanding her niece prefers forthright conversation, Esynad asks first, “Why would you want to know about that?”

“I’ve asked my father and have gotten no answer. I’m simply curious about what we are.”

“We…” Kreed trails off, thinking. He resumes his pace toward the portal. “We are clones of Horde Prime. No longer soldiers or invaders. But we continue to be—and always will be—clones of Horde Prime.”

Odessa walks alongside him, “But there must have been something before Prime? A way of life and culture that he may have passed onto you all?”

Kreed frowns, keeping silent. Giving him time to think on it, Odessa opts to glance around at the vicinity. The hallways have narrowed down to a singular direction, and the doors slide open, showcasing a portal in the center of the room. Wires, pipes and insulated cables align themselves upon the walls, or on the floor out of the way of roaming bodies. But they all hook up to the portal, or are connected to machines that deal with energy.

Eyes slightly wide, Hydrangea remarks, “That is a larger portal than the rest of them.”

Esynad looks at her, “Yes, we receive gifts from our family throughout the galaxies. Oftentimes, they are normal-sized, but on occasion, we do receive something that is larger or numerous in number. To accommodate, we’ve made a portal bigger than the normal scale. It’s why we couldn’t bring you three right away, but this will allow you all to traverse back easier.”

Kreed nods, “Indeed. We have made necessary preparations for when that time comes, whenever it may be. Until then, you are welcome to stay here for as long as you like.” He looks at Odessa. “Did you really travel all the way here to ask about our once-leader?”

“No one on Etheria could provide an answer,” explains Odessa, readying her recorder in her hair. “They suggested here to start.”

Exhaling through his nose, Kreed motions for her to come with him, as her friends discuss other things with her relations.

“Your determination is not without merit, Odessa,” Kreed says. “However, this is not a question that is worth exploring.”

Odessa comes right up to him, unafraid to be invasive, “Is it because you have no information to offer me, or that you are unwilling to divulge it?”

“Judging by the sound of your tone, my niece, you would be wise to consider the ramifications of your query,” Kreed replies, hands behind his back.

Odessa turns lightly on her heel, holding out her hands, “I have considered it. I’ve considered that this is something that we need to understand.” She spins on her foot, meeting his eyes. “There’s so much about us that we don’t know, even with all the technology and magic in the universe, there is no viable method out there that can explore deep memories.”

Kreed is one of the oldest clones that she is aware of. Talon’s age is astonishing as is when compared to other lifeforms, but Kreed is a grand total of 150. And still going.

There are slight changes in his appearance to the rest of the clones, where he is beginning to show signs of age. But the differences are so minute, the wrinkles visible when one strains the eyes to catch them, as they are fine lines, that they matter very little. His strength and agility is not remotely impaired by the fact. His physicality, unmarred by time, continues to put him above many species she’s encountered, as well as Inicosans, and especially Etherians. How old can their species become? If there were hundreds of him hanging above her head on the flagship, how long had he terrorized the universe? If he could conceivably live over a century, what else could he do?

“I conducted a study back on Etheria about your brothers,” Odessa tells him. “Everything about it suggests promising brain activity, and I want to test my hypothesis further. But to do so, I must have more information about us.”

Kreed glances at Esynad as she approaches, holding Nano in her arms, “This information… if given, what do you intend to do with it?”

Everything.

She wants to do everything with it.

She has to know what they are capable of, beyond a past of destruction and a present of rectifying mistakes. There’s a future for them that is complete. Hopeful.

“I simply want to learn more about us.”

Kreed closes his eyes, inhaling. Slow and easy. He is more than aware that Odessa is a personality that pushes toward the truth. A scientist and inventor like her parents both, she inherited their tenacity, and, for better or worse, their tunnel vision. She has shown incredible potential. What she lacks in social tact, she more than makes up for with her ability to observe and act on those observations.

Since she was young, he has been keeping track of her as well. The moment she asked for blood samples of her relatives at the age of five, he knew that she was different. She has spent countless hours of her youth being encompassed by superior science and keen minds. Trained and nurtured to ask questions, find answers, and adapt based on the result. Being a hybrid had nothing to do with it. What set her apart from all the children of clones was Odessa’s desire. A desire for what, he may never know. But she yearns for more. She longs. Until it’s found.

He has lived a long time, and he doesn’t know a clone similar to him. But he knows age isn’t the thing to contest. What the wise seek in peace, the eager seek in tumults, and how long someone has been alive doesn’t matter there. It’s all about who a person is. However, if anyone can withstand such a journey, it would be her.

Tristan and Hydrangea come together to stand at either side of Odessa. Friends that he has seen grown up over communicators, and their loyalty to her is impressive. Hordak wouldn’t allow anyone to be around his child that may be a threat to her safety, physically or emotionally. He wouldn’t either. So he looks at each one for a moment, exhaling.

“I, like your father, and my brothers, know nothing else except Prime.” Kreed says, voice measured. “He is part of us, forever, even as we build our lives on things besides him. You know that.”

Odessa nods, eye contact not wavering.

“There is… space…”

“Space?”

“Space. In our heads.” Kreed explains. He puts a gently closed fist against his chin. “Did you note that in your study?”

“No. My experiment involved photographic memory,” Odessa says, intrigued. She leans in, “What do you mean by ‘space?’”

“It’s… an expanse,” Kreed draws another breath, then out. “I’m unsure of whether it is due to being connected to the hivemind for so long, or if this is an aspect of ourselves as a species… but in my head, there’s a void. A void that contains the knowledge we possess, but it can be filled further. The mind cannot grasp all information in the universe. It would drive a person mad. However, my mind feels similar to a larger space—perhaps a deep cavern or pit, where it stretches outward past what individuals may expect it to end.”

“The brain is a powerful organ, though,” Odessa adds. “It can store a lot more data than we can ever hope to calculate.”

“That may be,” Kreed tells her. “And I do not doubt your research. We learn new information every day. But everything has its limits, including the mind and what it can withstand. What it can hold. All three of you can keep receiving new facts until the day you die, but learning new things weakens as you age. It stands to reason that the brain, then, is finite.”

“So, this void inside your mind, does it end?” Hydrangea asks.

“I believe it does,” Kreed replies. “You see, eventually, there’s a point where everything must stop. You can be a savant on many subjects at once, or dedicate your senses to partaking of a single subject and becoming an expert on that. The mind can learn and learn and learn all it wants, but once you hit that proverbial wall, you cannot go past it. It’d be too intense of a breakthrough. Yet, for us, I can only guess that we all have the similar proclivity to recollecting more information than most could even conceive because it’s a bigger space.”

Odessa breathes out. A mind that could hold more knowledge than ever thought possible… “Talon informed me that when you are all ‘born’ there’s a wall there, too. That you cannot remember anything before that point, and everything after that is what you keep. Is that a fair assessment?”

Kreed nods, “Yes, that’s correct. I cannot remember anything before being released. That is our starting point. Afterward, it's an endless space.”

“Although, as someone that’s been alive longer than the others, is it possible you have knowledge that they don’t?” Odessa says, tone a little more enthusiastic. “Can you remember anything else from your time with the Horde?”

“Aside from what you’d expect? No.”

“I see,” she says, glancing at her companions.

Esynad touches her husband’s shoulder, looking down at him, “Perhaps our niece would benefit from visiting Rulvam.”

Odessa’s eyes widen slightly, “Rulvam?”

Tristan raises a brow, “I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned that before, Des.”

“I haven’t!” she says, louder from excitement. Turning back to Kreed, she asks, “What’s there? We have other family members living somewhere we didn’t know of?”

“Several of your uncles have gone on to other planets after settling on Inicos for a time,” Esynad explains to them, voice low and soothing. “Rulvam is a planet a fair distance from us, about the length that it took you to arrive here without a portal.”

Kreed adds, “The only difference between Rulvam and other planets we’ve made home, is that there is no portal in place.”

Hydrangea’s brows furrow together, “They don’t own a portal, or theirs isn’t working? Like yours had been?”

“The reason is unclear,” Kreed admits, glancing up at his wife. “Some time ago, we stopped receiving all communication from them. We sent out signals, to no avail; the last transmission we obtained was a positive one, telling us on Inicos that the planet was being changed for the better, and new projects were underway to bring out the best of Rulvam. Aside from Etheria, we don’t come into contact with any of our sister planets too often.”

Nano, who had been quietly absorbing the conversation, speaks, “That had been four years ago now, right?”

“That’s correct,” Kreed says, smiling at his child.

Odessa is bewildered. A planet with relatives that she’s never been to before. That’s amazing! It’s another lead that, hopefully, will uncover more about their kind.

Tristan shifts his gaze at Odessa. She’s already thinking of something new. But if there’s anything that stays consistent, it’s her inquiring mind.

Hydrangea looks at her friends, aware that they’re all pondering the same question.

Why did Rulvam stop communication?

LINEAGE LOG: DAY 730

I spoke with my aunt and uncle today about the concept of memory! It proved to be an exciting trip. In a few days, we will be taking the portal back to Etheria, as it’s now completed, and save ourselves a healthy amount of time. They didn’t mind us being here, but I believe it’s time to return to Etheria. I never mind the constant travel through space, however, it will be profitable and convenient to visit my parents sooner than later. Then, we can begin planning our next journey!

#fanfic: The Ripple Effect #entrapdak #entrapdak fankid #spop

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tsarisfanfiction · 3 years

Text

Unexpected, Not Unwanted

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: Lucille, Tracy Family

A new PoV for #fluffember day 15 - Son/Daughter. I’ve never tried to write Lucille before, but I’ve tackled Jeff a few times now so it was time to switch things up a bit. For those that haven’t noticed, I use the birth order Scott>John>Virgil in my fics, which usually doesn’t affect the stories all that much but is very important in this one!

It might not have been her intention to end up with five sons, but that didn’t mean she loved them any less.

She would never say any of her sons were an accident, because that implied a level of unwantedness that could hardly be further from the truth. She’d always wanted children, one day, excited to explore the challenges of motherhood once she found the right man to be her husband and their father.

That didn’t change the fact that her first pregnancy was unexpected. Her first absent period was the clue, the second confirmation, and from there it was a whirlwind ride of hormones no anecdotes from her own mother nor her mother-in-law could properly prepare her for. Nine long months of mood swings, pains and underlying panic that she wasn’t ready to be a mother, not so young and still in the honeymoon phase of her marriage, was rounded off by a surprisingly quick labour, for her first child.

Scott’s love of speed started early.

She hadn’t been ready to be a mother, the weight of the wedding ring on her finger still feeling fresh with less than a year since she’d received it, but one look at determined blue eyes and that didn’t matter. She was a mother, and this small, delicate child she’d brought into the world needed her.

It wasn’t easy. Jeff was gone for much of it, already dedicated to an expedition before she’d realised she was pregnant. He’d managed to be there for the birth – an anxious first-time father somehow more terrified than she was – but it was barely a month later that he was gone, leaving her to turn to her parents and in-laws for help.

Still, despite the absence of his father for much of the first year of his life, Scott didn’t seem at all daunted by the world. She didn’t know it at the time, but four more sons later and it was painfully obvious that he’d been paving the way for his future siblings.

(She wondered, sometimes, if he’d always known he would have little brothers).

John, at least, was planned. In all honesty, he was the only one that was, a nice two years younger than Scott – close enough in age to bond, but far enough apart to grow into being their own people. In a mirror of Scott, Jeff was off planet when he was born – a relatively last minute change of personnel and a reluctant baby to leave the quiet of the womb for the noise of the world combining to whisk her husband away a week before her waters broke.

Like Scott before him, John’s first year of life was largely filled by grandparents, although he also had a curious toddler poking and prodding at him with big blue eyes. She was never sure if it was curiosity or jealousy in those earliest days.

If Scott was loud and fast, then John was quiet and patient. He rarely fussed, content to sit and watch the world around him – and then the sky, after one memorable evening where she found Scott had escaped his bed and instead of running to her, as toddlers were known to do, had run instead to his little brother to point at the stars.

(She never knew what he’d told John, but from that day onwards, John always looked to the stars).

After the noise of Scott, John’s comparative silence had been a point of concern. She knew that babies were all individual, but such a stark contrast between her sons caught her off guard. It was only after a few months that she realised John was quiet because Scott made the noises for him. The big brother instinct he became known for later in life started almost immediately; somehow, he always knew when John needed something before John started to cry, and John – smart, observant John – learnt fast that it was less effort on his behalf if he let Scott make the noise instead.

Virgil, for all that he was equally spaced from Scott and John, followed his biggest brother in being unexpected. It was not that they didn’t want more children, but it was very easy to track the date of his conception back to Jeff’s return from another mission. Like John, he was reluctant to leave her when the time came, several weeks after he was due, but like Scott he was a noisy baby.

She thought that bemused Scott a bit, finding that the tricks he’d figured out for being the best big brother he could to John didn’t work for Virgil. Virgil had a big set of lungs and absolutely did not need biggest brother to talk for him. John found this utterly bizarre, but quickly and begrudgingly realised that with Scott’s attention no longer entirely on him, he had to speak up for himself, now. Much to her amusement, while Scott may not have consciously known how to big brother Virgil, despite that, as soon as he could crawl it was Scott, and not her, that he aimed for.

(Virgil always was drawn to Scott, right from the start.)

Like his brothers before him, Gordon was unique. Scott had been fast, John quiet and Virgil reluctant, but Gordon was troublesome. Another unexpected pregnancy – once again with suspicious timing around Jeff’s latest mission return – he couldn’t let anything go to plan. Complication after complication arose, giving rise to suspicions amongst the midwives that her body wasn’t fit for a fourth pregnancy.

She could never give up on him, though. Not when gentle hints were dropped that perhaps it would be better for her if there was no fourth child, that the signs were there that he wouldn’t survive to term. Not even when she was induced after a shade over seven months because the complications got too much. Gordon didn’t give up either, lungs to rival Virgil’s as soon as he realised how to use them.

(She knew that Gordon was like mithril, from the stories. Light and delicate in appearance, but stronger than the toughest steel.)

With three elder brothers, Gordon wanted for nothing. John sat by him as he read his books, letting him shriek uninterrupted and shooting disapproving looks at anyone who tried to quiet him. For a child who loved silence, he was surprisingly tolerant of noise from his brothers, as long as he was experiencing it on his own terms. Virgil alternated between a clear adjustment of not being the family baby anymore and attempts to emulate Scott by being the best big brother he could be – even if that meant letting Gordon near the paints and the carnage that always followed that.

Scott, old enough to understand now that all babies were different, watched. The same instinct that had him crying on John’s behalf resurfaced as a silent guardian, observing what Gordon liked and what he didn’t. It was Scott that first got into a water fight with Gordon, small splashes at bath time that Gordon returned with a fervour beyond anything he gave to everything else he threw himself into – a feat she hadn’t thought possible.

After the difficulties of Gordon’s pregnancy, they made the decision that they shouldn’t risk a fifth. Jeff had been terrified throughout the seven months, to say nothing of the panic in her three boys whenever Mommy went into hospital again.

In many ways, Alan was the most stubborn of the five. Unexpected in that she’d been on birth control to prevent further pregnancies, and then determined to prove them all wrong. The midwives sighed in quiet despair, Jeff returned to blind panic, and Scott – now old enough to know what, exactly, had happened with Gordon – drove himself into a frenzy to keep both her and his fourth, yet-unborn, sibling safe.

It was Scott that made the decision easier. The idea of ending a life never sat well with her or Jeff – a belief that was solely responsible for Gordon’s continued existence – and with their eldest son firmly attached to the new life they agreed to risk it, once more.

Proving Scott’s faith in him right, and perhaps trying to show up his immediately older brother, Alan was as smooth sailing as Scott himself had been, all those years earlier. Easier, in some ways, because this time she knew what to expect. Right on time, eager to follow his brothers, he’d brought himself into the world with the same determination he’d continue to face the world with.

Gordon, long used to being the baby of the family, found no use for the squealing creature she brought home. Not, at least, until Alan was big enough to become a partner in crime, at which point a switch was flipped and it was almost impossible to find one without the other, much to the consternation of the older three. Virgil, emboldened by his success at big brothering Gordon, took to the expansion of his responsibilities like a duck to water. If she ever needed a little help, it was always Virgil there first.

Much as he had with Gordon, John sat quietly with Alan. She caught him by Alan’s cot one night, pointing at the stars and patiently teaching him constellations when the youngest should have been fast asleep, and wondered if he remembered Scott doing something similar for him, once. As for Scott himself, if there was anyone who could claim to perfect the art of being a big brother, it was her eldest son. He let Virgil run ahead, because Virgil wanted to help, but he was always there one step behind, watching over both of them and ensuring Alan always had whatever he wanted. Piggy back rides were far from uncommon.

(It was clear that Alan wanted to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brothers.)

She and Jeff were blessed with five beautiful boys, even if Jeff was rarely around for their infant years, and there was nothing she would ever change about any of them. Scott was protective and bold, John quiet but sharp, Virgil calm and loyal, Gordon wild and strong, and Alan stubborn and determined. Together, they balanced each other perfectly.

(People asked if she wished she had a daughter, if that was why she had five sons? That question was barely worth an answer. Wishes implied she was unhappy with what she had, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.)

#fluffember #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #lucille tracy #jeff tracy #scott tracy #john tracy #virgil tracy #gordon tracy #alan tracy #thunderfluff

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albatris · 4 years

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ok ok alriiiight ok so the plot of ATDAO

this post is not, like........... well, it’s not gonna be a blurb or a summary or a nice neat synopsis, this is not Professional Writeblr Business, this is, this is, uhhhh

this is like drunk house party logan rambles

works best if you imagine ur just like “hey man how’s it going” super casual and I grasp you firmly by the shoulders and look you dead in the eye and just ramble all of this without taking a single breath

could I have explained in a nice neat concise "elevator pitch" sort of way? probably. mind ur business. that’s not how we do things here at albatris.org

anyway the purpose of this post is “hey people seem to know a lot about the characters and the worldbuilding and the premise but have no clue what happens in the actual story” so I’m not going to be talking about said characters and worldbuilding and premise in depth

in terms of rambles, that stuff’s been covered! this post assumes you know what Ports are, n what the nature of the ATDAO apocalypse is, vaguely what the MCs are like as people......... though I can fetch this info for you if you like

but yeah if you are coming into this post with zero prior ATDAO knowledge........... deeply deeply from the bottom of my heart: sorry

also if this is your first time experiencing One Of These Rambles

also @safe-in-the-steep-cliffs and @siarven I am tagging you because you said you would like to be tagged and also hi and also I hope y’all knew what you were in for

anyway without further ado

(visual representation of my approach to this rant, not of how complicated my plot actually is)

(my plot is not that complicated)

ALRIGHT

there are two viewpoint characters! and two plotlines which converge near the end of the story, but honestly there’s a very real possibility I will decide these are two separate books meant as companion stories to each other because I love making things difficult for myself yeehaw

ATDAO’s co-protags are Tris and Noa, best buds four years and counting. their friendship is one of the single most important aspects of the story, n the ongoing love and trust they have for each other despite the way unfolding events force their relationship to change is integral to the themes and making the heart of the story what it is. I will now proceed to not mention this friendship for the entire remainder of this post. they’re bros. that’s all u need to know. listen. listen. I have a lot to cover

so yeah, ur first key player is Tris Greer, whose parents are dicks but whose siblings are chill. most notably of said siblings there is Jacob, older brother by thirteen years, whom Tris believes is just about the coolest person on the entire planet. this plotline kicks off when Jacob gets caught in the midst of a freak car accident that kills a dude and wrecks a street corner and also somehow causes Jacob to just kind of................. blip out of existence entirely and without a trace?

n Tris is understandably horrified and distressed by Very Much All Of This, but hey, at least there are responsible adults who can look into this obviously Port-related weird disappearance and figure this mess out, right?

INCORRECT

the relevant interdimensional authorities are brought in to suss out the situation and these authorities are kind of like “hmmmm idk about this” but are all set to take Tris at least somewhat seriously until they learn the following:

that Jacob had already been reported missing to police in his home state three days earlier

that Jacob was in the midst of several ongoing personal crises and at least one nervous breakdown

that Jacob was allegedly tangled up in some real weird shit that would more than account for a disappearance under suspicious circumstances

that Tris is schizophrenic, prone to hallucinations, confusion, memory issues and quote unquote “letting his imagination and anxiety get the better of him”, and precisely zero people can actually corroborate his story that Jacob was even there are the time of the accident to begin with

and after some back-and-forth and Looking Into The Evidence pretty much everyone in any position of authority comes to the conclusion that this is just Ordinary Regular People Crimes and whatever happened to Jacob had nothing to do with weird apocalyptic energies, and that Tris is (at best) stressed out and delusional or (at worst) lying through his teeth because he knows more than he’s letting on

so Tris is forced to hop pretty quick from “I’m sure someone will handle this” to “no one believes me but I’m sure if I can find some concrete proof they’ll listen and someone will handle it” to Well Fuck I Guess That Someone Is Me

cue bizarre reality-hopping fantasy quest, which is ten times easier said than done when most of the time Tris is terrified enough just, like, going to the supermarket

he enlists the help of his new classmate Shara, amateur paranormal investigator and professional weird-bullshit enthusiast, who agrees to help him puzzle out what the fuck happened to Jacob in exchange for his assistance in mapping out Adelaide’s interdimensional “fault lines” as part of her ongoing quest to track down the source of the apocalypse

she’s got big fuckin dreams, ok, go hard or go home

slso worth noting at this point that there HAS been an uptick in Ports and their related reality-bending strangeness in Adelaide recently which is why this is of particular interest to her currently. gotta find out What Makes The Weirdness Tick, gotta find out Why The Sudden Extra Weirdness

..........and also Kai is there

Kai has no nice neat reason to get involved with the plot, Kai just likes drama and being all up in people’s personal business. Tris brings them on board for one single afternoon like “hey I will pay you some money to come to my house and fix my fucked up phone so I can listen to an interdimensional voicemail” but forgot the apparently key addendum “and then leave”

their first three chapters of knowing each other is basically Tris being like “stop inviting yourself into my house we are not friends” and Kai being like “that’s a rude thing to say to your friend. also your sister gave me the netflix password and I used your kitchen to bake pastries feel free to help yourself”

but yeah so Tris’s story mostly focuses on his quest to figure out where Jacob got yeeted to and how to get him safely home (y’all probably know a bit about The Unreality already maybe?), whilst also dealing with rising family tensions, whatever shifty stuff Jacob was involved with prior to his disappearance, and his own creeping doubts about his perceptions of reality

n I’m also saying flat out it’s not a plot that’s going the “oh the whole thing was just a delusion all along” route because ew

his psychosis is a fairly involved part of his character but the explorations around it are more to do with, like......... the difficulties he has in trusting himself and whether he has the luxury of letting himself get swept into some Big Weird Implausible Adventure when this has extremely different implications for him than it would someone else. n eventually to how his success and survival is not ~in spite of~ but specifically because of the different way he understands and interprets the world and the skills he’s developed

THAT TANGENT WAS A PERSONAL RANT IT WAS NOT RELEVANT I just have words to say on the subject of how psychosis is treated in fiction and didn’t want people jumping to the “none of it is real” conclusion anyway ok moving on

ur SECOND key player is Noa Yun, who has rather a lot on her plate right now. she’s broke as fuck and her mum is sick and her car is making Noises and she’s not getting enough hours at her job at Not-IKEA and everyone is on her back about her failing studies as if that’s a thing she has the energy to care about. feeling rather backed into a corner by life’s bullshit and her financial situation, she blatantly lies her way into a field job at the Department of Interdimensional Instabilities, because A) surely it can’t be THAT bad, and B) what does she have to lose?

so more or less what she’s doing is the equivalent of emergency services for Port-related weirdness, it’s going out and dealing with highly unstable otherworldly energies head on, navigating Weird Phenomena and bendy patches in reality......... it is, among other things, a job that’s relatively easy to get into because no one wants to touch it with a ten foot pole unless they absolutely have to

n the DII is a whole other post, this shit has lots of different functions and levels and branches and corruption and secrets and a tendency to view workers who have to go out and deal with the brunt of the apocalypse head-on as vaguely expendable and I’ve talked about it a bit before and in more Serious Words

things kinda kick off for her when in true Noa fashion she hurls herself into a dangerous situation to help out a coworker, n enters a pretty standard issue “overlap” where the barriers between universes are a little fucky, but hey, she seems to come out of it with nary a scratch, so it’s reasonable to assume everything is fine, right?

INCORRECT AGAIN

she basically gets some whacked-out otherworldly energies latched onto her that are now following her through her everyday life, and it turns out she’s starting to bend the reality around her the way certain types of Ports do, which is! obviously not ideal! she’s not exactly a Port herself, because she’s pretty sure that’s impossible, but it’s clear capital s Something happened to her in that overlap, and she doubts it’s good news. and to make matters even more disconcerting, she’s now being dogged at every step by strange visions of a child who speaks in an unfamiliar language and who seems Real Fuckin Pissed at her

so her thing is basically “I acquired fucked up reality-bending powers against my will and they might be lowkey killing me ‘cause Ports are notoriously unstable like that and also I’m haunted for some godforsaken reason” which all somehow ended up being, like, the least interesting part of her plotline for me lmao

oh and Noa also enlists the help of Shara, Because Ghosts

anyway yeah so her search to find out what’s happening to her re: Weird Children, being a Port-adjacent something-or-other, and whether there’s a way to stop her own unravelling leads her to (rogue computer programmer? mad scientist? general shifty bastard?) Laurence Marrick Thiele, who claims to have suffered a similar affliction in the past and now does some real interesting research on the subject. n this guy. well. he’s got some fuckin stuff going on

he definitely knows more about the nature of Ports than he should. also is he actually researching what he says he’s researching? also what’s with all the weird tech? also did he just straight up murder that guy Avery? all will be revealed later, maybe, if I feel like it

but yeah at about the same time as Noa goes “actually fuck this you’re shady as hell I’m out” she stumbles into, like, The Actual Reality of what Marrick is up to re: manipulating Ports and interdimensional doorways for his own gain, and the various ways this spells bad news not only for her but potentially for the entire city and anyone unfortunate enough to get caught in the crossfire, and she shifts gear to “actually you know what I’m gonna kick your ass”

there are various reasons for this, but first and foremosterly you have to understand that Noa’s got a fuckload of pent-up rage and she will bring it in full force the moment you say some stupid shit like “some people are expendable” or “it’s inevitable for the greater good”

(there’s also a fun ongoing subplot with her work at the DII where she and her team are investigating a string of strange illnesses with bizarre symptoms that appear to be spreading via obscure radio stations so that’s. happening. I guess?)

but yeah the main story here mostly follows Noa’s attempts to undermine Marrick, bastard supreme, and find a way to fuck him up before he goes, like, Full Cartoon Supervillain, n also like........... her attempts to keep up her work at the DII despite her rising paranoia that the teammates she’s growing to care about will notice her increasingly unstable state and the fact that she’s all tangled up with the very forces they’re meant to be thwarting. n along the way discovering the reality of what happened to her in The Aforementioned Overlap Incident and about her visions and such

so that’s all that. did that make sense

n she’s got a whole arc going on about trust and learning to lean on others, like, she comes into this story as a very standoffish person with lots of paranoia, she’s spent much of her life feeling like she can only rely on herself, n she’s. well. yeah, like I said, she’s got a lot of anger at the world and at the various systems that have failed her and her loved ones, n the story puts her in a position to become even more isolated

and her plotline isn’t so much “you have no reason to be angry or afraid” or her learning to Not Be, It’s more, like........... yeah you have every fucking right to be furious and of course you’re afraid! but there are people around you who love you and who will jump at the chance to defend you and who will help you carry the weight of your anger and grief and none of this needs to be yours to bear alone which is extremely cheesy

which applies to both her Weird Supernatural Goings-On as well as her regular ordinary life goings-on

I feel like Alice and Jet deserve a mention for Noa’s plotline but also this went on and on too long already so. well. Alice and Jet exist! yep. they work with Noa at the DII. I have things to say about them. I will not be saying them today

and uhhhhhh

in general, for Tris, his plotline, you wanna think, like, fantasy/adventure vibes which veer pretty sharply into horror, and for Noa you wanna think...... kinda, sci-fi mystery conspiracy vibes with a dash of some superhero bullshit maybe except not really

and that

pretty much is it I think

also the fact that Kai just invites themself into the plot for funsies and then is dragged kicking and screaming into caring about themself and making positive changes in their life means there was no convenient place in this post to be like

"oh there's also a whole major subplot about a time loop"

but there's also a whole major subplot about a time loop

goodnight! thanks for coming to....................... whatever this was! have a nice saturday everyone

#alcohol mention #just in the first little intro bit #being concise is not my strong suit! this should be apparent perhaps #tl;dr #tris's brother jacob gets lost down the back of an interdimensional sofa and tris has gotta go get him back even though #he's terrified enough just leaving the house let alone leaving this entire reality on a stupid convoluted mystery quest #and noa has a run in with some interdimensional bullshit and acquires Powers and A Ghost neither of which she wants #and then accidentally uncovers the schemes of literal cartoon supervillain marrick and is like #''oh sick i was looking for a reason to go absolutely fuckin ballistic and fuck someone's shit up''#And Both Of Them Make Nice Friends And Learn To Love Themselves :)#atdao #i constantly walk the very fine line between not wanting to be Too Vague about noa's plotline vs not wanting to be Too Spoilery about it #like............... the stuff about the kid and about marrick's endgame i'm never quite sure how much to delve into hahahaha #but yeah anyway #imo i only went on ONE mildly unrelated tangent which should have been cut but i decided to indulge it instead #which is the couple paragraphs about noa's character arc #character arcs not important for this post!!!!!! but also. dfkhgkdfjshg. try and stop me #(i mean i did pretty ok staying on track for the most part i think)#(still a rambly post though)

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meta-squash · 3 years

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Brick Club 1.8.3 “Javert Satisfied”

I know this is technically a “good thing” since otherwise Valjean’s testimony would be for nought, but everyone except the prosecuting attorney agrees that Valjean is the real Valjean. I guess some part of me would expect for everyone to still think that Madeleine had gone crazy, or to somehow still be affected by the respect and veneration for Madeleine as mayor. But that’s not the case, and pretty much everyone believes that Madeleine really is Valjean.

Quick note that the lawyers also try to pull in all sorts of nitpicky bullshit to try and get Champmathieu indicted anyway, which courts still do today.

“This sentence, containing a great many ‘of’s, is the prosecuting attorney’s, written by his own hand, on the minutes of his report to the attorney general.” Maybe I’m wrong, but I feel like the comment on all the “of’s” goes hand in hand with the earlier critique of the provincial language of the courts.

“...although the judge was a kind man and quite intelligent, he was at the same time a strong, almost zealous royalist, and had been shocked when the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, in speaking of the landing at Cannes, had said “the Emperor” instead of “Buonaparte.” A supposedly impartial person whose impartiality is a requirement for him to do his job well, actually be affected by his personal opinions and biases. I mean, that hasn’t changed in 150 years, that’s for sure. *cough Amy Coney Barrett cough* But it’s such a tiny little thing. Would the order of arrest be granted so quickly if the judge hadn’t caught that little honorific slip-up? It’s also just an example of the kind of knife-edge that things like someone’s life sits upon when in the hands of the courts. This is probably not the first case where a tiny, unrelated detail like that weighted the balance between life and death or freedom and prison for someone in this court.

Okay I don’t know anything about couriers and letter-sending and doing things quickly. If this is an official letter sent by courier, would that be one person riding horseback, without a carriage? Surely that would be faster than a horse pulling a vehicle? Especially since the deliberation went on for a little while after Valjean left the courthouse, and then the judge went in with the prosecutor, and then the letter was written and sent, but it got to Javert in M-sur-M soon enough that Valjean only had time to send his letter to Lafitte and briefly see Fantine. I’m just trying to figure out the timing of all of this.

“The buckle of his leather collar, instead of being at the back of his neck, was under his left ear. This denoted extraordinary agitation...For his collar buckle to be awry, he must have just had one of those shocks that could be called inner earthquakes.” I know the descriptions of Javert a few paragraphs later as being overjoyed means that this “agitation” is most likely shocked excitement, but I don’t know, something about this description is so weird to me. It’s the “inner earthquake” line, I think. That feels a lot more “negative” than excitement. Javert’s entire world has been shaken by this information. Perhaps it’s because this is so big. Really, it gets treated with such flippancy within the narrative, but a respected, well-known, charitable member of society in a mayoral position ends up being a wanted convict, and Javert was not only right about it, but right about it twice. That’s big for Javert himself, but it’s also big in general because it’s probably the first time Javert has ever uncovered something like this and been right about it and then told he was wrong and then proven right again. Plus the fact that he was hiding his convict identity the whole time while being a high-ranking, well-loved, leader of the community. Like, a “criminal” government official isn’t just corrupt in the usual way, he was fully a convict the whole time with a hidden identity and everything. It must be mind-blowing for him. And it’s interesting, Valjean is the only one who’s able to deliver multiple earthquake-status blows to Javert’s world throughout the book. (Valvert shippers, I’m starting to understand your perspective a lot more in this read-through than my last two.)

“...Javert turned the knob, pushed the door open as gently as a nurse or a police spy...” What an odd comparison to make. Nurse or police spy? Those are two incredibly disparate professions with totally disparate morals. Nurse implies a calm gentleness, a gentleness that is maybe nurturing or healing or at least positive in some sense. Police spy implies a much more cautious gentleness, one whose purpose is sneaky and definitely not positive towards those behind the door. How is Javert both a nurse and a spy? Unless he’s Harold Shipman, I’m not sure what to make of the connection to the nursing profession.

“Properly speaking, he did not enter. He remained standing in the half-open doorway, his hat on his head, his left hand in his overcoat, which was buttoned to his chin. In the bend of his elbow could be seen the leaden head of his enormous cane, which disappeared behind him.” Okay So this paragraph in context with the chapters before and after it are really interesting. He doesn’t enter the room at first, just stands in the doorway. He only enters the room after both Fantine and Valjean have noticed him. I’m sure there’s a good horror movie example out there, but it’s like he’s not allowed to enter until he’s noticed. Like he’s not allowed to exist for others until they see him. Does that even make sense?

“There is no human feeling that can ever be so appalling as joy. It was the face of the devil who has just regained his victim.” Man, I like the Hapgood translation of that second sentence so much better: “It was the visage of a demon who has just found his damned soul.” Like, it’s not Javert who has singularly persecuted Valjean (I mean it is, but not really), Valjean isn’t Javert’s victim. Valjean is persecuted by society, Javert is just there to collect someone already marked. He’s not the only one doing the marking. So I like the symbolism of a demon collecting a damned soul.

“Javert’s satisfaction radiated from his commanding attitude. The deformity of triumph spread across his narrow forehead. It was the full quotient of horror that only a gratified face can display.” I love this chapter for its bizarre contrast of ugliness and grandeur. Everything Javert does in this chapter is this gross, twisted version of divine justice. His joy, which should be a beautiful and pure emotion, is perverted by its circumstance. And the description of how scary a satisfied face can be is so good because it’s so viscerally descriptive. You see that exact face on every video of a cop being a racist, condescending, sanctimonious, power-hungry cunt to people on the street. That face of “I’m better than you and I have power over you and there’s nothing you can do about it so ha ha I win.” It’s more evil than antagonists who know they’re evil because Javert fully thinks that his actions and thoughts are right. And Hugo points it out here. Triumph and glee for the wrong reasons doesn’t make a person beautiful, it deforms them.

I actually love the description of how joyful Javert is because it’s clear that this is personal for him. When he arrested Fantine and sat down at his desk to write out her sentence as a one man judge-jury-executioner, he wasn’t gleeful like this. He wasn’t sad about it, he just was. He was doing a duty and Hugo even says that he was very thoughtful about it and spent time cataloguing what he saw in order to decide what to do. This isn’t the same type of detached judgement and condemnation. This is fully personal glee at being able to be vindicated.

“At that moment Javert was in heaven. Without a clear notion of his own feelings, yet with a confused intuition of his need and his success, he, Javert, personified justice, light, and truth, in their celestial function as destroyers of evil. He was surrounded and supported by infinite depths of authority, reason, precedent, legal conscience, the vengeance of the law, all the stars in the firmament; he protected order, he hurled forth the thunder of the law, he avenged society, he lent aid to the absolute; he stood erect in a halo of glory; there was in his victory a trace of defiance and combat; standing haughty and resplendent, he displayed in full glory the superhuman beastiality of a ferocious archangel; the fearful shadow of the deed he was accomplishing, making visible in his clenched fist the uncertain flashes of the social sword; happy and indignant, he had gnashed his heel on crime, vice, rebellion, perdition, and hell, he was radiant, exterminating, smiling; there was an incontestable grandeur in this monstrous St. Michael.”

I have multiple things to say about this passage so I think I’m going to break it all down into different paragraphs because there’s A Lot of different things in my brain.

First of all this is an echo--this time righteous and vindicated--of Javert’s feelings from 1.5.13. Madeleine lets Fantine go and Javert has this thought: “Or, in view of the enormities he had witnessed over the last two hours, was he saying to himself that he had to resort to extreme measures, that the lesser had to make itself greater, for the detective to turn into a magistrates, the policeman become a judge, and that in this shocking turnabout, order, law, morality, government, society itself, were personified in him, Javert?” In 1.5.13, Madeleine’s authority overruled him, protected Fantine and humiliated Javert. In 1.5.13, he is forced to accept defeat. Now, he has all of the authority, all of law and reason and justice behind him because Madeleine no longer has that same power. Javert is again the personification of justice, law, society itself, but there is not Divine Authority to stand up for Valjean as there was for Fantine. Javert is vindicated here for his earlier humiliation, with all levels authority backing him up this time.

“Without a clear notion of his own feelings, yet with a confused intuition of his need and his success, he, Javert, personified justice, light, and truth, in their celestial function as destroyers of evil.” Okay hold on wait. In 1.5.13, Javert has a moment of nearly breaking the fourth wall, nearly deciding that he needs to become a Symbol in order to restore the balance of authority and justice that he feels Madeleine has knocked askew. He is very much aware of his potential to personify Law and Justice etc. But here Hugo says that he does all of this with “confused intuition” and without a clear idea of how he feels. Interesting that when he is conscious of being able to become a symbol, he is prevented from doing so, but when he actually becomes a symbol, he’s unaware of it. Also, here’s another moment of Javert clearly Feeling Something but not fully understanding it, again a thing that only Valjean seems to provoke in him. (Oop more Valvert fodder.)

I don’t really know what to make of the superiority complex that Hugo describes here. Obviously Javert thinks that he is righteous and that he is doing a Great And Grand thing and that he is avenging society by ridding it of the scourge of the evil deceiver convict Jean Valjean. But the way Javert’s righteousness is describes feels like almost more of a “nanny-nanny-boo-boo” feeling. Is your righteousness truly righteous if you’re feeling personal satisfaction and personal superiority about it?

Javert is literally the Angel Of Death here! I know in my last post I talked about Javert as the grim reaper entering the room. His comparison to St Michael confirms this. Michael is a seraph, which are winged celestial beings with a fiery passion for doing God's good work (which is interesting to me considering how much Valjean’s symbolism is associated with fire). In Roman Catholicism Michael is the Angel Of Death who descends and gives the person the chance to redeem themselves before dying. He is also the one who will weigh people’s merits on Judgement Day. Except! Javert is Michael without mercy or patience! He judges without allowing a chance for redemption. We saw this in 1.5.13 when he sat down and wrote out Fantine’s sentence while she simultaneously explained her situation and begged for mercy. We see it now. Javert as St Michael is “monstrous,” he is the St Michael that defeated Satan, not the healing protector Michael. We even have the sword imagery. Michael used the sword to best Satan in battle; except this time the sword is “social” and to Javert at this moment, Valjean is the personification of Crime-As-Satan.

(Side note: something I love about Javert is that he as a human being isn’t really portrayed as an avidly religious person, at least not in the ways that Valjean or the bishop are portrayed as religious people. But his symbolism sure is religious. I think that’s one of the drastic differences between book Javert and stage Javert. Stage Javert is portrayed as a religious person but his symbolism is more human.)

“Probity, sincerity, candor, conviction, the idea of duty, are things that, when in error, can turn hideous, but--even though hideous--remain great: their majesty, peculiar to the human conscience, persists in horror. They are virtues with a single vice--error.” Hugo’s thought about duty done in error is so interesting. He says something similar when talking about Problem of the monastery: “To mistake a grave error for a duty has a grandeur of its own.” For Hugo, the fact of having such strong conviction alone is a grand thing. Having conviction, having a sense of duty is always a good thing--the error is not in the sense of duty itself but in what that allegiance might be to. The virtues of duty or honesty or conviction are by themselves inherently good, but they can be misused and misinterpreted and made wrong.

(Side note: This is actually a really interesting thought re: Grantaire! Hugo holds not just having beliefs but having faith in and conviction about your beliefs in such high regard. Which makes Grantaire, who is conviction-less and faithless, in the midst of all these people who are so loyal and committed to their beliefs and ideals, not a mild contrast but a massive one.)

“Without suspecting it, Javert, in his dreadful happiness, was pitiful, like every ignorant man in triumph. Nothing could be more poignant and terrible than this face, which revealed what might be called the evil of good.” God I love this line. “The evil of good” is a concept that really, really, really needs to be common usage. I feel like this line specifically really needs some in depth analysis but also I don’t really know what to say about it except that it’s just so true. Regarding Javert being “pitiful” in his happiness, this kind of reminds me of Mme Victurnien? Both think they’re doing a “good thing” and their deeds ruin lives; their triumph and feelings of righteousness are pitiful for this reason. Again, it’s the equivalent of a “ha ha I win” bully moment, but with much worse consequences. Man, I feel like this chunk needs more analysis than this but I don’t know what to give it.

#les miserables #les miserables meta #brickclub #lm 1.8.3 #les mis #les mis meta

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jeremys-blogs · 4 years

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Belos: What Does He Want?

Disney has a long history of great and memorable baddies, and with the Owl House they've given us one more to add to that list in the form of Emperor Belos, the mysterious despot of the Boiling Isles. The supreme figure of the witches who rules over them and their society with an iron fist. Throughout the first season we're told of him and his "big plans", but it wasn't until the emotionally devastating Agony of a Witch, near the season's end, where we finally saw him. And that, coupled with the actual season finale, definitely set him up as a force to be reckoned with. This is no joke villain like Yzma or Captain Hook, this is a guy that it would be most unwise to take lightly, and since our heroes have already gotten on his bad side it's likely we'll be seeing a lot of him when Owl House returns to us. But I'm not here to discuss the character, but rather his so-called big plans. Because thus far we have no concrete answers as to what Belos' endgame is or what he's trying to achieve. So today, I'm going to try and piece together what we know about his schemes and try to guess what it could be leading to.

To start off, let's just lay out what we know about Belos so far. He's been ruling the Boiling Isles for a long time (about fifty years) and established the coven system to prevent witches from mixing different types of magic. Additionally, he believes only he and those directly working for him have the right to use more than one school of magic, and that anyone who breaks away from this control he has is to be deemed an enemy of the state. He is a revered, if secretive figure in witch society with many speaking of him in a way that suggests less a leader and more a deity-like being. According to him, he is able to communicate with the Titan, the ancient corpse that makes up the Isles themselves, and that everything he has ever done has been by that creature's wishes, adding more than a touch of zealotry to his personality. And on top of everything else, we know that his plans involve getting hold of Eda's portal to the human realm, which he is at least partly successful at by the time the first season is over. Aside from that, and his clear mastery over magic, we know very little about him, though this is likely to change once the second season comes along.

Admittedly, this quick rundown of him tells us very little other than the fact that he's an incredibly powerful control freak. And as such trying to figure out his plan is going to be difficult. The one concrete thing we've been able to find out so far is that he needs the portal to the human world for some reason. And this opens up a rather interesting thing to consider. You see, at the start of the series it was established that every bizarre thing humans have in their culture is a result of something from the Boiling Isles crossing over into their world, such as griffons. And even entire species, like giraffes, can be banished there wholesale. This tells us that, at least at one point, travelling to the human world was something that used to happen a lot more frequently for the denizens of the Isles. But this has clearly changed, and it seems that Eda's portal may be the only door to Earth that's left to the witches. Because it's not unreasonable to assume that, if there were other portals out there, Belos would simply try to find them instead, rather than going for the one owned by someone famous for escaping his clutches for who knows how many years.

When I first heard that Belos was after the portal, my first suspicion, as well as the first suspicion of many in the audience I'm sure, was that his plans involved invading or conquering Earth. After all, this is a tyrant who wants to get to another world. Nine times out of ten that scenario always involved wanting to take over said world. Yet Belos outright stated in the finale that ruling Earth is "not part of the Titan's plans", indicating that he doesn't want ownership of the human realm. Now, this seemed to undermine my initial prediction of his goals, until I remembered that Belos has already shown himself to be a massive liar to others. Remember, he deceived Lilith and got her to capture Eda so he could get that portal, going back on his promise to heal her curse. So it's established rights away that he'll say anything to get what he wants. Because of this, I maintain that he pulled a similar move with Luz. Telling her he's not going to conquer Earth as simply some means of convincing her to part with the portal, only to then go back on that assurance once he actually got it. So as of this posting, I'm harbouring the belief that conquest is still on the table for him, even if he hasn't admitted to it.

However, for the sake of argument, let's just assume that what Belos said to Luz was true. Yes, I know that ascribing honesty to a dark overlord in a fantasy story is a tall order, but let's attempt it all the same. So, if we take his assurance that he's not planning to invade Earth at face value, we have to ask what other interest that world would have for him. And there was one moment in the season finale that gave me an idea of what might be happening. In Luz's brief fight with Lilith, the two stumbled back through the portal and onto Earth, and Luz attempted to use her glyphs against Lilith, only to find that they don't work. But Lilith's magic, by contrast, was successful. So we learn that Luz's brand of magic doesn't work in her own world, and only works in the Boiling Isles. This is the first time this information comes to us, and I can't believe that it's coincidence that we learn this at the same time we learn about Belos' desire for the portal. There is a chance, however small, that his plan to get to Earth is somehow connected to the fact that witch magic is the only kind of magic that works there.

I think it's also important to consider that this is a modern Disney cartoon that we're talking about, and as such it's entirely possible that we're going to get one of their more recent staples, that being the surprise reveal that causes us to question what we thought we knew about a character. And Owl House has already done this a couple of times, with characters like Amity and Lilith. Behaviour and actions that were shown as negative being revealed to have some other motive behind them that, once shown to the audience, caused those actions to be seen in a new light. Amity cut off her friendship to Willow, but it was shown that she did so in order to ensure the girl had a chance of getting into school. Lilith served the Emperor and hunted Eda down, but it was then shown that this was all in order to fix her greatest mistake and heal her sister. As criticized and maligned as the "twist reveal" has been in recent stories, Disney has already primed us for seeing Owl House as a show that gives us more to its antagonists than meets the eye, and there is no doubt in my mind that they might try to pull the same trick with Belos.

As for what that reveal might be, I have my suspicions, mostly from the fact that everything we've seen of Belos thus far has been, for lack of a better word, off. He's unlike any other witch we've seen in the show, both in his mannerism and, more importantly, in how his magic works. Owl House has been very good in establishing very strict rules for how magic goes in this world, and the one consistent rule is that, aside from Luz, witches need circles to perform it. Belos, by contrast, uses no circles, and seems to have a brand of magic all his own. And the way it seems to work just comes off as disturbing and unnatural, even when compared to some of the more unnerving imagery we've seen in the show. Additionally, his staff is unlike any other witches artefact seen so far, having more of a technological bent, rather than the wood and palismans we see in the likes of Eda or Lilith. Belos is someone out-of-step with every other witch of the Isles, and that's interesting because there's one other person in the show for whom the established rules of the Isles don't seem to apply, and that person is none other than central character Luz herself, whose differences in magic have all stemmed from her being a human, rather than a native witch.

Now, I'm sure a lot of you can already see where I'm going with this, and yes, my prediction here is that Belos will eventually be revealed to be a human who, like Luz, came over from Earth. Remember, travel between the two worlds is apparently old enough for numerous myths about creatures of the Isles to take root in the human world, and given how old those myths are, it seems unlikely that no human besides Luz has ever made the jump to the Isles before now. Also, consider that when we're given the true history of the Isles, as told by King at the start of the season finale, it makes no mention of Belos prior to his establishing of the covens and his ascension to Emperor status. As far as the Isles are concerned, the guy just came out of nowhere one day and immediately started having an influence on the place, which sounds an awful lot like Luz's own arrival. What I'm guessing here is that Belos is someone who started out much like Luz, and who went on something of a similar journey, learning about the Isles and its magic, but unlike her went in a wholly different direction, winding up as some sort of dark reflection of her and as a form of cautionary tale of what she herself might be if she stays there too long.

Imagine, for a moment, a young kid, over fifty years ago, perhaps no older than Luz. A boy who obsesses over fantasy and adventure stories, and whose interests have isolated him and made him something of an outcast among his friends and family. Then, one day, he happens upon one of the entrances to the Boiling Isles, and with his over-eager thirst for discovery, goes through. Here, finally, he has his escapism, a whole new world to explore and a fantasy epic he always dreamed of, but a dangerous and often horrific place where magic is unlike anything he'd ever expected. Though bewildered and taken in by such strange new sights, he eventually comes to a conclusion. This place is all wrong, and so is the magic. This isn't what he dreamed of when he imagined other worlds in his childhood. No, this world needs to change, and he, as the "heroic youth" from the ordinary world, is clearly destined to be the one to change it. So, he sets to it, learning all he can about this world and, more importantly, its magic. The work is long and difficult, but in the end his efforts bear fruit, and he emerges onto the scene as a powerful magic-wielder. He finally makes his presence known and, eschewing the identity of his original world, takes on a new name for himself; Belos.

Thus, Belos begins his efforts to reshape the Isles into his perfect vision, his perfect fantasy. It takes years, but finally, he manages it, becoming the undisputed ruler of all witches. Then, both to ensure that he is the only one of Earth to come here, and to ensure he can never go back to his ordinary life, he seeks out and destroys every portal to the human realm, succeeding at eliminating all but one, which will one day wind up in Eda's possession. Content that he has fulfilled his self-appointed destiny, he enjoys his position of lording over everyone else, even going so far as to use his unique human-based magic to prolong his life to experience this reality forever, making him less and less human as a result. But as the months lead into years, and the years lead into decades, his love of this new life begins to fade. And eventually, he realizes that he's made a terrible mistake. He sees the Isles not as an escape, but a prison he's made for himself. And so he devotes himself to a new cause, finding a way home. And this new plot eventually leads him to discover the final portal, Eda's portal, which he pursues relentlessly, until he finally gets his hands on it with his battle with Luz. But once again, he's denied his way out, with the portal engulfed in Luz's flames, causing him to have to try some other means of using it.

So, there's the theory. Belos is a human who travelled to the Boiling Isles and wanted the exact same things Luz did. Adventure, wanting to feel special, all of those things. But while Luz has managed to grow out of that, Belos didn't, and as a result he was twisted into a selfish tyrant who now wants to go to Earth for the exact reason he left it in the first place. Escapism, plain and simple. And he knows that human magic, his magic, won't work back on Earth, so his hope is that, once there, he can undo whatever he did to himself to make him the way that he is. His feeding on palismans? A way not to extend his life, but to alleviate the pain he feels from having already extended it himself. His day of unity? Not an attempt to unify witches, but to unite himself with his old life, and maybe whatever family he left behind. After all, it wouldn't be the first time Disney would have revealed the construction of a mysterious portal to really be an effort to reunite with lost loved ones. Taking the portal instead of asking for it to get home? Merely a result of spending decades of getting what he wants by force. Belos will, I think, be revealed to Luz as someone she herself might become, or could have become, had she not gone down the more selfless path she had walked by the time the first season was over. That's my speculation, but hey, I could just be totally wrong about it all. That'd be fine too 😅

#essay #writing #my stuff #disney #the owl house #emperor belos #luz noceda #eda the owl lady

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ymiwritesstuff · 4 years

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Aaaaaaaa the vampire Kak one was so good!!! Really love your writing! 💖 Could I ask for a continuation of it, where poor Kak's just trying his best to avoid taking blood from anyone (especially fem!reader), but he's become too weak/hungry that he needs it? That boy's already incredibly stubborn, feel like vampirism would make him ten times moreso 😔

I’m so glad you loved the Vampire Kakyoin story! And thank you for the kind words

A Different Side

Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure Part 3: Stardust Crusaders

Vampire!Noriaki Kakyoin x Reader

Summary: Despite all the help you’ve provided for Kakyoin, the vampire is still frightened of himself and a certain trait that has been kept away relatively well until now

Continuation of Isolation please read that before this one in order to understand the context better

Moments like these made Kakyoin’s insides shine with delight. A quiet moment between the two of you, your head laid gently on his lap, your (E/C) eyes closed as you enjoyed his presence next to you. Kakyoin would carefully examine your resting form with his lavender eyes, a quiet smile spread across his lips. Ever since the male had talked with you on that fateful evening, all his fears and worries had come to a halt. He could finally enjoy life with you by his side.

A part of him was disappointed that he hadn’t talked with you sooner as it would’ve improved his life much faster. However you were understanding of his situation and even after that evening, you allowed him to take his time, only visiting him when he was comfortable. It took him quite some time to gain the ability to relax in your presence as he was still unsure if he could control his potentially dangerous desires. However Kakyoin was eventually able to behave somewhat normally around you, much thanks to your support and patience, which he was eternally grateful for. You completely devoted yourself to him in order to help him. You had completely reworked your schedule so you were able to spend time with him during nights, talking with him, shopping for him and just about anything else he needed. He was soon comfortable enough to go out with you in the darkness, enjoying the chilly breeze and the sky filled with stars.

However soon a harassing anxiety made its way into Kakyoin’s mind as a sudden craving of blood hit him like a truck. The feeling of succession due to being able to withstand the need in the past was utterly destroyed as one night whilst walking along the dimly lit streets, he craved for the red substance, eyes shining with hunger as they looked at every person who walked past him. The feeling was overwhelming, his fangs grated in lust, his pupils dilated and his hands trembled as he was trying to resist the urge that almost overpowered him.

It had been a few days since the first urge to consume blood had presented itself and small bits of said urge hadn’t left him. He still felt the need somewhere in his mind, bothering him to the point where he almost began to isolate himself again. In addition to this, he had noticed his physical condition weakening, hence the current relaxation session with you. Despite the delight he felt while in your company, Kakyoin could feel the lust in him, as if it was slowly consuming him, eating his last bits of humanity.

His face twisted, he raised a trembling hand that seemed to move against his will, landing on the delicate flesh of your neck. How easily he could break that skin, dig into the flesh and drain the crimson liquid from your body. His fingers and claws gently crazed the surface, his nose already smelling the substance. He would be in top condition, his cravings would be silenced and his tongue could finally taste the delicious blood he so desperately needed. His fingers twitched. His tongue glided over his top lip. His lavender eyes shining with desire. Just a little bit. A tiny drop-

Kakyoin quickly retreated his hand from your body, his breathing quickening. That was close. Too close. He had almost given in to his twisted desires. This was exactly what he was afraid of. If he hadn’t snapped out of it, who knows what he would’ve done. He would never hurt you, he wouldn’t forgive himself if he did. But why? Why was it so difficult to resist?

The sudden movements beside you caused you to open your eyes and look up at Kakyoin who had an expression that practically screamed in fear and anxiety. You wasted no time sitting up and tending to his distraught state. “Are you okay, Nori? Did something happen?” Kakyoin’s eyes moved to you, his throat unable to let out the words bubbling in it. He looked tired, weak and he was trembling as if his cold body temperature was bothering him. You begin to wonder what caused such behavior but soon recall the feeling of a cold hand on your neck. Quickly moving your own hand to the spot where you could feel his, noticing nothing out of the ordinary. Your (E/C) eyes move to him to silently ask him what was going on.

Your guess seemed to be correct as Kakyoin’s worried expression only worsens. “(Name) I.. I didn’t mean to..” You keep your hand in the same spot, deeply thinking about everything that’s currently happening. He didn’t mean to drink your blood, you knew it. He would never do it without you knowing. However he looked very weak. During all this time you’ve been helping him and you hadn’t even thought about the fact that he needed blood. How long has he been craving it? “I.. I would never.. (Name).. I-I’m sorry I-”

“You need it, Nori. You’re becoming weaker and weaker. I can’t stand to see you like that. So please.. Drink my blood” Kakyoin’s lavender eyes widened in surprise and concern. Your selfless offer caught him off guard, his lust quickly rising to the surface once again. He was quick to try to deny you: “N-no (Name).. I can’t.. What if I.. Drink too much..?” The past fears of losing control quickly returned, making him think of the worst possible scenario. He and you both knew how much he needed blood, however Kakyoin couldn’t possibly allow himself to do it. If something were to happen, how was he supposed to live with himself?

“You have to. Who knows what will happen if you don’t. Nori I can’t lose you.. If I have to sacrifice my blood in order to keep you with me, I’ll do it” Your pleas dug into his soul like a sharp drill. He knew you were right, he needed blood in order to stay alive. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how much pain you’d be in if he were to disappear. As much as he hated it, he had to do it. A painful sigh of approval escapes his lips. “Alright.. But please.. Stop me if I.. If I can’t do it myself..” A relieved smile makes its way onto your face and with a nod, you prepare yourself for the next few moments.

Kakyoin lowers his face to your neck, his whole body lightly trembling and the smell and feeling of your blood calling to him. He could practically see the red liquid flowing through your veins under the thin skin. It almost looked like it wanted to get out and be consumed by the red haired male. Before he sinks his fangs into you, he gently connects his lips with the surface in an attempt to not only soothe you but also apologize for the fact that he has to do this. You take a deep breath, holding onto his body, waiting for the inevitable pain that will present itself as soon as his fangs pierce your skin.

And said pain quickly comes forth as you feel the two fangs sink into your neck, followed by the feeling of your blood being sucked out. Kakyoin has a firm hold of you, a part of it coming from the side of him that craves your blood. Once the taste of the substance fills his mouth, he’s unable to control his urges. He needs it more than he ever would’ve thought. Your blood is the most delicious thing he has ever had the pleasure of tasting. A part of him regrets the fact that he was about to deny such an experience from him. The texture, the taste, everything. Everything about your vital fluid makes only makes him crave for more, his vision blurring in pure excitement and lust.

You grip onto his clothes and lean your head against his shoulder. The pain is mostly gone, but this whole experience is so new that you barely know how to react. Your eyes are closed as you try to adjust to the strange feeling. The increased pressure leads you to suspect that the side of him that he was so afraid of has come through and you now know that he won’t be able to stop himself anymore. Tiny tears make their way to your eyes as the power he uses to drain you increases to the point where you can’t withstand it anymore. You gently try to pull away but Kakyoin denies your silent request by holding you tighter, a growl-like sound erupting from his throat.

“N-Nori.. I.. I don’t think I can take it anymore” You gently grip his head and guide it away from your neck. Kakyoin quickly snaps out of his lust-filled state and willingly pulls himself away, licking the remaining blood dripping from your wound. He swiftly looks at you, concern painted across his face. With a smile you assure him that you’re fine and also note his improved look. He now looks much healthier, his eyes shine normally, his skin glowing lightly. “Are you okay?” His voice has regained its usual tone, which only increases your smile. “Yeah. And you’re too” Kakyoin is relieved to hear that he was able to control himself, despite your blood making him feel forbidden things.

You quickly pull him into a kiss in which you can taste the remains of your blood on his lips. He wraps his arms around you in a manner that radiates warmth and care. He’s happy to have someone like you in his life, helping and supporting him when no one else could. Kakyoin makes a silent vow within his mind to protect you from everything that could ever hurt you. This includes the side of him that would surely crave the delicious fluid flowing through your body again in the future.

#jjba #jojo #JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #jojo's bizarre adventure x reader #jojo part 3 #jojo's bizarre adventure stardust crusaders #noriaki kakyoin #jojo kakyoin #jjba noriaki kakyoin #jjba kakyoin #kakyoin x reader #noriaki kakyoin x reader #jjba x reader

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we-live-in-a--society · 3 years

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Nulla dies sine linea

Line.

A blunt, straight-edged cut that divides the surface into twain separate expanses, or a curve, soft and feminine – a contrast for what is stern and malevolent – a pair that undeniably completes itself, deprived of all the flaws, yet soaked within, exemplary balance of two factors.

Equilibrium.

Turmoil, sleeplessness that is supposed to bring answers – a foolish hope of an at-halt man.

Outdated ways of thinking, of perceiving reality, the ones that prevent a person from seeing any alternative, an entirely new approach, a breakthrough that results in remarkable success.

Uniqueness – a pursuit never meant to be achieved.

Truism that holds all the components of the world, a design of another restless demiurge, a greater one maybe, yet a parallel for every single creator, architect of his own destruction.

The Lambs, lost in post-delirium state of an incompetent mind.

* * *

Smoke has never ceased to mesmerize him, the fluency of transferring into billowing shapes that it acquires, only to evaporate moments later – a fleeting notion, so difficult to capture, which might be the exact factor that makes it so appealing to the eye, so desired, a conviction that it is only a matter of seconds required for the vapor to dissolve. Fire has always hit him with a similar impression – hypnotizing, yet fascinating, in possession of a power that he could only dream of obtaining, the one that could easily destroy acres of land, leaving only the grotesque stumps behind – remains of prior imperiality.

Crystal used to rant about how ‘those cancer sticks’ are going to kill him one day, how each of them reduces his life expectancy, how it is even possible for a person to be so blind, so ignorant, so coarse... Truth to be told, he doubts whether she, indeed, cared about his well-being that much, suspecting an entirely different outcome, even more straightforward; she liked to stand out of the crowd, a single woman bathed in the mist of smokers, inhaling the pungent scent either way, as if her perseverance, or maybe stubbornness is a better word, made any difference here – a gloss of irrationality.

Simplification: she was just a pain in the ass.

Past tense.

Either way, he somehow managed to tolerate such behavior for exactly fifteen days, then broke up with her, though she never failed to amuse him, such a frivolous, little girl who took a liking into playing adults, not even referring to her age. He has never believed in such absurd concepts, age as a life-defining factor, ultimate description, featuring every single aspect imaginable – paradox, blatant simplification, something that people seek out in their free time to paraphrase the reality – a trait of the weakest, majority of population.

Such a shame to be a human.

Deep in his reverie, he fails to notice that the cigarette is almost smoked to the filter until it literally burns him, a telling sting in between his fingers, slight but still unpleasant, enough to toss the remains on the street – a dole to society. He catches a glimpse of the smoldering tip, before it disappears into the night, swallowed by the darkness, blinded by the city lights – another contribution to the transience of the temporal world.

Truth to be told, the rooftop has always been his favorite place in this fungous building – a coalescence of equally moldy flats – with the view spreading across miles of urban estates, skyscrapers, and parks. It bestows him with a certain understanding that in spite of his lifelong inhabitance of said space, he is never meant to reveal all of its mysteries, cover every square meter of land, which in turn evokes this peculiar feeling of pettiness, the one he absolutely loathes – helpless man within a harmful world.

Nevertheless, he can either accept, or deny it, while keeping in mind that the latter is a trait of permanently stupid, close-minded people – a group that he wishes to collaborate with at last, if ever. It reminds him of a sect, less formal obviously, yet the analogy is obtuse: one sacrifices the prospect of self-development on behalf of leading a facile life – a blessing as some of them might say.

But not him.

What is beneficial about flatting out one’s existence? Rolling it out to the point where it is almost impossible to surmise whether there is a carpet sprawling on the floor, or the woodblocks are just bumpy? To make sure that there will not be any need to pay the professional to deal with said issue?

Worthless.

Aside from the cult-related illations, he senses yet another alteration lingering in the air, a distinct notion that shifts his focus, akin to a smell of a freshly cooked bacon that tickles one’s nose in the morning, prompting to lift the heavy eyelids, a burning sensation of being watched, even if for a split second, spreading over the flesh of his back, until he is forced to break the logy lull.

“Fancy a cigarette with me?” A thick timbre that slices through the silence, clearly startling the intruder, evident in a startled gasp that the person utters.

“I thought no one comes here,” a silvery voice, definitely female, accompanied by a telltale clink, signalizing that the woman is approaching his sitting spot.

“That would be ignorant, don’t you think?” He remarks, fingers dipping inside a package for another cigarette. “To deprive yourself of the opportunity to see the city from such exceptional perspective.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she shrugs, flopping down on the concrete beside him, gaze flicking to meet his – green interfering with grey – topping it up with a subtle, polite smile thrown in his direction. Her face seems familiar: unlined, with round eyes and shapely nose, prompting that their paths must have crossed somewhere in the past, which evokes a burning need to ask about said issue, followed by a blunt query.

“You live here, don’t you?” He mutters indistinctly with another cig pushed in between his lips, flicking a lighter to ignite the flame.

“I do,” she affirms with a refined nod, hand reaching out to draw the coattails together, as if to keep herself warm, exhaling a billow of air through her nose, visible due to the low temperature. “Is the cigarette still available?”

“I think so,” he flashes her a fleeting smile as the package tilts in her direction, inclining the woman to help herself, to which she complies, fishing out a single fag. He lights it up for her with seemingly no effort – a proficient manner of a long-term smoker – watching her drag on the cig as if anticipating her to choke on its contents, but nothing like this happens. Instead, she lets out a puff of smoke that forms another bizarrely shaped cloud, soon to evaporate with the cool, autumn breeze – another ephemeral prove of world’s temporality.

“You are that painter, am I right?” She conjectures, glancing at him briefly, as if his reaction was supposed to affirm the surmise.

“Should I be concerned that you know about my trade?” He cocks an eyebrow at her – a cunning, seemingly playful banter.

“I thought artists aim for being renowned,” she remarks with a sarcastic tingle that he subconsciously notices, either way decides against acknowledging for now. “But no, I’ve been told that someone with such occupation lives here, and it someway fits you, I mean in appearance.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he laughs, a throaty chuckle laced with a hint of harshness that comes from smoking.

“I wouldn’t say it surprises me,” she mimics his manner – a refined smile playing upon her lips – although not daring to crack yet. One of his friends would claim that if someone is interested, he, or she in this case, will subconsciously attempt to copy your gestures – knowledge that is supposed to be a key to success, at least according to his assertions.

(“I guide others to the treasure I cannot possess.”)

“You never told me why you chose come here,” he interjects after a few longer intervals, enlaced in a peaceful silence, if one excludes the metropolis din, dull and monotonous.

“Well, you didn’t ask,” she eludes, but carries on either way, her voice oddly tranquil in the mist of hectic city. “The explanation is simple: look down. They all seem so far-away, departed from our reality, unable to perceive the world in terms of integrity. I think sitting here gives you an entirely different perspective, allows you to see all the obvious correlations, the ones that they consistently miss.”

“In case someone would want to involve more deeply, am I right?” He retorts – a question that needs no verbal answer. “I think of it more like a paradox: we see more, yet less at the same time, the details long forgotten at such altitude.”

“Are any of those important to you?” She carries on with the queries, glancing at his briefly, as if to affirm whether he is serious. “Those, people, those trifles?”

“Nah,” he counters, flashing her another teasing smirk, “I disagree for fun.”

“Is ‘disagreeing for fun’ a trait of artist in general, or just your trait?” She laughs this time – a pearly chuckle that he finds oddly charming – as the cigarette slips from her fingers, following its path on the concrete sidewalk a few floors below. “Don’t take it personally, or even seriously. I don’t generalize, and to be honest I think it’s a holdover.”

“Trust me, I don’t,” he throws her a mild smile, his ember quick to follow its twin traces. “Also, sorry I haven’t introduced myself earlier,” he adds, luckily without bothering to shake her hand; she doubts whether there is anything worse than that, “Alexander.”

“Serena,” she reciprocates, holding the eye contact for a few longer moments – an affirmative gesture.

“It suits you,” he remarks, eyes glinting with an emotion she is yet unable to place, and so decides to shove aside for a while, soon to be back on the abandoned track of thoughts.

“Alexander…” she begins, letting it reverberate for a little while – time required to formulate a surmise, “like Alexander The Great?”

“Nah,” he chuckles, “like Graham Bell. My mother was particularly fond pf telephones, ‘such life-changing devices’, she would say.”

“To be honest I’ve never given names much thought,” she professes, running a single hand through her windswept hair, their texture silky in between her fingers, “I take them more as a-”

“Form of classification, I know,” he interrupts, spurring her to glance at him, both eyebrow raised, visibly caught off guard. “Quite a rare point of view if you’re asking me.”

She only hums in response, her eyes glued to the cityscape ahead, a bunch of high-rise buildings with most lights already extinguished, considering all the ‘sane’ people are fast asleep by now, with yet another question lingering on the tip of her tongue, curiosity waiting to be satiated.

“Why have you chosen to be an artist?”

“I wouldn’t say this is something you ‘chose’,” he frowns, two thin lines stressing out his relatively youthful face – an inclination that he might be right at the cusp between mid- and late-twenties. “It is more about going with the flow, doing things because you find certain pleasure in them, not a formal occupation with all those scraps of paper that people like to label as ‘employment contracts’. Plus it’s not my only ‘job’, considering I manage to pay the bills on time.”

“Okay,” she acknowledges with a fleeting nod, so subtle he suspects it to be yet another half-conscious implication of his mind, “but that still doesn’t answer my question.”

“Patience is a virtue,” he teases, an expression comparatively close to amusement enlightening his features. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Never heard of it before,” a flat response, betraying her mild impatience, “but do go on, I’m all ears.”

“Before I move on to the due story, it’s essential to know that my old man was a hippie,” he begins, green enlacing with grey once more. “During my childhood, I barely saw my father, so I used to idealize him as any kid would do, considering his constant absence – quite a simple mechanism if you’re asking me,” another fleeting glance thrown towards her, “and yet, when he wasn’t busy doing hell knows what, he taught me about aspects that appeared more useful to me at that time than all those school rules and down-to-earth expectations from my mother. He taught me how important it is to be free, to go your own way, and stand for what you consider essential, so I did that and almost got kicked out on the street for falling behind on rent.”

“Well,” she shrugs, as if not quite sure how to react, “some social standards are impossible to outrun.”

“It’s not even about that,” he contradicts with a graceful flick of his wrist, too dapper to appear as dismissive, “he was… how to formulate this properly… detached from reality, which is something that I realized during my teenage years, yet was unable to make a use of at that time,” he explains, quick to resume after a brief interval of silence. “Summing it up, I paint because I find certain pleasure in the activity itself, not to make some real money.”

“So are you working on anything particular?” She carries on with the questions, as if genuinely interested in what he is saying, not that he finds said aspect surprising. Something about him has always seemed to attract various kinds of people, maybe encouraged by his pertinent remarks, quick wits, or the general charm he oozes with, as if an intrinsic part of his body’s chemistry.

“Currently? Nah,” he shakes his head in denial, longish hair flowing around, skimming the tops of his shoulders, and luring Serena to run her fingers through the beach waves, to finally verify whether they are, indeed, as silky as they look like.

(Quite a weird thought if you are asking me.)

“Creator’s block? Is that so?” She nags further, as if irking him up already managed to situate itself in between her very special penchants.

“Something like that,” he huffs dismissively, pique evident in his manners, evoking the need to carry on with said intension.

(Mmm… that’s a bingo!)

“I hit the nail on the head, haven’t I?” She teases, too impudent for his tastes – a matter meant to be rectified in due course, another conception already blossoming underneath his skull, a brainchild soon to be implemented.

“Um, maybe you have,” he mutters indistinctly as he slips an unlit cigarette in between his lips, “which gives me a wonderful idea, if I’m being honest.”

“What kind of idea?” She inquires further, aware of the indispensability of said contribution, and despite knowing him for less than half an hour, she would have to be blind and deaf to miss his performative tendencies, topped with self-centered attitude – a form of paradox in itself: decoy and deter.

“Would you mind if I painted you?” He proposes, out of nowhere, snorting when he hears her choke on own saliva. The variety of reactions in this case is something that he still has not fully gotten used to: from the bewildered silence to excited squeals, each of them beautifully exceptional in some sort of way, or at least not overly repetitive.

(Uniqueness is for fools.)

“Excuse me?” She utters a brief moment later, as soon as she manages to compose herself, voice tremulous – a display of confusion and fuel for his amusement, gasoline to put out fire with.

“You’ve heard me,” he replies bluntly, exhaling a ring of smoke through his mouth, as if her response was not even included in the list of all current subjects of interest.

“I mean, um, I don’t know,” she fumbles with the words for a couple of seconds, as if not quite certain which one to pick. “I didn’t expect you to make such request.”

“Think it over then,” he suggests with a carefree banter that she finds a little annoying at this point, “I’m in no hurry.”

“But when-”

“Save the w-questions,” he cuts in, shushing her with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “It’s a simple, yes-or-no matter, plus I have no answers to any of them yet.”

“I don’t know if I should trust you,” she admits, long nails scratching the side of her face, as if it was supposed to relieve the tension and reclaim the focus.

“That’s okay,” he shrugs with suggestive smile adorning his lips – a prelude to whichever impure thought he is just about to verbalize, “I don’t trust myself either.”

“That’s not as reassuring as I would like it to be,” she chuckles – a girlish display of nervousness, or maybe a part of well-developed play, considering his doubts when it comes to whether he is able to read her like an open book by now, not that it lies out of his ability range in general.

“Okay, S,” he disrupts, dumping the half-smoked cigarette aside a brief moment later – a signal that he is just about to leave her here to own company, as if standing up was not clarifying enough. “no pressure. Supposing you make up your mind about this, you know where to find me.”

And with that he walks away, swallowed by the gloom prevailing the staircase, steps echoing in the dusty corridor.

Damn him.

* * *

To begin with, there are a bunch of aspects that can be easily associated with empty flat, solitude being the very first one of them in his case – room bathed in a daylight, clear and bright, such an unusual occurrence during the fall season. Almost blinding upon his face, eyelids forced to shut, as he decorates the ashtray with leftover ember, mashing in into the glassy surface, all remains turned to dust, black powder meant to be taken with the city breeze.

The habit of smoking by the open window should not concern him anymore, since the lingering smell makes no difference for the lone smoker, and still, each subsequent attempt to drop the subject ends up with following the well-known path either way. Said inference entails another one: certain aspects appear to be labelled with a transcendent meaning that walks one through life, upbringing for instance, what parents pass on their children – questionable balance of benefits and burdens – a lead to the final conclusion, a reason why he has to catch a cold every fall season, considering he rarely bothers to put on a coat – ludicrously futile pursuit.

A passing opportunity, bright daylight but no brushes, no easels, no paints, just a half-empty space, the aforementioned objects nestling in the corner, as if intending to express their permanent resentfulness, a silent question why he does not bother to flash them even the most insignificant glance. In the late night hours, he can almost hear their faint whispers, pleas for attention, paired with the jeering mockeries, all addressed to him, reminders that he is heading straight towards the inevitable lunacy, unless, of course, he gets back on track with all the abandoned works.

Highly improbable, considering the time expanse dividing his encounter with Serena from the present situation, rather unfavorable in his case, but also immune to any significant changes – such a life-defining paradox. At some point, he even dared to ponder asking her to come by, but then again he has formed a conclusion that the outcome might be his last intention, if not entirely omitted, having her perceive him in terms of some pathetic desperado who he is unable to sense when is the right time to let go.

People are truly the oddest creatures.

Final verdict followed by something else – a ring, a tearing noise that slices the lull into twain harsh pieces, all blunt, sharp edges, an exhortation to open the door and whisk away the thoughtless intruder, foolish to disrupt him during his time-out. With an exasperated huff, he moves towards said object, unlocking it with a deft flick of his wrist, and so revealing the visitor – a woman, moderate in her motions, hands shoved deep inside the pockets of her trench coat.

Speak of the devil.

“Seems like you’ve made up your mind, huh?” He greets her, first words that come to the mind as soon as his eyes land on her silhouette. The garment itself reminds him of one of his past girlfriends, or rather her clumsy attempt to surprise him with lack of clothing underneath back in his college days, times when he considered most of the career opportunities to lie sprawling within his reach, followed by the caustic awakening soon after the glorious drop out.

“Seems like I have, indeed,” she affirms, chin tilted upwards to meet his scrutinizing gaze, laced with undertones that she is unable to define yet, a manner that she has always associated with botanist examining his subject, spotted merely a few minutes ago.

“Would you like to come in then?” He proposes in time with a graceful step aside, exposing a sliver of his flat to her curious eyes – a bright room, lacking in almost all furniture that have a wide appeal in most houses, at least according to her observations, as if the oddity itself was calling her in.

Intending to find out what else might be hidden inside, she accepts his informal invitation, stepping past the doorway, her surmise soon to be confirmed – an open space with celling-high windows, oriented to the east, and a bunch of objects propped in the corner. On the side, a simple bed pushed up to the opposite wall, adjoining the compact kitchenette – a view that leaves little, if anything, to her imagination, display of exemplary minimalism.

“Tempting, isn’t it?�� She cannot help but flinch at the low rumbling of his voice from behind her, a distinctive word, as if signifying a pending promise, an implication impossible to ignore.

“What precisely?” She manages to utter, concealing the incertitude evoked by the odd emphasis, all while he appears to be perfectly aware of her inner perturbation as his hands ghost over her shoulders, eliciting a surprised gasp from the woman.

“The liberty of open spaces,” he clarifies, smirk audible in his voice – a component that she finds rather annoying – blatant amusement, purposely on full display. “Let me take your coat.”

“I’ll manage,” she flashes him a brief glance, immediate to slip her arms out of the sleeves and hand over the garment, leaving him with no other choice than hang it in the wardrobe.

Deciding to have waited long enough, she walks towards the middle part of said main room, indicating to familiarize with the view sprawling just past the windowsill, while he is busy with all the essential preparations – a part that remains almost unnoticed to her until the jarring scrape reverberates in the air, enough to attract her attention. As he moves the easel towards its designed spot, she wonders how many people, or more precisely – how many women, he has brought here before he met her, intending to capture them even in the most vulnerable state, a fleeting expanse of time branded on the blank canvas, an opus for the clueless generations to ponder upon.

“So,” she clears her throat, following the query, “how are we gonna do this?”

“Without making you feel uncomfortable,” he mutters, in process of tying his hair in a messy bun on the back of his head, features now on full display: high cheekbones and sharp jawline obscured by the reddish stubble. “It’ll be visible, trust me.”

“No, I mean-”

“No?” He interrupts, lips laced in a teasing smirk, head tilted to the side, cocking an eyebrow at her in a manner that reminds Serena of some posh aristocrat, flirting with his love interest, but at this point she suspects it might be just an inherent part of his demeanor, approach towards women in general.

“I mean, where am I supposed to stand?” She queries, followed by a refined, although not suppressed, laugh – something that he has learned to associate with her mannerisms overall.

“I’m not sure yet,” he scrapes his nails over the chin – a signification of wonder. “We’ll try a couple of settings, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” she nods in affirmation, albeit quick to verbalize a newfound doubt. “Should I change?”

“Nah,” he waves her off with a dapper flick of his wrist, “I believe your personal choice of clothing is a form self-expression, and I want my models to look more organic, and by saying ‘organic’ I mean comfortable and self-assured with their appearances,” quite a fair explanation, she thinks. “Of course, if you are willing to strip, you can strip, that’s neither an issue nor something new to me, but there’s no pressure, as I mentioned.”

“Mmm… how diplomatic,” she almost purrs, sarcastic manners that fit in his tastes quite dearly, captivating yet caustic, enticing yet eerie, with an underlying promise, bulging just below the surface, meant to soak through the papery layer.

One of many reasons why he has always troubled with finding the right person, although is far from considering himself in terms of a delirious perfectionist with non-satiable cravings, searching for one sublime muse that would give his works meaning, pristine essence, remedy for all maladies, liquid to wash away the dirt. Truth to be told, the situation presents itself as no more no less than a mere cakewalk, which might as well be a polar exaggeration in such case, but either way it never appears to deny the existence of one distinctive aspect, appealing to him in almost every setting possible – freedom of speech, sparring match of two equal opponents, field for discussion, for development, for enrichment, mutual agreement laced with a hint of disparity, merely a flick of a lighter.

Ignition. Initiation.

Inception.

“You’re not listening to me,” a sentence that snaps him out of the trance, crawls in between his thoughts and pulls the threads apart – such an odd association – a slide to the temporal reality.

“I’m not,” he reaffirms, a ghost of what might as well be a smirk lacing his lips, as if to keep up with the ‘cheeky bastard’ profile, “so would you be so kind and reiterate that for me?”

“You don’t have much furniture,” she begins, a statement obtusely simple yet seemingly incomplete, gaze skimming past the empty space only to interfere with his in the end, pupils narrowed due to harsh brightness.

“Thank you, darling,” he smiles, seemingly polite – a well-sculptured façade, she has to admit, “I wouldn’t have noticed elsewise.”

“So I thought…” she carries on, not quite bothering to acknowledge the sarcastic remark, “maybe I could sit on the sill, since the light seems to do us a favor today.”

“Let’s try it out then,” he concurs almost at the spot, gesturing towards said window, to which she complies, helping herself up on the narrow seat, back supported by the wall, ruffling her hair to add some extra volume.

(Now that is interesting.)

“Is that acceptable?” She glances towards him, as if his countenance was supposed betray the intensions – highly improbable display of lacking control – although he would be lying if he said it strikes no cord within him, passes by without acknowledgement, without a single though occurring to be verbalized.

“Yes, darling, you look lush. Now focus,” he bestows her with a quick compliment, although definitely short-lived, his main interest now shifting towards more pragmatic matters. “Before we begin, you should know it’ll be exhausting, or fatiguing maybe, I don’t intend to hyperbolize, but tell me if you need a break.”

“Sure,” she nods, wriggling a little bit to find the most convenient position for those few following hours, “but I believe we’ll find a way not to bore each other out.”

“I believe we will,” he hums in agreement, pencil already in his hand, soon to initiate the process, graphite gliding smoothly over the canvas in a manner that reminds her of a longtime dancer in his natural habitat.

“You’re left handed?” She remarks, eyes glued to his movements from behind the easel.

“I vary,” he replies, ever at ease. “Although I happened to be called a communist from time to time in primary school.”

“What?” She laughs in disbelief, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

“It was a catholic one,” he glances at her briefly, with a sardonic smirk playing upon his lips. “I think that explains itself well enough.”

“Okay, but why a communist?” She carries on with the queries – a matter of incredulity.

“For some reasons they associated left-handedness with devilish collusions or, as I mentioned before, communism,” he shrugs, his gaze now glued to her face, although not quite meeting her eyes, quick to add a bunch of adjustments on the canvas. “No idea why.”

“Why did you went there then?”

“Well, I was just a kid,” he explains, impatience striking the chords. “My mother made that choice for me.”

“Seems like you managed though,” she remarks, voice laced with a subtle hint of carelessness, as if mimicking his manners, yet galvanizing them with something else – an act of subduing, partial eclipse, moderation.

“Well, I started smoking in the eighth grade and somehow went through,” he admits in a feignedly serious manner, chuckling at her frowning expression. “Christ, it’s just a joke, although I’m glad to be past that stage. It was too… restricting for me.”

“I think it’s every system’s main purpose – to restrict,” she reckons, glancing at the passing cars a few stories below. “But I also don’t have many fond memories concerning my pre-higher educational stage.”

“So you’re in college now?” She hums in agreement. “Well, I dropped out after three terms, I think.”

“Why?”

“I realized it didn’t matter,” he explains as if it was supposed to be the most evident absolute ever encountered. “At the beginning I thought it would allow me to discover fresh ideas, strengthen my expertise, but the professors mostly kept blathering about things that I’ve already come across at some point in my life, and to be honest it felt like a massive waste of money, and most importantly – time.”

“What were you studying?” She asks, most likely out of plain curiosity.

“Journalism,” he reveals, accompanied by a sarcastic snort, “but I intended to mix it up with sociology at some pointed, then switched to philosophy for a while, which actually helped me realize what a great waste it was, at least in my case.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she shrugs, noticing him switch from the pencil to brush, first few paints being squeezed out on the wooden palette. “If we look at education more objectively, I think we can risk saying that reading is the only necessary skill to acquire, and then you’re good to go.”

“Mmm… it’d be more interesting if you disagreed though,” he hums, as if genuinely displeased with the outcome, brush sweeping over the canvas with almost flawless agility that reminds her of a dancer once again, graceful and elegant.

“Then make me disagree,” she concludes, one finely sculptured eyebrow perking up in a teasing manner.

“Should I take it as a challenge?” He baits, glancing at her briefly as an essential.

“Take it however you want,” she replies, ever so carelessly, almost able to set the bar as high as he has once managed to.

“So what are you studying then?” He resumes after a brief moment, gaze glued to her figure in a scrutinizing manner that she finds slightly disturbing, still uncertain how she is supposed to perceive the given adjective – enticing – as seductive or maybe lethal?

“Criminology,” she informs bluntly.

“And what do they teach you there?” He asks, not quite bothering to look at her this time, engaged in searching for the most accurate color proportions – cinnamon mingling with some darker, much cooler shade.

“They teach me about criminal behavior,” she enlightens, an information so indecently obvious that she would find it offensive if uttered toward her.

“And more specifically?” He continues, as if not taking her point, or at least deciding not to indicate it.

“Its biological, psychological, and social causes,” she clarifies, unable to fight the faint shiver running down her spine as a response for the blatant acuteness he eyes her with, caught off guard for a brief moment, hopefully not long enough for him to notice, “so you can safely assume it’s sociology-related.”

“You think it’s the only place where you can learn that?” He quires, as if aiming to pop holes in her outlook, see if it holds up as sensible as it appears to be now.

“No, but it’s the only place where I can get the diploma,” she eludes, flashing him a refined smirk, as if ready to assume the inevitable victory, “since I would like to pursue with this line of work in the future. Although I believe that certain aspects lay beyond education.”

“Aspects such as?” He mutters, seemingly half-preoccupied with his work, stroking the canvas in formerly omitted areas, lighter shades now in use.

“The intuitive component,” she specifies, while he sets the items aside, abandoning the previously heeded canvas, “you either have a hunch where to seek out the truth, or you don’t, which I think is rather obvious.”

“Exactly,” he agrees, quick to snatch a pack of cigarettes from the kitchen counter. “Although I believe we should equalize the two components, since evidence influences the intuition, or the other way around, and it’s better to keep that in mind for more objective judgments.”

“Yeah, that’s obvious,” she reaffirms, pushing herself off the sill, landing on the floor with a quiet thud.

“I hope so,” he mutters indistinctly, cigarette already slipped in between his lips.

“We’re taking a break now?” She ascertains, quick to step aside in order to make a room for him by the sill.

“Yeah,” he nods, reaching out to open the window, cool air hitting her face, goosebumps rising on the exposed parts of her flesh, “and wait till the first layer is dry so that I could add some details.”

“So you have the background now?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head in denial, flicking the lighter with a barely audible click, “I had it prepared before. It was my very intension to paint you on the sill.”

“What if I wouldn’t have agreed?” She speculates in a teasing manner, ever so subtle he questions his abilities when it comes to judging whether it is a matter of fact, or yet another insinuation of his mind.

“Then we would’ve find a way to make you,” he banters, exhaling a cloud of smoke through his mouth, soon to be taken away with the fall breeze.

“Sure, don’t sweat it,” she replies in a careless manner, as if intending to nip the barely existing zeal in the bud, eliciting a horse chuckle from him. “Mind if I take one?” She asks then, having decided to cut the topic short, gesturing towards the pack of cigarettes on the counter.

“Well, that’s the only one left,” he laughs, glancing at the smoldering fag between the two of his long fingers, stained with carob paint that overlaps four runic symbols tattooed on his skin, “but we can always share.”

“That’s very kind of you, indeed,” she purrs with an ever present hint of sarcasm evident in her voice, nevertheless takes a drag from the offered cigarette, soon to be snatched from in between her lips by the greedy partner.

“I see you’re a man of generosity as well,” she huffs – a display of irritation, extending past the point where she considers repaying him in kind, even if for a brief moment.

“In capitalistic society you gotta work for your expenses,” he retorts, eliciting a pearly chuckle from the woman, outcome that she finds rather odd – his fluency and deftness in evoking contradict reactions from her.

“You’re relentless,” she laughs, shaking her head in amusement, either way leans towards him once more as he brings the cigarette to her lips, cheeks hollowing in time with the inhale.

“Can’t say I disagree.”

And with that he slips it out of her mouth, almost smoked to the filter, stealing one last drag, before he tosses it out of the window, soon to join its predecessors fouling on the streets.

Damn him.

* * *

A few weeks have passed since their last encounter, time essential for him to complete the project, merely disrupted by his mother’s attempts to call him, asking whether he is coming home for Thanksgiving.

Seems like three times is not always a charm.

Nevertheless, life has been good to him, sparing most of the nuisances that never fail to come along at some point, clinging to him like a limpet, until he collects the willpower to tear them all off, adorned with bloody pulp that once used to be an inherent part of his flesh. Some would claim it is not worth it, to sacrifice oneself for any profits, no matter how considerable, no matter how the so-called balance of benefits and burdens presents itself, to pursue but also prepare to face the consequences of one’s choices.

But placing any result above it?

Understanding this attitude has formed quite an issue for him since the very first attempt of cogitation – profound, not periphrastic – leading to one fairly important conclusion – immaturity is what clears out this path, paired with incapability, with imprudence, leaving only cinders behind – matter of self-destruction. Sinfully tempting, to burn it all down and begin as a newborn man – Child of the Ashes, Phoenix that raises from charcoal embers, shaking off the excess dust to despair of all sceptics.

Although he considers it as not necessary the easiest way available, he prefers to let this challenge shun him, regardless how interesting it might come out as in the end, since annihilating his lifelong ‘legacy’ is currently the last intension, supposing it even counts as one. Development has always appeared as more momentous to him, using anything in possession to form what one labels as artwork, not only in the narrow understanding that applies to exhibits and museums but also as an everlasting creation, as satisfactory as possible, reaching beyond the conceptual realm.

An ulterior motive of his.

With reasoning not quite as clandestine.

“I knew I would find you there,” a melodic voice, definitely female – déjà vu, throwback to their first meeting, enhanced by the prevenient notion, inkling that he was being observed, even if for a split second.

“You’re very astute,” he remarks with a lingering tingle of sarcasm, a tune raspier than she remembered, sending an unresolved shiver down her spine, fueled by the cold weather. “But I assume you’ve came here for a reason, haven’t you?”

“Look who’s a wiseacre now,” she chaffs, nevertheless quick to approach him, steps echoing on the dusty concrete. She perches down next to him, gaze glued to the blunt edge for a brief moment, required to restrain from dangling her feet off the edge – devil’s incitement, belonging to the conceptual realm, never meant to be carried out in reality.

(What if I scratched his car? Spilled hot tea on him? Seized his bag? What would he do? Would he make me pay? Scream? Call the cops? What if…?)

“I’ve came to ask if the painting is ready to be seen,” she rectifies, her head held upward, eyes gleaming with some odd determination, unplaceable, obscured yet visible enough for a perceptive man, the one who knows where to look.

“What would you do if your mother asked you to come home for Thanksgiving?” He ignores her question – a fill-in for time, purpose hold-up, verification of her intents.

“Depends on the relationship I had with her,” she bestows him with a rushed explanation, right according to his suppositions.

(Such a clever man I am.)

“If I wanted to signify I take it as an essential, I would come. Otherwise – not really.”

“That’s what I thought,” he nods slowly, as if hesitantly, which might as well be a misconception, not a fit for his usual demeanor, rather drawing out the act for suspensive purposes.

“So you’re not coming?” She attempts to clarify as if her patience was running thin, most likely fueled by an occurrence from the recent past, partially his seemingly never-ending queries.

(What are you hiding from me, kitten? Claws?)

“Nah,” he shakes his head, meaning to carry on with the explanation, “each time I’m around her, I tend to doubt my abilities to remain calm,” he exhales, as if to get rid of all the pent up frustrations, bulging just below the surface, protected, or rather prevented from being discovered by the wrong person. “And so, years ago I came to one conclusion, a conclusion of great significance: unless she accepts me for who I am, I won’t try to negotiate with her.”

“Negotiate?”

“I don’t take things for granted,” he clarifies, throwing her a side glance, a dapper flick of his wrist required to indicate the obvious, “She is trying and yes, I can see that, but the effort doesn’t parallel with the goal. Look before you leap, isn’t it what they say?”

“Tell me,” she huffs, irritation now more than evident, almost palpable, tactile, spread out for a graze – his personal penchant, “why do you even ask a question if you already know the answer?”

“The essentiality of comparison,” he reveals – ultimate truth she had never possessed before, “the importance of rectifying one’s opinions.”

“You’re an odd person, Alexander,” she alludes, not quite bothering to acknowledge his words, with approximately another goal already occupying her mind. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Does it disturb you?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, body turning in her direction for the slightest bit, barely noticeable at this point.

“I wouldn’t put it this way,” she counters, voice odd, distant, dreamy, fingers raking through her hair – a shift he should find disturbing but decides against, even if subconsciously.

“So how would you put it?” He queries further, scooting towards her subtly, still against crossing any comfort zones without an undisputable signal.

“That I like weird,” she avows, a simple statement rolling off her tongue, smooth, thick like molasses, caressing him like the finest silky sheets.

“If I didn’t know you better, I would assume you were flirting with me,” he chuckles, corners of his lips upturned in a teasing smirk – a signature of his.

“Why assume,” she halts, allowing the words to linger in the air for a brief moment, now facing him, her eyes staring, or rather drilling into his soul, captivating, leaving no room for a look away, “if you can find out?”.

“How exactly?” He mutters, a vague whisper, tickling her cheek, faint cigarette scent that fans over her face – lure of agitation, promise of something that is yet to come.

“How would you prefer to?” She leans in further, weight supported on the flat palms, propped on the dusty concrete, bits of gravel biting into her flesh.

“That’s your invention,” he purrs, so tantalizingly close, enough for a taste, tactile and inviting, tempting in his own way – a mannish privilege, sacrifice of fragility. “Surprise me.”

And she does, without a need of further explanation, a clarification, verbal approval, simply accepts the offering, her lips brushing his in a heartwarmingly gentle manner, as if hesitant, uncertain of succumbing to their shared desires. At first it catches him off guard, since he has ever dared to label her with such terms, and although the action itself was rather predictable, he remains still, even if for a brief moment, barely long enough for her to register, allowing the woman to play it out according to her whims.

(What a gracious man I am.)

With a movement too swift for Serena to register, he grabs her by the waist, tugging closer to his frame, which forces a surprised gasp from the woman, hands reaching forward to brace her weight on his chest. Practically seated on his lap, she wriggles a little, feeling the muscles contract just below – an unconditioned reflex to the extra pressure – as his lips work their magic, teasing her in a manner that she has never counted as such, delivering just enough to have her wanting more.

Deliberate. Mercenary.

Bastard.

Who still elicits a breathy moan in response to the harsh bite he delivers, soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue that leaves a lingering nicotine taste behind, a flavor she never suspected to be considered as pleasant. She lets him guide her for a change, curious about his intents, willing to accept the offering in any given form – desire so potent that it sends an inordinate shiver down her spine, never occurred before.

While awaiting for the situation to resolve on its own, she allows her hands to wander, tracing the protruding line on his collarbone, approximately a scar, following the path up his neck, meant to lay a palm flat on the cheek, coarse stubble tickling her fingertips as she examines the texture. Oddly so, his hands remain in place, sprawled on her sides and cradling her ribs, heavy breaths palpable in such position, while the blunt nails dig into the soft flesh, prominent yet subdued by two layers of clothing.

Instead of gliding them up her body, or even slipping his tongue inside, he breaks away, leaving her aching for more, frowning in bewilderment, mouth still agape, as if supposing he is just about to resume, although nothing of such kind follows, replaced by a verbalization – clearly not a fit for her current desires.

“Still wanna see it?” He mutters against her lips, a lingering brush that might as well be result of delirious mind-prompting, adjusting reality to expectations instead of the other way around, of how it is supposed to be in the first place – malady of a sane mind.

“See what?” She almost purrs – a sound he has heard her utter somewhere in the seemingly distant past, eons before their kiss – rationality abandoned long ago.

“The painting,” he clarifies as he departs from her, fully now, all body heat evaporating from the previously compact space, allowing the autumn air to regain the invaded land. However, on this occasion, he allows his eyes to wander, to take in her figure, still settled on his lap, hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

The initial discernment is striking – flesh of her bottom lip swollen, lipstick smudged – prove of his ‘abuse’ – and yet, he restrains from tracing it with the pads of his fingers, an action that he would like to safe for later, for more intimate setting. Her lips part, as if intending to say something although no words leave them, and instead of that her eyes lift, obscured by the curtain of dark lashes and some eyeshadow, color impossible to discern in the dim lightening. For a brief interval, he hold her gaze, misty grey irises delivering an involuntary association with the ongoing season, nevertheless appearing as seemingly calmer than before – steady undulation of a post-storm ocean – lost somewhere far away within her thoughts.

“So what about the painting?” He repeats, obviously to break the reverie, giving her sides a slight squeeze as if to ascertain eliciting the desired reaction.

“You have my lipstick here,” she mutters, hand rising to clear out the remains from the chapped bottom lip, but he is quick to grab her wrist, locking it in a loosening grip.

“Thanks, but I’ll manage,” his thumb replaces hers, wiping it off with a firm swipe, arm immediate to be released. A fleeting frown passes her features in response to his abnegation, although definitely short-lived, soon to be replaced by a contrary one – smile, benign albeit ephemeral, as if evoked by the newfound concept.

“About the painting…” she alludes, a lingering statement, reverberating in the air for a brief moment. “Still wanna see it.”

“Get up then,” he prompts, motioning her with a flick of his wrist. “I’m not intending to push you off.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she laughs, hesitant to rise from the well-accustomed-with spot, nevertheless back on her feet within a relatively short expanse of time, him following briefly afterwards.

They jog down the stairs, one story below, greeted with a sight of his mahogany door, of course in color, not material, and a telltale click of the lock mechanism that preludes entering the flat, unchanged since her last visit, if she excludes a messy stack of equally unspecified objects lurking in the corner. She tags along with him, eyes glued to his figure approaching the easels and a single hand gripping the cloth, soon to be yanked away, revealing the portrayal below.

Her breath hitches in response to the view unravelling in front of her, seemingly unimportant work of some self-proclaimed painter, and yet linked with so many aspects, just like that, on the go, subconscious associations that invade her mind. Truth to be told, she does not find it that hard to believe – a conundrum of emotionality – since it is the very first opportunity for the young woman to get acquainted with someone else’s interpretation of her persona – experience considered beyond interesting.

Blurred lines yet drawn by a deft hand.

Faint fog yet shapes fairly distinguished.

Bathed in lucid daylight, such an unusual occurrence in the fall season.

Fleeting expanse of time.

Guaranteed to perish in the nearby future.

And the central persona, enhanced by the subtle rim of glow.

Distant? Dreamy? Delusive?

Ethereal? Eccentric?

Feigned?

Or right the opposite?

Authentic?

Ceaseless? Classical?

Expressing verity.

Verdict of his virtuosity.

Exquisite.

“I’m sorry,” she shakes her head, as if to clear out the mind, return onto the steady ground. “You were saying something?”

“I was meant to ask about your impression,” he meets her still misty gaze, lips laced in the same unplaceable smirk she has seen him perform a couple of times in the past, “but I believe that’s not necessary anymore.”

“No, it’s fine,” she smiles, as if to substantiate the impression. “I like it.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of that,” he nods with a wide grin stretching his features – highlight of his vanity, meant to taunt her, “although verbal affirmation is always welcome.”

She only hums in response, as if in defiance of his indication, still standing in the middle of the main room, gaze alternating between him and the painting, as if unable to pick, maneuvering on the pinnacle dividing twain polar opposites – conceptuality and reality. Seizing the opportunity, his eyes rake down her form, quick to notice a few distinctions, incompatible with her usual looks, the heeled boots for instance, or a tint of eyeshadow applied on the usually bare skin, which eventually leads him to another conclusion.

“You went out today?” He asks, the drape back in its prior setting, shielding the picture from her scrutinizing gaze, as if to ascertain receiving undivided attention from his guest.

“Yeah,” she affirms with a refined nod, eyes alluding towards the floor – a fleeting, almost unnoticeable glance, “but it wasn’t lucrative. I mean, the meeting didn’t go as expected.”

“Why?”

“It was a blind date,” she sighs, as if utterly defeated, displeased with being forced to recall tonight’s events. “Fill in the blanks.”

“Lucrative is quite an interesting choice of words in such context,” he teases, a ghost of proper smile playing upon his lips, eliciting a predictably vexed huffed of breath from the woman, paired with a dismissive eye-roll that precedes his reaction – a subdued chuckle, nevertheless considered unashamed and straightforward, although the latter is still yet to come. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“I would rather forget it,” she laughs this time – enlightenment, end of the never-ending sulking era, considered as the least beneficial possibility, not for only today.

“Yeah, I know how it is,” he nods, leaning down on the sill for support, seemingly fed up with standing in the middle of the room, “all those settled dates rarely line up with the expectations.”

“Not only the settled ones,” she sighs – pensive, distant, invaded with bygone memories – as her eyes settle on his silhouette, illuminated by the city lights – echoes of the past, moonage daydream. “You remind me of my grandfather right now. Maybe it’s an odd thing to say, but I remember he used to spend quite a decent amount of time leaning by the sill, claiming he had his share of sitting, which I suspect might have been linked with joints condition that he didn’t wanna share, but still… he was the only person, excluding my father, who truly supported my cause, I mean moving out from home, going to college etc. etc.”

“Is he-”

“No, he’s alive,” she interrupts with an outrunning clarification, “although I might have made it sound like this.”

“I’m glad to hear that then,” he concludes, with a fleeting smile passing his features “Mine was quite… quite different, which I believe is a considerable understatement, but still…”

“How considerable?”

“Well, my Grandfather was a war hero, at least according to his claims, but also a man of dubious mental condition,” he begins, gaze glued to the cityscape spreading outside the window. “When it turned out my father deserted in Vietnam, he disinherited him, which is probably the main reason why I’m doing what I’m doing, but that’s by the by.”

“Which war did he fight in?” She inquires, ready to join him by the sill in a few languid steps, back supported by the wall.

“Oh, which didn’t he fight in,” he chuckles bitterly, rolling his eyes in the most dismissive manner she has ever seen on him. “His stories make for a saga alone, shoving such absurd concepts as historical accuracy aside, although in reality only the Great War.”

“Sounds fantastic,” she remarks – teaser of a hearsay nothing short of phenomenal.

“Anyway,” he cuts her off with a single hand slashing through the air, immediate to get back on the track with said tale, “he used to tell me a story, a bedtime one, always the same. If I remember correctly, which I most certainly do, it went something like this,” he halts, as if on purpose – suspense playing its part as an ever present speech manner.

“There was a cold, cold night, dark, all stars obscured by the clouds, moon long gone, shying away from the primeval force – Grim Reaper coming to take his toll,” he allows the name to linger in the air for a brief moment, a tribute to the transcendent persona. “With everyone fast asleep, as if believing to find the solitude in the trenches, he had the battlefield all for himself, every soul that still hadn’t left its body, clear as day, granting them a passage to afterlife, a safer one, not coming up to what earthy life granted. He never uttered a single word while he extracted them, soon to be taken by the wind, somewhere far, far away, his silhouette acting as their only guide. It was easy to doubt his existence with rime as the only evidence, but whoever was touched even once, even if for a split second, was marked for eternity – Death’s Protégé.”

“And what’s the twist?” She asks, most certain the story itself requires one as much as he need her query to accomplish the telling process, considering the silence that has settled above them after the statement – a prompt to contribute.

“Well,” he interrupts himself with a brief chuckle – a signature of incredulity, “he would claim I was marked, that I was the reaper’s child, which was before he got sent to asylum, nevertheless it still makes for an interesting story to tell, I think.”

“And that’s the only purpose?” She carries on with the queries, as if meant to extract the very essence of said issue.

“Not entirely,” he counters, soon to rectify. “He used to claim there was a link between this and my artwork.”

“What kind of link?”

“He never explained his motives,” he shrugs, a statement considered offensively obvious, “but I think he was just afraid of aspects he couldn’t comprehend, and so opted for a more straightforward solution, a claim that they foreshadowed some ungodly disaster.”

“No wonder he acted like that,” she remarks, as if to continue the pass of plain conclusions. “I mean pairing it with the background story.”

“No need to state the obvious,” he chides, a considerably calm manner, almost able to omit a lingering hint of irritation that the action evokes, “although I would be lying if I denied his diversity, or rather the diversity brought by his stories, which actually reminds me of something that I was supposed to mention before.”

“It’s incomprehensible how you maneuver through topics,” she chuckles, shaking her head in a display of disbelieving amusement.

“I’ve been told that before,” he agrees –necessity of decent conversation, at least according to his mother’s words. “Anyway, cutting to the chase here – I’ve got two tickets for the drive-in, since my friend has gotten ill and decided to spare me the place.”

“Seems like a merciful man to me,” she remarks, with a jeering hint of sarcasm on the tip of her tongue – wonderful pairing for the biblical word. “But I’m not sure if I’m gonna accept the offering.”

“Well, the title is Reservoir Dogs,” he continues, as if pretending to miss out on the snide comment, determined to elicit the desired reaction, “quite a success in Cannes according to what I’ve heard.”

“In Cannes you say…” she hums, as if pondering the variety of options to spend the evening, “not a guarantee we’ll like it.”

“Then how about you give it a try and then you can tell me if it’s worth it or not?” He proposes, posture indicating his readiness to leave, more than aware what her answer will be at this point, not that he has ever doubted his abilities to predict the inevitable.

“You’re truly the brightest mind of our age,” she rolls her eyes, accompanied by the ever-present sarcastic outline – a scaffolding for all the world’s components.

“Glad we agree on this one.”

A prelude for all mutualities, meant to unravel in due course.

Always the one to lurk in shadows – a promise of what is yet to come, a coalescence of twain factors:

Sinister sensuality?

A surmise shamefully salient.

* * *

Drive-in – a place where the movie screening is supposed to take place, at least according to the tenets, undoubtedly omitting another, quite distinctive, aspect to all of these – an ultimate truth that no component carries one purpose only, a statement renown by all, yet acknowledged by few.

Theirs appears to be invaded by an offbeat amount of people, seemingly not caring about the crisp air and cold weather, as if looking forward to the so-called ‘grand reveal’, cars lined in a couple of rows, more or less equidistant, while the screen remains blank, enhancing the anticipation of those who are meant to actually pay attention to the soon-to-be-presented piece of cinematography. Without a doubt, she considers herself as a relative of the latter group, eyes glued to the outstretched fabric in the central point, glad to see it unravel in front of her as the process is initiated – illumination of said canvas, inauguration of the gathering.

“But ‘Like a Virgin’ was a metaphor for big dicks.”

Delightful.

“Really?” She frowns, glancing towards him, as if searching for a confirmation.

“Do I look like a Madonna fan to you?” He retorts, eyebrows raised in a display of euphemistic irritation.

“Well,” she begins, as if pretending to ponder upon the subject, all for the never-ending purpose of riling him up, “again, not really.”

“So just sit back and watch,” he huffs, accusation evident in his tone, as if genuinely interested in the so-called Cannes successful movie, not that he is the only one.

Hence, she complies to the request, head lulling sideways to rest on his shoulder, leather of the coat chilly against her equally cool cheek, sending an unpleasant shiver down her spine, soon to be followed by another one, much sultrier this time, evoked by his arm encircling her frame. In search for the needful warmth, she leans in to him, the heavy weight draped over her figure elevating said experience to an entirely different dimension: a higher one, encrusted with chaste intentions, although built upon impure thoughts, leading to the simplest of conclusions, a statement reverberating underneath her skull in repetitive cycles.

Certain aspects are easy to deny, without even bothering to acknowledge their existence, nameless components of equally anonymous world, run on secrets. Take for instance the blossoming attraction, one is capable of ignoring it all the way, forget it ever influenced the perception, cross it out and pretend said spot has ever been occupied, or present an alternative approach – bite the bullet – ability craved by all, yet possessed by few.

The latter.

As an ever-present goal.

Any time her gaze lands on him, she cannot help but ponder upon his true intentions – an intelligent individual with whom she enjoys to converse with, and yet unfairly unreadable in some situations, leaving decent amount of room for speculations, doubts blossoming within her mind, invading it akin to a disease, deadly one to be specific. So-called fascination, an inkling that it might lead her to places that should to remain undiscovered, at least for her own sake – a simple analogy to the secluded areas of forests along with all the habitants.

(Keep in mind that hunters do not bother with such absurd concepts.)

“Isn’t he supposed to put pressure on the wound?” She frowns, gaze glued to the scene currently playing on the screen, with criticizing scrutiny, albeit interested in the events altogether. Despite the vanity of using a comb in such circumstances, nevertheless understandable if paired with both personality and relationship traits, she gets an impression that Cannes has opted for quite a judicious mark, especially if focusing on the dialog aspects – astonishing, magnificent.

Exquisite.

“If we’re discussing practical matters, then yes,” he replies, voice laced with an edge of irritation, evoked by her daring interruption.

“And if not?” She carries on with the queries, as if altogether aware of the effect that they have on him, and yet pretending not to acknowledge it.

“Then we oppose,” he enlightens with a dismissive eye-roll, audible in his speech manners.

“Mmm… astute,” she retorts, purring sound that reverberates in his ear, invading his senses like a disease that spreads far too quickly, and yet is oddly anticipated, akin to purposeful cold before school.

“So is your question,” he concludes, a dry exclamation of a long-term deceiver.

“That was my very intention,” she admits, voice deprived of proper hesitance, indicating the visionary tendencies – playing a major part in

(spoiling)

her master plan.

A query of ‘could it?’

Oddly so, it has taken him a relatively long expanse of time to get used to having her by his side with the floral smell of her hair wafting under his nose, lily of the valley he believes, nothing more than a reminiscence of his past now. Nevertheless, it stirs something within him, a distinctive hue applied in the perfect amount, oscillating between omitted and overwhelming, hands itching to reach underneath her clothes, check whether the rest is as cold as her palms are, clutching at the cotton of his tee in response to the scene playing in front of them. And yet, even in the face of all these notions, no matter how pleasant, another one is evoked – contradicting polarity – jealousy, bitter possessiveness, referring to who she has gotten all dolled up for – silly idea of a long-retired teenage boy, enhanced by the fact that his contestant failed oh so spectacularly.

Ignorant piece of shit.

Aside from her bygone partner, the current song appears to be a perfect match for his thoughts, father’s favorite, remembrance of grandpa’s tales, tales of a successful man, but only if he opts for reading selective verses, a twain of them in this case, chosen in advance – lie so blatant that it should be considered offensive, personification of his ancestor’s lives. Although seemingly different at first glance, the second, more discerning one, reveals another aspect – veracity, indicating their lack of professionalism, prattling tendencies, and poor life constructs that seem to work only if the rest is omitted, wiped away from the piece of paper in hopes it will be left unconsidered – definition of their compatibilities, denied with such ardor.

Alex

ander.

When you started off with nothing

And you're proud that you’re a self-made man.

“Fucking hell,” she mutters under her breath, unintentionally digging her nails in the firm plane of his chest, “I thought he ain’t gonna do this.”

“Well, you can always look away,” he shrugs, eyes remaining glued to the screen – a nonverbal denial.

“That’s not necessarily the case,” she counters, fingers releasing the hold on his tee, quick to smooth out the material – a manner he would never attempt to associate with her, marking his forehead with a frown of confusion, even if for a brief moment.

“Yeah, I know,” he affirms, emphasized with a refined nod. “It’s captivating.”

“So-called pornography of pain,” she adds, a term he has been all too familiar with for quite a while now, “and by that I mean the phenomenon of violence perception in culture, or even in real life, not sadomasochism.”

“Yeah, sure, everyone would say so,” he mutters, purring sound that catches her off guard for a brief moment, allowing the words to reverberate in the air for a longer while, as if in perfect awareness of said effect. “Anyway, I must agree on this one, although some might be eager to deny it, ‘I’m not a fucking psycho’, they would say, but to be honest I think morality is overrated in this case, unable to outrun the primal thirst for brutality. Since how else would you explain all those bloodbaths in art, cinematic for instance?”

“Time is too precious for such absurdities.”

Terminal conclusion followed by peaceful silence – an expanse ranging from the first, and unfortunately last, appearance of some German Shepherd all the way to the thirst-satiating finale, and her genuine content with the entirety, a relatively rare occurrence to be honest. Whatever has just betided in front of their eyes, appears to be the preface of a very promising phase in the movie industry, a phase she is eager to step into and thus familiarize with its offerings.

“It might have been the worthiest investment of those twenty five dollars that Daryl could ever think of,” he murmurs, stretching the limbs behind his head, fingers skimming the rooftop in a fleeting motion – a contrary to less-than-subtle deprivation of his supportive frame.

“Daryl?” She rubs her eyes – a substitute for proper refreshment. “You mean that nameless friend, right?”

“I do indeed,” he affirms, throwing a glance towards the door – a prelude for the subsequent proposition, “but I think we should drive away now, unless we want to get stuck with all those homespun drivers.”

“We don’t,” she agrees with a fleeting smile passing her features, much to his delight, even though the situation itself required no such approval, considering a man

(Alexander)

will do exactly as he pleases.

“Wonderful,” he concludes, soon to slam the back door and stake out the driver’s seat, while she follows his steps but to the passenger’s spot. With a flick of his wrist, the engine is ignited, and thus he is able to navigate their way through the more or less troubling labyrinth – a composition of cars in various states of decay: some fairly new, while others tend to oppose, their glory days undoubtedly classifying as bygone.

“So what now?” A trite of words that slices through the partial silence, accompanied only by the monotonous hum of engines. “You’re gonna drive me home like a decent man would?”

(No, I’m gonna fuck you like a decent man would.)

“I’ve never taken you for a person with such low expectations,” he remarks with a teasing timbre lacing his voice, glancing at her briefly, albeit long enough to catch the confused expression upon her face.

“Excuse me?” She frowns, their eyes meeting halfway – an occasion for her to get acquainted with the evidence of his self-content, oh so unexpected.

“You’ve heard me,” he shrugs, a brisk response of perennial philanderer – a verbalization of who he has always appeared to her as.

A womanizer.

Possibly a libertine too, which is at least what the more promiscuous part of her counts for, even though she is more than certain that contributing will lead to a bitter aftermath, the one when a man asks more or less kindly to leave, and yet considered worthwhile, which might as well be the reason why her mother used to label Serena with traits such as ‘occasionally self-destructive’. And yet, what would life be if deprived of any risks, decisions made in the heat of passion, meant to be rethought in due course, most likely after the milk will have already been spilled but still… distant future is what grants the vacancies.

(Isn’t it what they say?)

* * *

Her mother is a person of many claims, each more straightforward than the precedent, a person who belongs to the realm of appearances, where anything obvious requires to be verbalized – an unwritten purpose. Said manner never fails to amuse her in some sort of way, assuming the word itself is descriptive enough in such circumstances, and yet she has the tendency to retreat them from the depths of her mind in times of trial, considering the current situation is supposed to be perceived as a relative.

Cutting to the chase, that godforsaken woman would say: ‘he who lurks in the shadows, must be a sinister creature’ – a triviality in its purest form, and yet an appropriate summary for all her maladies oscillating around one person – star of her own planet system.

(Is it possible to dethrone the solar?)

(A question vain to consider.)

“What have I gotten myself into?” She mutters under her breath, seizing an opportunity that he is standing by the counter, pouring himself a drink, the reminiscence of amber waves evoked from seemingly great distance, soon to wash the shore of her lips.

“I’ve allowed myself to fix you one too,” he turns around to face her, both glasses snug in his hands, shiny brown liquor skimming the transparent surface as he approaches her figure, settled on the window sill, “and that’s actually a fairly expensive brandy.”

“You mean the real reason why you live in such a shithole?” She retorts, nevertheless accepts the offering, bringing it to her nose for a sniff, as if pretending to be a seasoned expert in alcoholic field, the one who is able to differ which wine was opened earlier with barely no effort.

“Partly yes,” he laughs – a lighthearted chuckle meant to loosen the tension, evident in her posture and the stagnant air, “but give it a try, it’ll do no harm.”

Without further ado, she complies, tilting the glass to her lips in order to take a final swig of amber liquor, shivering at the newfound wave of heat blossoming within her throat. Whilst the feeling itself is gradually subsiding into a sweet, fruity aftertaste, she even dares to consider admitting the accuracy of his claims oscillating around the liquor’s quality, but in the end opts against it, settling on a refined nod of approval, as per usual.

Over the years, she has gotten a chance to discovered one distinctive aspect that comes with the activity of pondering, more specifically the prompts of polar opposites that exist within each one of us. To set the record straight, she means no mental disorders, but the complex nature of any decision making process, hopelessly linked with all these constant whispers, both subduing and encouraging. Taking a leap of honesty, not faith in this case, since integrating with such ‘virtue’ is not included in her List of Matters Beyond Important, she is capable of admitting that opting for certain choice is rarely so intricate, while keeping in mind that they all appear to be fairly simple – negative for what she is attempting to sort out now.

“Serena,” he calls from seemingly great distance, grabbing her by the hand – a gesture so unexpected that she almost tears it from his grasp, although in the end manages to take a steady inhale and focus on the runic pattern marking his fingers, while he continues, voice ringing within the empty room, “are you afraid of me?”

“No,” she utters a nervous chuckle, squeezing his palm as if to reaffirm the veracity of her statement, “it’s just- I’m thinking too much, that’s all, and sometimes I wish I’d stop. Knowledge is a burden.”

“I must agree with the former, although the latter…” an exclamation laced with a hint of disapproval, emphasized by the tsk-noise, deprecating click of his tongue over the palate. “It’s nonsensical.”

“Well-”

“When I was younger, I used to play chess with my grandpa, and to clarify – that was before he got crazy, at least crazy enough to qualify for any asylum,” he interrupts, finally letting go of her hand, and siting on the cold sill for a change. “Anyway, there’re various kinds of openings in this game, some of them referred to as ‘gambits’. You know what a gambit is?”

“Yes,” she nods, always brisk to prove the point. “You sacrifice a pawn in order to achieve something significant.”

“Yeah, more or less,” he agrees, frowning as he takes a swig from the previously abandoned glass, soon to settle it down once empty, accompanied by a telling clink. “So tell me, can you see a parallel now?”

“You’re such a narcissistic asshole,” she shakes her head in disbelief, eliciting a throaty chuckle from her partner, the one meant to set her nerves on fire.

“That’s why you’re attracted to me,” he shrugs as the laughter gradually dies out, leaving only the remains of so-called smug smirk behind.

“Is this the time when I’m supposed to confess my never-ending love and admiration towards you so that our relationship can be consummated?” She spats bitterly, unhinged with exasperation.

“Nah,” he brushes her off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, more nerve-wrecking than ever. “Let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?”

“I don’t get it,” she frowns, shaking her head in irony-laced disbelief, “the story about gambits; is this your pick up line? Your big move?”

“Wanna know what my big move is?” He taunts, serious at the first glance, if not for the twitch of his upper lip, meant to betray any actual intentions.

“Yeah,” she nods – a refined one, as per usual, aiming to cover up any possible traces of excitement, “tell me your big move.”

“I paint the girls that I wanna fuck.”

(And tonight’s guest is…)

The greatest, most magnificent, unexpected surprise ever imagined.

A sentence allowed to reverberate in the air for a brief expanse of time, so cruelly interrupted by her pearly laugh, enhanced by the dismissive eye-roll of her partner.

“I know, unbelievable.”

“Well, I gotta say I’ve expected that, and either way I feel honored,” she speaks, clearing her throat as soon as the breathless chuckle dies out, intent to her rid of any unpleasant coarseness, “but why am I your pick, like specifically?”

“You intrigue me,” he bestows her with the merest of explanations as if for the simple sake of getting on her nerves. “That’s why you’re my ‘pick’.”

“And that’s all?” She cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at him, wanting, willing to hear out more details. “You know, ‘it's the details that sell your story’.”

“I can’t believe you’ve just said that,” he huffs, shaking his head in disbelief, soon to rise from the previous seat – an indication of movement, of change, creeping closer and closer until in reach to brush her ankle, swallowed by the dimness of his flat. “But what more can you wish for? You intrigue me, and I’ve wanted to have you since our little encounter on the roof,” he states, without a hint of hesitation scaring his voice, instead some distinctive at-ease carelessness that she has found both exasperating and enticing since the very beginning. “Even though I don’t believe in the qualities such as uniqueness, meeting you was an interesting experience, downright repeatable. Is this specifying enough?”

“Well yes,” she agrees, a hint of uncertainty lacing her voice, most likely linked with the matters yet to be revealed, “but don’t you thinks it’s degrading: ‘wanted to have you’, another term for expressing male domination, claiming a woman like you claim a prize.”

“If you’re so keen on sorting this out,” he begins – an offer she cannot refuse, “we can have a chat about ‘male domination’ as soon as… how did you put it… as soon as… our relationship will be consummated.”

“By that, it appears to me you’re in some sort of a hurry,” another jeering remark, the one he has no intentions in letting slide for a change, “is that correct?”

“Claiming that I’m the only one is an obtuse lie, don’t you think?” He purrs, all of sudden turning around to face her, hands on either sides of her thighs, resting on the cold sill. “And that’s truly degrading, not your whole ‘male domination’ shit.”

She cannot help but let out a reedy squeal at the abrupt turn of events, now trapped between his body and the freezing glass, not literally cornered and yet feeling like so, even more as he leans in towards the woman, breath stuck in her throat. With the cooper waves tickling her cheek, and heated blows on her neck, he begins to speak, words impossible to be distinguished for a split second, molding into a monotonous tone, dark and rich, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. She relishes in the teasing flutter, fighting the innate urge to arch in his direction, until he grabs her by the face, cradling the side of it in his left hand, fingers biting into the cheek, even if for the slightest bit, eyes meeting halfway with reflection of city lights encrusted on the green background.

“… and I want you to lay on the bed now,” he finishes – a garnish that leaves her confused and frowning, both due to lack of concentration – a trait she loathes oh so deeply and has never dared to label herself with before.

“Gonna fuck me already?” She asks in attempt of clarification, eliciting a short-lived laughter from her partner, a coarse chuckle that prickles her skin with goosebumps.

“Why the rush?” He teases, both hands shifting to curl around her thighs as if bracing for the final lift, but instead pulls her body towards the edge, legs wrapping around his hips in order to regain the substantial balance. “Delayed gratification is what does the trick.”

“Well, I thought that saying so is a determinant,” she huffs, eyes glued to the godforsaken furniture as if evading his gaze would help her focus, “but apparently not.”

He only chuckles in response, vibrations palpable in her chest, resonating all the way through, enough to redirect her attention to more carnal aspect, beginning with the plainest closeness, with how her breasts mash against his firm flesh, for instance. It has her wondering why they have not even kissed yet, despite the intimate proximity, just an inch to the left and their lips will brush, all in vain, considering his plans obviously differ, evident in the abrupt hoist up that tears a feminine squeal from the caught-off-guard woman. In a manner beyond desperate, her hands clutch onto the cotton of his t-shirt – yet another reason to laugh for the unfavorable male – although rather quick to drop her onto the more sturdy ground, if mattress can be referred to as such.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this if that’s how little trust you have for me,” he mutters, outwardly on own benefits, while she believes it is also meant to reach her ears, gaze fixated on his towering silhouette, helplessly braced on the elbows.

“Sure,” she retorts, an inseparable hint of sarcasm lacing her voice – a phrasal of personality traces, “like you could stand it.”

“Mhm,” he hums, imitating her tone just to witness Serena huff in exasperation, “tell me about it.”

To that she has no answer, just an awaiting stare following his movements to the kitchenette, confused when it comes to what he is actually looking for there, an assumption about his libertine tendencies rushing through her mind in a frenzied display of nervousness, soon to be mitigated by the following object – a chair fished out from its spot behind the island.

“Who would have thought your flat is full of such useless possessions,” she remarks, rising up to a sitting position, weight braced on the open palms.

“Unbelievable, huh?” He teases with a banter not quite considered as lighthearted, emphasized by the rough scrape on the wooden panels, sound utterly terminal in its fiendish form, skin erupting with goosebumps – titillation and trepidation mingling into a fairly undistinguished integrity. “But I think you owe me a show. So strip.”

Unrepeatable opportunity to observe the medley of emotions manifesting themselves on her face, so calm and straight most of the times – long-awaited variety from the common, day-to-day occurrence. Beginning with the wide-eyed surprise – nonverbal statement, albeit still notably refined – then progressing to the thought-indicating frown – violation of the smooth palette of her forehead – to finalize with mouth-agape attempt to transfer the bizarre concoction into proper words. For a brief moment, he considers teasing her about it – cat’s-got-your-tongue cliché – but opts against it in the end, exchanging it for a less foreseen phrase.

Sure.

“C’mon, I ain’t got all day,” he urges her to comply, taking a seat on the aforementioned chair, backwards, arms rested on the top rail, soon to fish out a cigarette from leftover pack hidden in the inner pocket of his coat, draped over the frame, then toss what is redundant on the table top. He lights it up with a precise flick of his zippo, eyes glued to the billowing smoke for a split second, until he slips it in between his lips, sucking up a nicotine drag.

Downfall of all hedonists.

Guarantee of premature death.

Damnation – opt out from salvation.

Godsend?

Simply obsolete.

“And you want me to do what precisely?” She asks with some odd precaution that almost elicits a direct laugh from him, open-mouthed and blissfully mocking, resembling a skittish animal, dangerously close to leap of the ground and escape for good.

“Strip,” he reiterates, voice seemingly deprived of all emotional layers, if not for the lingering huskiness, a smoky tune that reminds Serena what evoked her perplexing attraction in the first place. “And don’t force me to repeat my request.”

“Request?” She huffs in disbelief – a mocking show-off, meant to taunt him, push his button even now – an everlasting purpose, menacingly deathless. “Now that’s funny.”

Either way, she begins to strip, sitting up straight to get rid of the first layer – a chequered shirt, tied at the waist – clearly taking her sweet time with the knot and those few buttons, while his hands itch to rip it, shred the unimportant piece of cloth in two – a situation he will not allow to happen at current rate, ever-present penchant for delays. With smug, although definitely short-lived, satisfaction, she notices his eyes shift to her chest, breasts still clad in the black bralette – the-best-way-possible definition of classic elegance, underlined by a subtle hint of lace.

The jeans are what follows, paired with the requirement to stand up and bathe her body in the city lights, luminous on her pale complexion, vision glued to the buildings tearing up the horizon, almost undisrupted by the scratchy sensation of denim slipping down her legs. What makes her shiver though is the intensity of his gaze, almost palpable on her back, as if his fingers were right there, skimming over the heated skin – an inkling that prompts her to turn around and flop back onto the bed, searching for any support in the cold headboard – iron railing that bites into her soft flesh.

“Do go on,” he requests, or rather enjoins, calm at the first glance, if not for the smoldering zeal shadowing his eyes – a parallel for the ember at the tip of his cig.

“Why?” She bothers to ask – presumably mistaken about the evoked concept, fool’s pursuit, leading to nothing else but bitter disappointment.

“’Cause I like to play God,” he clarifies – plain instance of an unexpected answer, “at least from time to time.”

“Then c’mere and do it yourself,” she rolls her eyes – deliberate taunt – in hopes to break his resolve, and so impose him to approach her, an unfamiliar thirst for his touch seemingly insatiable.

“That’s not how it works,” he shakes his head, an exclamation laced with a hint of mock disapproval, as if genuinely displeased with the outcome, “first you gotta earn it, and then I’ll reciprocate. Maybe.”

(Maybe?)

Intent to make as quick work of it as possible, elongated only by a fretful huff, her hands reach the hem of said bralette, and pull it over her head in a relatively graceful movement, adding it up to the stack of clothes piling at the foot of his bed. In attempt to ignore the heat of his gaze upon the newly exposed skin, she focusses on the last step dividing her from accomplishment – sliding the matching panties down her legs, the ones that almost land on his face as in a display of blatant irritation, evoked by his shameless gawping. As in response, her limbs close on their own accord, interfering with his nettled countenance: bitter and relentless, prompting the woman to rearrange them, to which she counters, locking their gazes together once again.

“Very well,” he hums with yet another cigarette stuck in between his lips, soon to be ignited, as his gaze skims her figure, expression softer than he has ever witnessed on Serena, as if afraid of what is just about to be uttered, “now touch yourself.”

“Excuse me?” She chokes out in disbelief, brows furrowed in confusion, arms encircling her frame, meant to deprive him of any explicit view, sending a shiver down her spine as the cold digits brush the side of her breast.

“You’ve heard me,” he retorts, blunt and seemingly careless, tapping out the excess ash onto the dusty floor, while his gaze remains focused solely on her, or rather on the heaving chest, its intensity settling a smoldering zeal in the pit of her stomach, and so prompts Serena to enlace the pressing knot. Both the towering position and the distance put between them enhances the subdual, and for the first time in her life she is ready to admit that whatever is going on between them appears to stir something within her too, whatever that ‘something’ is.

Uncertainty?

Trepidation?

No?

(Not all feelings are possible to be classified.)

And with that, she resumes, or rather initiates the whole process, hands lifting to cup her breast, filling the palm quite snugly, while she can only imagine the comparison with his, cradling her ribs just a few hours ago. The thought itself sends a delicious shiver down her spine and before she knows it, the right arm follows its path to the cleft between her legs – movement fueled by the burning impatience, by the hope that it will manage to convince him to finally touch her, to soothe the pulsing ache – when all of sudden he breaks the silence – a lingering denial that infuriates her more than she could have imagined.

“Not so fast darling,” a single exclamation that slices through the smoky lull, meant to halt her pursuit, undermine the control she appears to possess over own body, and to his partial surprise, the woman complies, lying her palm slack on the inner thigh, fingers biting into the flesh – undisputable evidence of all frustrations.

“But-”

“How long has it been?” He interrupts, a puff of smoke obscuring his face, careless and vexingly at ease, as per usual. “Days? Weeks?”

She nods to both of them, which elicits a throaty chuckle from her partner – an exclamation of some sadistic amusement, prickling her skin with goosebumps, but at the same time having the brunette wish he was right there next to her, stroking the heated flesh as in indication of some leisured worship.

(Only two can play this game.)

“Then you can wait a few minutes longer,” he concludes, almost forcing a chocked cry from Serena, disappointment evident on her face, and hell, she even pouts at him – a mannerism he would have never linked with her before.

“So what do I do now?” She sasses, aggravations outrunning any possible consequences. “Sit here and watch you smoke?”

“Of course not,” he laughs, presumably to spur her even further, “I’m not much of a sadist, even though it might seem so right now.”

“Mhm, sure,” she hums in mock agreement, a lingering hint of sarcasm that betrays her every single time – a matter meant to be rectified in the near future.

“So from this point, run your fingers along the inner thighs,” he mutters, sending another intense, rather disturbing, tremor down her spine, nipples pebbling with arousal, and she instinctively reaches to squeeze them, wishing to replace the smooth substitute with harsher texture of his fingertips. Either way, she complies to his request, stroking the tender skin with the very tips of her fingers – teasing replacement for proper touch, lingering breeze that might as well be yet another result of delirious mind-prompting. She sighs, arms itching to reach just an inch to the side, impatience bottling up and ready to explode any second now, akin to a can of coke after decent shaking, and so, to release some of the tension, she shifts her legs helplessly, wanting, willing him to end the decadent suffering.

“Now touch yourself,” he directs, failing to cover up the hint of arousal underlining his voice, as his gaze alternates between her face, eyes shadowed by a lustful fog, and both hands, now occupied with more pressing matters, “but keep it light. And slow.”

(About fucking time.)

With one brisk movement, betraying the eagerness, her fingers shift to the spot in between her legs, forcing a surprised gasp out of her throat, as if genuinely shocked with the amount of wetness coating her fingertips. The act itself, no matter how simple, almost forces a loud moan from her constricted throat, relieved with the slightest bit of pressure, even if more to enhance than to actually soothe the pulsing ache, tickling sensation on her folds. For a split second, she forgets about the male company, a real person just a few mere feet in front of her, until he speaks again, rich and husky tune that elicits a faint moan from her, all to his delight.

“Enjoying yourself, darling?” He queries, to which she nods, maybe a little too feverishly, although her lacking response is certainly not pleasing enough for him, with the subsequent demand to ensure the veracity of said assumption. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” she gasps almost at the spot, hand twitching in attempt to contain the needful rub, light and slow as per his request.

“Very well then,” he purrs, a gravelly sound that has her insides coiling in anticipation for the following words. “I want you to slide your fingers in, one at a time. Good girl. Now crook them and rub.”

The intrusion itself, in consideration of a relatively long expanse of time, draws a pained whimper from the woman, loud enough to reach his ears, lips lacing in a smug smirk, as if on their own. However, the generous amount of slick allows her to smooth out the thrusts, and keep the pace slow but steady, although eager for things to speed up, yet certain that Alexander will interfere in response to her arbitrariness.

Such a fucking hypocrite.

“Eyes on me,” he demands all of sudden, in spite of the fact she has barely registered them falling shut, an abrupt sound that causes her to jerk in surprise. Nevertheless, she is immediate to open them, meeting the jade green of his own irises, visibly darker in the dim light, overlapped with the conspicuous lust shadowing his gaze, luring her to take those few leaps towards him and perch atop his lap, but then again, he will not allow it – a standstill in the worst variant possible.

Therefore, in a final attempt to focus on the carnalities, her attention shifts toward more pressing issue – long nails mercilessly scratching her walls – one of main reasons why she prefers male’s touch, excluding a bunch of few, equally important, aspects. Obliged to work with what she has got, in hopes it will get her off sooner than later, she moves the other hand to her clit, and circles it – an action that sends a promising shiver down her spine, but also prompts him to break the silence again.

“You’re close,” a question (?), either way followed by an approving nod and desirous look thrown in his direction. “Then stop.”

“No- but I’m…mmm… please,” she whines, while her own body seems to betray Serena once more, following his request before her mind registers what is actually going on. Fighting the innate urge to carry on with what has been so cruelly interrupted, she adds another query, full of misery, her lip quivering as she speaks. “Why?”

“It’ll feel much better this way, trust me,” he reassures, voice meant to soothe all maladies, retreating the wish to have him beside her once again, feel the warmth radiating from his body, the skillful caresses of his lips dancing over her skin. “You can go on now.”

Uttering a defeated huff, she resumes the whole process, circling her clit until she is shivering in delight, legs shifting in obvious impatience, until he tells her to stop once again, and again, and again, the amount of disposed cigarettes working as the only time-measuring factor. She is close to bursting into tears by now, needy and frustrated, although unable to deny that every single stroke, even if barely present, feels electrifying, has her wishing to be replaced by another and another one, and yet he denies the climax every single time, drawing all kinds of desperate whines from the woman.

“I know,” he soothes, and she might have even believed him if not for the sadistic inclination hiding behind his gaze – primal pride of possession. “But it’ll feel so good, I promise. Doesn’t it now?”

“It does,” she manages to utter, voice breaking pitifully at the end as another shudder passes down her spine, silently begging him to end the misery. “Can I… please…”

“Yes,” he affirms, smirking as she sobs in relief, her hips jerking in time with each and every movement by now, following the inevitable release, “but keep your eyes on me.”

And so she does, her vision nearly blacking out from the intensity of newfound experience, wave after wave crushing through her body, fingers almost cramping as she clenches around them, back arching in a catlike manner. Trembling with aftershocks, she is only capable of lying slack on the mattress, both hands mindlessly sliding onto the mattress, wiping any evidences of whatever has just taken place on the sheets, not quite bothering whether he minds it or not.

Dazed with the fervency of said experience, her eyes close on their own accord, barely able to register him getting up from the chair and flopping down on the bed, until he brushes the tender side of her breast, nipples still tingling with arousal. Drowsy as ever, she somehow manages to meet his gaze, pupils dilated in evidence of lust, frenzied and unhinged, yet partly subdued, as if in attempt to stop himself from completely devouring the lush partner, at least according to what she likes to tell herself on such occasions.

While lying on the mattress, boneless and spent, he traces the lines of her cleavage, smirking as she twitches in some unconditioned reflex, still a little dizzy and so unable to contain herself, body arching towards him, presumably enough to take a note of. There is something helplessly embarrassing about being so responsive – confirmation of the potent influence, the fact that he is capable of eliciting even the most absurd reactions from her with nothing else than just a mere stroke of his fingertips.

Pathetic.

(Is it?)

She looks – no – is absolutely fucked, he thinks as his palm follows a path down her body, teasing touch that tickles her flat stomach, sends a repetitive shiver down her spine, legs opening to give him the essential access – a shapely female in his bed, all to himself, which paired with the knowledge of how much she will let him do to her now, has his member throb in impatience, with the variety of scenarios running through his head. The whole experience allows him to see Serena in a different light, more as a self-conscious woman than a sarcastic lass, which in turn makes him wonder whether he was even supposed to offer her that brandy for a loosen-up – doubt definitely short-lived on the benefit of more pressing matters running through his mind. It appears to him that he has managed to dig out all the carnal-oriented parts of her, thirst never to be satiated, which in turn fills him with the so-called male pride, desire to push her limits on every occasion possible, such as now, full at his mercy with legs drawn apart.

“Mmm… fuck,” he mutters to himself, failing to notice the corners of her lips twitching in a sly smirk, too preoccupied with the carnival of thoughts rushing through his head. Nevertheless, such momentary satisfaction is not enough to soothe the blossoming ache, sheer desperation for the long-craved attention that has her squirming on the mattress, helpless and miserable, hips shifting to get him where she needs it the most. Unfortunately and much to her lust-laced despair, the cruel hand only hovers over the mound, barely brushing her skin, which elicits a frustrated huff from the woman and prompts her to roll over to the side, ignoring all protests of the weakened body.

Draping a single leg over his hip, she leans in to steal a kiss, the nicotine aftertaste lingering on his tongue, far too intense to be considered as pleasant under any other circumstances, and in spite of said assumption some wicked part of her still longs for more, pressed flush to his body. He allows her to do so, hands grasping her by the hips to prevent Serena from grinding against his thigh, or whatever stunt she is attempting to pull, which elicits a frustrated huff from the woman, one of those that has him chuckling against her lips.

“Can you like… take off your clothes?” She mutters, still less than an inch from him, unfortunately putting their kiss to a premature end. “It makes me feel awkward that I’m the only one naked.”

“I thought you would prefer to receive some attention first, but if that’s what you want…” he cocks an eyebrow at her, even though she is unable to see it at such close proximity, taking special pleasure in the way her hands fall down with a slap– illusion of pining him to the mattress.

“No- I mean-”

“No?” He interrupts, teasing manner that lights her eyes with newfound doze of frustration, clutching at the cotton of his tee.

“Can you touch me first?” She almost whines, the sheer desperation within her voice makes him twitch inside the constricting denim, wish to remove the barrier between their bodies, then, of course, fuck her into the mattress until she is babbling nonsense. “Please.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he smirks, as if genuinely pleased with how the situation has played out, for his own benefits obviously, flipping them sooner than expected, which elicits a surprised giggle from his female partner. She props herself on the elbows, watching him with anticipation written across her features, curious about his actual intents, chest heaving in time with each uneven breath, skin practically glowing in the city lights – a reach-through to the most carnal parts of his brain.

(So, so ready for him.)

Hence, he decides to take some pity on her

(him),

since she has been quite cooperative throughout their whole encounter, yet to reach the end, and so rewarding her for such is certainly fair enough, if only to see the misty eyes light up once more, stormy pools of sensuous lust, luring him to lean in – one step closer to his inevitable damnation. Therefore, he rolls the t-shirt over his head, jeans soon to follow – an action that draws an excited gasp from the female – although the underwear stays on, considering it might be a little hard to contain himself if elsewise, paired with the longing look she flashes him as in response to the unexpected turn of events.

Before she gets a grasp on what is happening, he tugs her by the arm, directing her onto his lap once again, breasts snug against his chest, and a single hand unceremoniously being pushed in between her legs, cupping the whole expanse in one rough palm, which elicits a vocal moan from the woman. Her hips rock against it, seemingly on their own, craving for more blissful friction, as she literally throbs in relief, opening up like a flower underneath his touch – silent plead for more, encouragement to pursue, to reward her for how compliant she has been to him.

“Just like that…” she moans, obviously content with the situation itself, eyes falling shut on their own, as she settles into the position, or rather gets used to the pressure applied by his hand, with a ghost of breath on her neck.

“Like this?” He teases, pressing down on her clit hard enough to draw a pitiful squeal from the woman, hips bucking in response to the rough caress – such an absurd concoction of words – as her hands raise to take a steady grip on his shoulders. His breath is palpable on her skin, tickling akin to the reddish strands, having her wish his tongue would run over the heated flesh, suck at the soft spot just below her ear, in need for any sort of relief, since all he has been performing for quite a while now qualifies as merely teasing, no less no more.

“You’re relentless,” she sighs, as if to spur him with the helpless act, thighs quivering with effort of containing the innate thrusts of her hips, pad of his finger circling the swollen nub with almost inhuman deftness, drifting her thoughts back the drive-in, and the following doubt: which one is she? The thirty-ninth? That low? Maybe fifty-first? This, paired with the ability of turning her mind into a shapeless mush, so clear and brisk at most times, capable of fluent concentration, freaks her out more than she cares to admit, along with the lust-laced submission, the fact that she is past the point of common self-respect, goaded by the primal urge to hit the climax once again – unhinged desire that breaks down far too many barriers, that forces her to…

“Mmm…fuck,” she moans as soon as his fingers reach further south, prodding at the spasming entrance, so close to sliding inside and yet elongating the blissful torture. “Please, I need this so much.”

“Who would’ve thought you were such a greedy, little girl,” he teases, oh so harmlessly, fighting the pressing need to grind against the moist heat, almost dizzy with his own lust, practically bursting as if caught on some high school fling.

(Self-control.)

“Tell me now, what have you done to earn this?”

Now that is humiliating, she thinks, while in consideration how regrettable would be to disobey him, even if for a mere moment, hands twitching with effort of containing the immature idea of pushing him away, then expressing her immense displeasure by twisting his dick off. Possibly the worst case scenario, and yet the only one left when cornered, hesitating between twain of opposite solutions, unable to fit anywhere in between, and accordingly so, she chooses to speak – weak insubordination, mindless babbling of sheer desperation.

“Each and every thing you wanted me to do,” she argues, one of her hand reaching his, pressed in between the tensed thighs, wordlessly prompting him to pursue, “so I think I deserve a reward.”

“A reward you say?” he retorts – a query almost lost in the space-time as soon as he presses down onto the swollen folds, drawing another feminine whimper from her. “Fine, so let’s make it worthwhile.”

And with that he resumes, quick to slide a pair of his fingers inside, which forces a choked cry from the woman, hands once again flying up to grasp his shoulders, long nails biting into the firm flesh. He hisses at the mingling stab of pain and pleasure, unable to contain the subtle shiver running down his spine, especially when paired with the reedy moan she utters as soon as he brushes the g-spot, dizzy because of the long-craved fullness, based on those male preference aspects, squirming upon his lap as the caress grows on intensity. This, or the self-named leakage, calls back to involuntary disclosure of one’s true intentions, hidden desires, cravings never qualified for direct verbalization, popping out to the surface when uncontained, least expected, or simply unfortunate.

“Hear that?” He rasps into her ear, causing the tiny hairs on female’s neck to stand up as the tickling heat begins to spread through her body, skin almost itching to be touched. “Hear how wet you are?”

“Yes,” she gasps, now actually paying attention to the squelching sounds, cheeks burning hot red, as she buries her face in his neck, lips brushing the sensitive flesh as she speaks.

“Look at me,” he demands, fingers grasping her chin, as he tilts it upwards, eyes adverting to the side, prompted by the silly need to hide away from the intensity of such contact, “and I want you to hold it.”

“Okay,” she gulps as her walls clench around his fingers – involuntary response that elicits an amused chuckle from the male, all to her exasperation, not so mild anymore, sweeping away the prior embarrassment. Even so, she considers the smug composure itself in terms of an aspect beyond enticing, exciting maybe, the one that drags her towards the end faster than expected in comparison to what she is used to. Furthermore, she cannot deny him the skills, but at this point also qualifies it as the less meaningful factor, with its lack of extent towards the mental dimension, towards the emotional bond that blossoms into trust as a parallel to relationship development.

Exquisite but eerie.

Verdict of veracity to validate.

Deep in her thoughts, at least as much as the current situation allows her to, she appears as genuinely caught off guard by the pulsing wave of bliss, pre-orgasmic but potent enough to tear a surprised gasp from her throat, meant to shatter the pitiful remains of so-called concentration. With the eye-contact aspect long forgotten, she throws her head back, exposing the slim column of her neck, luring him to finally suck at the creamy skin, glistening in the city lights, itching for extra touch. Despite the pair of fingers, shoved knuckles deep inside her, along with the ragging hard-on, he manages to get the hint, quick to dip down and attach his lips to the tender flesh – an act that elicits a relieved moan from the female – hands tangling in the velvety mass of hair.

At this point she can barely sit still, squirming in his grips as he lavishes her skin with open-mouthed kisses, nibbling and licking until she becomes a quivering mess, longing for the second climax – honeyed tang upon her tongue, as if possible to be tasted. Chasing the inevitable release, she rocks against the heal of his palm, desperate for more friction, frenzied and unhinged, torn between tethering on the cusp forever and tilting forward to the thirst-satiating finale – doubt definitely short-lived, minuscule expanse of time carved from the eternity.

With a final spasm, she arches towards him, lips colliding in a messy kiss, clenching around his fingers, so tightly that his thrusts are forced to a halt, labored breaths exchanged between the lovers – his in carnal desperation, hers as a result of mind-numbing bliss. In attempt to steady her trembling body, one of his arms snakes behind her back, holding the partner upright as she rides out her orgasm, bucking against his hand in languid manner that indicates the gradual ebbing of prior pleasure.

When their eyes meet, glassy and high on post-orgasmic delight, something snaps within him, and despite the discontented whine she utters, he pushes her away to the side, then in one brisk movement gets rid of his underwear, almost ripping the fabric in process. Having discarded it to the side, he climbs back on top of her, prying her legs open with a rushed knee jolt, but she halts him by laying a single hand on his chest, his face now marked with a frown of confusion.

“The protection,” she reminds drily, causing him to roll his eyes, but at the same time reach to the lonesome box chilling by the bed, soon to fish out a single foil package and rip it with one precise flick of his wrist.

“You’re such a mood killer,” he huffs, albeit quick to put the (un)necessary interval to an end by rolling the latex piece onto his throbbing hard-on, groaning when treated by the meager pressure, applied in the cruelest way possible.

Impatient as ever, she watches him jerk off a few times, before he kneels in front of her again, and without wasting any more time, lines with her entrance, the rapid slide that forces a chocked cry from her throat. With dark spots marking her vision, she lifts the gaze to meet his eyes – pools of pitch black with a barely present rim of jade, captivating, almost to the point of hypnosis, burning with unhinged lust – chest heaving with labored breaths.

“Shit…” he groans, delirious, voice laced with newfound desperation, selfish need to get off as soon as possible, especially when she is pulsing around him, once again anticipating the approaching wave of bliss. With his clean hand, he laces their fingers – a gesture she would consider romantic if not for the following exclamation, mindless babbling of incoherent man, lacking in the usual finesse. “Makes me wanna fuck you so hard.”

“Then do it,” she spurs, wriggling her hips as if to signalize that she is more than ready, wanting, willing to find out what he has to offer, but instead of transferring the words into proper actions, he speaks again, rough and husky – gravelly driveway to the dream estate.

“Say that again,” he practically growls – a sound that throws her off the current train of thoughts, even if for a brief moment, primal in the way that sends a chilling shiver down her spine.

“Do it, please,” she repeats, more determined than before, legs wrapping around his hips as if in attempt to drag him closer, heels digging into the tensed muscle. Having him inside her calls back to the long-forgotten sensation – peculiar fullness, linked with the most pristine connection – intended to be relished, but at the same time aiming for a further pursuit, walls spasming around him as if to prove a point. “Please.”

To that, he has no answer, at least not the one she wants to gain, instead keeps staring at her for what seems like forever, but in reality must oscillate around less-than-a-minute interval, with her squirming impatience failing to affect him. Seemingly deprived of the desired ability to make him comply,

(Come closer and see)

she focuses on the distinctive melody playing in the background, coming from the adjoining flat,

(See into the dark)

the one she used to consider as a fit to hear out while you get high, but that was before she has learned the meaning beyond lyrics, beyond the goth-rock tune that she enjoys to replay in her head, so brutally interrupted in the middle by an unknown hand.

(Just follow your eyes)

he says and for a split second she cannot focus on anything else but the lingering tone, leaning to one inevitable conclusion, and all of sudden there comes a time when ‘male’ is preceded by ‘fe’.

“Please?” He croaks at some point, barely acknowledging enough to pierce through the metaphorical barrier, one of his hands squeezing her hip, blunt nails digging into the fleshy part of her side, until she squeals in discomfort, eyes now shifting to meet his – pools of shady lust.

“Yes,” she gulps, struggling to get the words out of her parched throat, one slim leg hooking over his midsection as if to cover up the prior absence, “please.”

In what must take just mere seconds, he releases her hand – a hook to reality – both of his switching to her shoulders in search for a more convenient position, sure to leave bruises as they bite into her skin. She finds it unsettling, the swiftness of his movements, the barely present grasp on changeable turn of events – concern soon to evaporate in the chilly night in time with the first push, hitting her heftier than expected, evident in the stunned cry she utters.

His lips are parted, letting out heavy breaths, tongue flicking over the parched flesh – an action that enhances her want, no – her need, to taste him – while all he contributes in, minus the thrusting part, is holding her down, lost in the mind-numbing desire to feel her clenching around him each time he rubs against her cervix. He keeps the pace slow, allowing him to reach deeper inside his restless lover, her hands now tightening around his wrists, eyes falling shut, as she attempts to grind against him, clit throbbing for attention. She almost sobs in relief when he gets the hint, one of his hands dipping in between their bodies to circle the swollen nub with a pair of long fingers, not quite meaning to grant her the relief yet, instead teases the edges with ticklish touches, parallel to the fluttering of butterfly’s wings. Nonetheless, she is clenching around him, throbbing and squirming, almond-shaped nails biting into the tendons crossing his wrists, as if to stay connected with the runaway reality.

Noting more than a pointless pursuit…

According to Alexander, there is a fair amount of adjectives to label a woman with, selection almost mind-numbing during the initial recon, ranging from the less favorable traits to the absolute heaven of compliments, quite difficult to choose from in such circumstances. Either way, enticing is what he opts for at the moment, skin glistening with sweat, presumably as much as his, breasts swaying in time with each thrust, and the variety of sounds slipping past her lips, now bleeding from excess biting. The crimson mark prompts him to dip down, sweep his tongue across the cut, if only for a taste – a craving impossible to ignore – and finally lean in, kissing the split flesh – an action that elicits a relived mewl from the woman, along with the carnal groan he utters – shaping up a need to verbalize what is on his mind, a bunch of half-coherent words.

“Always so fucking stubborn, such a tough bitch out there, and look at you now,” he groans, breath tickling her chin, a single hand now tightening around her throat, which forces a chocked whine from the female. “You’d do anything I say, anything to cum, am I right?”

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” she chants as if in some unspoken desperation, rewarded by the profuse pressure on her clit that draws a content sigh from her, soon replaced by a deep moan, back arching off the mattress as both contraries mingle – inside and outside, downright blissful. She shivers as her breasts brush his chest, hands reaching to squeeze the pert globes, eyes closing on their own as the pleasure begins to build up, not so gradually anymore, rather in comparison with the waves crushing to the shore – rhythmical intensifications that parallel with the involuntarily clenching walls.

“I know, I- fuck,” he groans, spurred by the sight below to increase the pace, even thrusts long forgotten on the benefit of something more feral, pleasure-chasing, nerves tingling, as if to brace for the approaching surge of bliss. Torn between the polar opposites, on one hand willing to reach the thirst-satiating finale sooner than later, while on the other force her to beg once again, if only to maintain the ‘authoritarian’ figure, which at this point also appears as nonsensible, futile, with trembling muscles, tightening sac, and shut-off brain.

Although he can tell that she is tethering right on the edge too, he needs to speed up the process, lips attaching to the sweet spot below her ear – an action that elicits a broken moan from the woman – hand around her neck involuntarily tightening, as he holds himself up. Struggling to breathe properly, her nails rake down his shoulder blades, leaving a bloody trail below, his own teeth biting a sangria-colored bruise on the tender skin until she squeals, akin to some high school girl.

“C’mon, darling,” he purrs against the sore spot, flicking his tongue over the soon-to-form mark, rough stubble scratching her delicate flesh, hips grinding against his hand, caught in some frenzied state of lust. With a final scrape of his palm, or beard maybe, she clenches around him, spine bending as if to form a late triumphal arch – the most anticipated conquest – immediate to drag him with her, bodies spasming in each other’s arms, as their breath mingle, lips trace the flushed skin, and with both eyes closed, they attempt to ignore the black spots making their vision. Unable to keep himself upright, he collapses on top of her, drawing a pitiful mewl from the confused woman, cutting her airflow once again, which forces yet another choked whine from her throat. “’M sorry,” he mutters, although apparently struggling to roll over, muscles not working on his account for a change, but in the end somehow manages to rest on his back, leaving her cold and empty on the side.

In search for the essential warmth, she reaches out to him, half-climbing, half-snuggling to his side, body trembling as the sweat begins to evaporate from the cease of her spine, loose strands of hair ticking his cheek, lips joining in a leisure kiss. While neither of them dares to break the silence, still hazy with the post-orgasmic delight, his thoughts drift back to the events of seemingly distant past, the unspoken whim that has been lingering in the air for quite a while now, satiated by the least expected person.

It all seems so absurd now…

How close she brings him to God.

* * *

“Aren’t you gonna be jealous?” She frowns, her gaze glued to the enormous portrait decorating the snow white wall – a color almost too perfect to be true.

“No, why?” He glances at her, scratching his chin with the inked fingers, freckles manifesting on his skin more than usual in the blinding gallery lights.

“I don’t know,” she retorts, sarcastic as usual. “’Cause all of them will see me naked?”

“That’s only half of a story,” he replies, ever at ease, if not for the possessive squeeze of her shoulder, betraying what is lurking underneath the surface, probably deep enough to remain unacknowledged by the direct ‘stakeholder’ – a mere tincture of so-called jealousy, “only a poor substitute of what we are beyond that, I mean as people.”

“Well, that’d make a lot of sense,” she agrees, hand reaching out to fix the collar of his shirt, purposely scratching the now fading bruise with her nails, “if you weren’t lying, of course.”

“Me? Lying?” He counters with feigned astonishment – an actor in his own theatre of absurd. “In what world?”

“Think about this now,” she begins, hand floating through the air gracefully, indicating the unlimited possibilities. “Someone buys these portraits, every single one of them, to do what exactly? Appreciate art with his family on Thanksgiving?”

“Let him have them then,” he shrugs, calm to the point it drives her nuts.

“What?”

“Think about this now,” he explains, mimicking the prior manners, much to her exasperation. “Family gathering, licentious orgy – a dream come true.”

“I can’t believe you said that,” she huffs, attempting to conceal the giggle, treating to sip through the neatly polished façade – a signature of professionalism.

“Why not kill two birds with one stone?” He continues, almost laughing at the expression upon her face, flawless features marked by the frown of rebuke.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” She glares at him, chewing at the corner of his lip – an indication of surprised chuckle.

“Does it even matter?” He shrugs, with a smug smirk crossing his visage, eyes glistening with the so-called male pride that somehow reminds her of the cinematic philanders with dashing smiles and thick hair. “If you’d want me to fuck you either way?”

“Shut up,” she shakes her head, tormented by the mixture of amusement and annoyance that she has somehow learned to enjoy with him – a turnabout of least expectance. “Just shut up.”

“See that guy over there?” He alludes, motioning towards some poor man, obviously not in terms of money, furthermore lacking in the aforementioned qualities.

“Yeah,” she nods, partly expecting to hear the following answer, and yet it manages to irk her up even this time.

“He’ll totally buy it.”

“Oh fuck off,” she swats him on the chest, gasping when he catches her wrist, fingers digging into the slender arm – a nonverbal warning.

“C’mon, there’s no need to sulk,” he purrs into her ear, lips barely brushing the tender flesh just below, smirking at the feminine gasp she utters in response to the well-accustomed-with caress, “I’ve wanted to show you something anyway.”

“Well… I don’t know,” she drags the words on purpose, gaze following his to the corridor at the end of the hall, “I thought you were supposed to stay here.”

“Agreements are contractual.”

“Mhm… astute.”

Verdict of his virtuosity.

Created: 11/02/20

Completed: 12/28/20

Edited: 12/29/20

3 notes · View notes

cetaceans-pls · 4 years

Text

What Comes After

DGM post-canon LaviYuu, for @this-is-i-am-zan bc she left a nice comment when I was having a crap week. Thank you Zan!

The End of the World has come and gone, the Noah destroyed along with two-thirds of the human population. Innocence have crumbled into dust, which is deeply unpleasant for the Parasitic types, but things have sucked for the Parasitic types for years, so at least they're well-adjusted.

The same cannot be said for Lavi the now part-time Bookman, because there's not a heck of a lot to record when most of the world's gone, and Kanda 'I can die when I'm dead' Yuu, who is not handling a fully-mortal body very well.

This is their story.

The final battle had been a hell of a showdown, probably. Lavi wouldn't know; the Bookman had decided that they needed to cover as much ground as possible, so while he kept an eye on Allen and Lenalee trying to all-out murder the Earl in Britannia somewhere, Lavi had been somewhere in North Africa trying to stop Tyki Mikk from coming in as reinforcement with a literal horde of Akuma. It's a lot of sand in a lot of places, and it's a lot of trying to stop being bit because collectively Tyki and the gang had decided that Lavi had been so annoying he deserved to die by the Akuma virus, even if a couple of Level 4s could have blasted him to Macedonia without much effort.

That's the good (?) and reliable thing about the Noahs, that whole-hearted determination to be as deeply unpleasant as they can be. Lavi hadn't slept for 3 days by that point, in constant flux as he tried to avoid dying while being aggressive enough that Tyki couldn't in good faith just leave him. His record for sleeplessness is 9 days, at which point his organs would start shutting down at a hell of a rapid rate, and Lavi had been ready to go the whole hog.

Luckily for him, 3 days was about all Allen and Lenalee needed to..... address the Earl, somehow, because at around noontime one day in February, while Mikk was floating around on a Level 5 (god) to enjoy the sea view, there had been an awful pulse of some terrible power, like being hit in the head by an invisible, immaterial hammer, and Lavi had fallen to his knees to throw up.

The Akuma had fallen to the ground and turned to dust, and Mikk had fallen to the ground and gotten up fully human.

(It's not difficult for Lavi to permanently deal with another human being, even if his Innocence had shattered in his hands and he's covered in sick and blood. It's a good thing that the Bookman code doesn't teach much about compassion for your fellow man, better still that Lavi is, by this point, extremely used to death on his hands.)

The Battle to end all battles came and went in an alarmingly short amount of time, and in those few days most of the world was wiped out; there were only so many active Exorcists, and there were so, so many Akuma.

Lavi had passed out as soon as he had staggered far enough from the devastation that he stopped smelling the dust and death of it all, and he had remained passed out for what felt like weeks. When he finally woke up in this arid wasteland stinking of destruction and despair, feeling a little out of his head, Lavi had decided to just.... settle down here, and fish for food and dig a well for irrigation and he'll rebuild humanity all by himself right where he is, yes. Sanity eventually returned with the advent of the wet season a few weeks later, rain leaden and heavy with Akuma remains, acidic on the skin.

Heralding the arrival of the stormclouds had been Yuu, resplendent somehow on a shaggy Bactrian camel, more resplendent still when he had slapped Lavi awake and bundled him up and away, on a long, slow trek to England.

(Later, Lavi discovers that several kingdoms in Asia are fighting over the right to rename themselves Kanda, after the man single-handedly protected the largest swathe of human civilization from a literal plague of Akuma. He also finds out that when Mugen had dissolved back to blood in his hands, Yuu had nearly died from bleeding out because he thought with enough blood he could make another sword. Both things are so exclusively, exhaustingly Yuu it had made his head spin.)

There is no Black Order, because there aren't any Exorcists, because there isn't any Innocence. The Ark is down and out, so there's no quick travel, and there are not a lot of people of any sort left, so they couldn't just get on a rickety plane or questionable ship heading up-and-to-the-left. It's just them and this singular camel who seems extremely fine traveling from the blazing heat of Northern Africa into a Europe still struggling to come out of winter. The camel walks, and Lavi tries to understand both their circuitous, meandering route, and how Yuu had appeared unto him like a dream of rescue. Yuu is taciturn at the best of times and downright churlish for the rest of it, but two men and a camel do not good speed make, and over the months of travel, he pries little bits of truth out.

Yuu was at the Asia branch, and took it into his head to protect as much of Asia as he could. He was as successful as he was because he had taken to it like a suicide mission, and hadn't been planning to keep his regeneration abilities for an 'after' that might not come.

The tattoo on his chest is a complete circle, and the halo around the Om stretches across most of his chest; Lavi gets to see it when they're crawling up the Balkans and he had ground Yuu down enough to give him a show. It's.... a sight. "This mean you're just as prone t'breakin' down as the rest of us now, Yuu?"

The pebbles crunch softly under Takla's padded feet; it's frigid here by the waterside, but Yuu navigates more by mood than geography, and shows a dramatic preference for traveling close to rivers and oceans. It probably means something, but Lavi broke both ankles during the last battle and neither of them are healing quite right, so he's grown to give less of a damn about metaphors in his miserable older age.

It's fine.

"Probably," Yuu had answered. "Idiot," he had tacked on, because just because he was going soft, didn't mean he had to admit to going soft.

(Being close to the water did have the advantage of a healthy supply of food and drink, though it came with the disadvantage of Yuu refusing to accept his bodily limitations and going for a swim in the death of winter like he's waiting for the water to take over his lungs and drag him down.)

(Lavi's ankles aren't the only things that Are Not Okay.)

It's Spring in maximum swing, pollen heavy in the air and birds and insects delighting in the absence of Man, when they reach Bucharest. There are very few people about, because there are very few people at all, but everyone seems to have been struck with a bout of nihilism today; rebuilding works are set aside for this one warm, sunny day, and they spot at least 3 children splashing in a river while adults lay on whatever grass they can find, face upturned to the sun.

Takla garners a lot of attention, because she is a massive camel with two strange-looking men on her back, but Yuu rides imperviously one, a professional jockey stopping his camel from stampeding over thin crowds. Lavi has an idea of why they're in Romania, and has less of one on how in a post-apocalyptic world Yuu somehow ran into the perfect all-terrain vehicle (who loves him).

Black leather and beaten-up faces are enough to have the locals to ping them as Exorcists, which bodes well for Crowley being here, or having been here, and leaving a good taste in people's mouths. The proprietor of one of the only restaurants running in the entire city harkens them over, and they have beef tripe while Takla carouses with the youths in the park, cheered on as she placidly munches on shrubs and bushes.

It's nice to taste iron in his mouth after all that fish, Lavi thinks, and it's somehow also nice to see that people survived, and continue.... surviving. The restaurant doesn't charge money for its wares, because what's the point of money in the collapse of civilization, and instead an elderly lady gets a meal of meatloaf when she drops by with one (1) loaf of bread she made using ground-up seeds of varying origins. Lavi insists on paying for their meal, and worn down by a steady one-eyed stare, the restaurant man agrees to the price of one silver button from Lavi's uniform.

In turn, they are loaded up with cured meats and bricks of polenta, and a vague direction to head towards the last known location of Crowley, the protector of the entirety of Eastern Europe. Lavi asks if Yuu's pick-up service had extended to different regions before he'd come upon Lavi; did he swim across oceans to hunt down General Tiedoll in New Zealand, somewhere? Did he try to meet up with Marie in India? Any word from anybody else in Asia or Africa?

They are few and they are spread so thin, and Takla is just the one camel that Yuu tamed while crossing the desert in a bloody haze. Yuu admits to meeting General Klaud somewhere between where Yuu had murdered Sheril and where he'd found Lavi, and with the loss of her Innocence, Klaud had seemed coldly sane up until the point she began talking to her companion (a non-Innocence goat).

Tiedoll is probably alive but he is out of reach; Marie's fight had moved from the Indian subcontinent to somewhere in the Andaman sea. Yuu had seen the remains of the twins but not of his brother, so hope.... remains. Anyone in the Americas is beyond his purview, and Miranda was at the site of the final battle because there's no pinch hitter more reliable than one that could turn time back pre-pinch.

Yuu tells Lavi, in fits and bursts, of what he'd seen as he'd travelled 'round and 'round while Lavi had tried to set up his own homestead and farm somewhere in Maghreb. It's an odd reversal of fates, Lavi stagnant while Yuu gathered as much as he could with his two bare hands.

He'd gathered Lavi up, and now he's trying to find Crowley. It's bizarre to imagine that Yuu's the one picking up the pieces, that he's the one of all of them with the strength but also the will to collect them one by one.

(It's dumb to think that Yuu lets things go easily, when the whole thing with Alma is taken into consideration, but Bookman training did not completely preserve one from complete idiocy sometimes, so.

Oh, god, he wonders how his crops are doing in Algeria.)

They come upon a crumbling castle pockmarked with gouges from Akuma bombs. Takla draws to a halt at the entrance, and Yuu dismounts and swiftly, scarily scales up the walls until he can gain entry through a blown-up wall on the third floor.

Lavi was not invited on this adventure, so he pokes around the front, looking for clues. By the time Yuu's prowled through enough of the castle to tell that nobody is living here, Lavi is back on Takla with an envelope he'd found nailed into the arm of a stone cherub with a missing head, tucked under some bushes.

It's a grim messenger for someone so fundamentally wholesome as Crowley, but then again it's plenty sweet of him to have left a message via a messenger of love, and maybe the head had been on when they'd started.

It's a short note, written neatly on heavy paper.

Headed to England; A. should be in Liverpool.

Looking forward to meeting you soon.

Best regards,

A. Crowley

He had even oh-so-politely dated the letter, and they just need to play catch up.

(Crowley's alive!)

They're somewhere in France, and it's warm warm now. In a meadow somewhere to the south, Yuu contemplates one of his many swords as he looks at Takla and her heavy coat. She's in moult, it's clear, but it's gotten hotter faster than they had anticipated, and Yuu doesn't have a brush to comb her down with.

He could give her a trim. He's the reason Lavi and he are still neat and clean-shaven, and how different is a human haircut to a camel's?

Lavi, meanwhile, is foraging for food, hoping for some rabbit but happy to make do with whatever he can rummage. They are so close to where they want to be, and there hasn't been a secret resurgence in monsters, and the biggest problem they've had to deal with has been marauding gangs of bandits and looters. It had been such a pleasant experience, the first time they were held at gunpoint by six men with handkerchiefs covering their faces. What an honour and a privilege to face a fight where death is actually less likely than survival!

They might not have their weapons, but years and years as active Exorcists means that they functionally are weapons themselves. The only thing either of them had been worried about was Takla, who got skittish when surrounded by people she didn’t know, but the gang leader with the communal gun had stepped just a hair to close to Yuu, and that was all it took.

Yuu had disarmed and knocked three men unconscious before the gun hit the ground, and Lavi blew through the remaining men in just slightly more time. The biggest hassle with looters is how they tend to startle Takla into running, which means Lavi and Yuu then have to run after her after the threats have been dispatched.

The main positive is that they are never short of food and drink thieved from thieves, and the world's made a little safer a bit at a time as they use their judgment to dole out some form of justice.

(It extremely does not pay to be trigger-happy or fond of violence in front of them, and word spreads about the dangers of accosting two men and their lumpy not-horse as they journey to the west.)

Lavi spots a pheasant and downs it with a home-made bow and arrow, which means a good meal will be had all around, and comes back to camp to find Takla neatly trimmed.

Yuu is laid out by her side, scowling at the sky.

The scowling's pretty common, but the inactivity is not. Putting his prize away, Lavi leans over to block the sun, and looks down into the face of a usually indomitable man. "Everythin' all right, Yuu-chan?"

Yuu just blinks at him angrily, before sitting up. "There's a rabbit burrow next to the rocks," he growls out.

O.....kay. "D'you want me to catch some rabbits?"

Despite all the violence that comes part and parcel with being reborn to fight things that killed you before, Lavi's discovered that Yuu is strangely, sweetly averse to taking lives, and is happier with a vegetarian diet with just the slightest hint of fish at the side. He doesn't turn down food, because he isn't an idiot, but Lavi's happy to take over butchery from the man with half a dozen swords.

If it were possible, Yuu's sour look turns even sourer. "I didn't see it," he's snarling now, like that's all that needs to be said.

Oh, dear, Lavi's supposed to be good at observation. Yuu has one of his boots off, trouser leg tugged up to almost his knee, and where Lavi’s first thought had been Yuu was just enjoying some sun, the swollen ankle and the hideous blue-black bruising coming in paint a markedly different picture.

It looks like a terrible sprain, Lavi thinks to himself as he searches around him for some sturdy branches. The tattered remains of his scarf will make for decent bandages, and they need to immobilise the joint. "Gotcha, lover. You feelin' all right?"

All he gets is stony silence, and Lavi just laughs it off as he carries out triage. It doesn't seem broken, though the pain can't be pleasant. Lavi grabs his pack of assorted acquired bits and bobs and props Yuu's foot atop it for some elevation, and feels a little manically amused that now they've only got 1 good ankle between them, gosh.

Yuu doesn't get chattier after his foot's been attended to, so Lavi busies himself cleaning the pheasant and setting up a fire. Riding Takla is a pretty comfortable feat, but they should probably still take a couple of days to let Yuu rest before they get moving again. So close to where they want to be, a couple of days won't make much of a difference.

It's long after dinner, long after the sun's set and they're trying to sleep in prickly grass and the glow of embers, that Yuu finally speaks again. "How long.... How long does it take people to heal from this shit?"

And it comes with a bang!, the realisation that in the entire time he's been alive, this is quite possibly the longest that Yuu's ever had a minor injury for.

A minute for a busted ankle to fully recover in return for 3 months off the end of your life doesn't seem like the worst deal, now that Lavi thinks about it, but that's not an option anymore.

They really are only men now, which Lavi finds hysterical.

"Depends, Yuu," he says into the night sky. "Could be days, could be never. Welcome, yeah, to the human condition."

Yuu's groan of abject disgust is quickly drowned out by Takla's worried honking, and Lavi lies there and laughs with a belly full of bird.

By the time they cross the wasteland of what used to be the industrial centre of Northwestern England, Takla's heavier coat is starting to grow in again. She's plusher and rougher to the touch, and Lavi doesn't think he'll ever love anything as much as he loves her hypnotic stride carrying them on and on and on. England's decimated, having been the epicentre of the fight, and the pads of her feet leave an indent in the ash like it's a beach of the finest black sand. Her charms and months and months on her back have given Lavi a strange, new perspective on Yuu and life, in a way that a fight to the death and a functional apocalypse had failed to bring to bear.

In the hazy distance, probably still a day's long trot away, is a tall structure that looks like black glass, like the ground had been struck by lightning and rose up petrified. They can't be sure that they'll find anyone there, but before they'd left to defend their assigned regions Lenalee had made them promise to try and meet up where the Earl was defeated. Without golems and without radios, a tall tower of burnt glass seems like the most obvious place to make a meeting place.

Lavi wonders where they'll go from here. He's kept tally of the number of people they've run into, counting out proportions in his head to estimate what the living population is, and if there are enough people to make some more, and the answer does feel like there just won't be enough people to warrant the continued employment of a junior Bookman. And what about Yuu? New to long-term physical suffering, incapable of meeting a sword that'll last longer than a week in his hands. Not a people person, not trained in anything but killing but curiously far too reticent to go into trade at an abattoir. Will he help rebuild this turned-over world?

Would he want to?

Takla continues plodding on, taking them closer and closer to What Happens Next.

It doesn't feel as appealing as it had in the months leading up to it. He wants to meet up with everyone, of course. Hell, Lavi suspects he might even have tears to shed once they hear their losses (because there must be, there will be, heavy losses), but after? Does he want to settle back into a new organisation that decides what gets his time and what doesn't? Does he want to put the most dishonest mask of all and try and pretend that he is in any way invested in humanity's continued survival?

Trying to imagine what his ideal would be in this new world, all Lavi can think of are meadows with burrows lying in wait, and restaurants that take in acorn-bread and convert them into sausages through communal alchemy. He thinks of Yuu, and Takla, and the way high ground drops off into the sea in the lands of blood and honey.

It's a radical departure from his original intentions, but maybe his 50th persona is all that he is, and all that he is is a man apathetic to the charms of everything except for an idiot currently struggling with the concept of non-instantaneous healing and the first Bactrian camel he's ever had the pleasure of meeting.

The structure gleams in the hazy setting sun, and Lavi reaches over a hump to tap Yuu very politely on the side (avoiding the shoulder Yuu dislocated when he tried to carry Takla over a steep creek, because he's an idiot currently struggling with the concept of non-instantaneous healing) to voice his concerns.

"Hey, Yuu, d'you wanna rejoin the Black Order? If Allen 'nd them start somethin', will you throw your lot in with them?"

It turns out that this topic's important enough to garner Yuu's attention, because he actually turns to look at Lavi and measure whatever he sees. It's a long moment of blatant staring, before he rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue. "Of course not. I was made to fight, and I fucking fought. Now I'm going to go in there and see who made it and who didn't, and then I'm going to go."

The world really lucked out that in spite of all that the Order had done to Yuu, his greatest act of rebellion is to stave off the complete destruction of mankind, crawl across the world trying to pick up stray Exorcists, check in on comrades and family, and then leave. Lavi really lucked out to have been the stray that did get picked up by this marvelous man and his marvelous camel.

All things considered, there's really just the one way forward, so long as he gets the okay. It takes a bit of finagling, and Takla makes an irritated sound as Lavi maneuvers over one of her humps to rest his chin on Yuu's good shoulder, certain by this point in their relationship that this is something he's allowed, and oh, isn't that amazing. "Yuu, d'you think you'd mind if I tagged along with you? After I check that the old man's all right, I honest t'god can't think of anything I want t'do more than keepin' on moving on th'back of a camel with th'world's most amazing man."

Yuu doesn't answer him, and it's not a 'no', which is already a bit of win. Lavi digs his pointy chin in deeper into meat and muscle, and sighs. "You picked me up once already, darlin', and whisked me the hell away. Why not a repeat performance, hey?"

Lavi wonders what Yuu thinks of when he thinks of an ideal new world. Surely Takla is there, and probably a revival of soba-makers. A green and quiet place close the sea, hard to get to but within reach of Tiedoll and his brood. Medical services nearby, maybe, to prepare for the first glorious stubbing of the toe.

Lavi wonders if he figures in it at all, wonders what he can do to worm his way in.

(Turns out, he's done enough.)

Yuu turns to face Lavi so quickly Lavi gets whipped by his hair, which was likely entirely intentional. This close up, the blue of Yuu's eyes is startling, and for a moment Lavi forgets that they're not Exorcists with weapons from god anymore, because he can almost hear the snap-crackle of barely-leashed electricity.

(A bad sprain might take actual time to heal now, but Lavi is such a fool to think that that renders Yuu anything approximating normal, god.)

"If I had to choose a life to save, it's always going to be Takla over you," Yuu says with utmost seriousness.

He might as well have kissed Lavi full on the lips, if he was going to be so forthright!

Lavi pulls himself back just with enough time to avoid bursting into delighted laughter in Yuu's ears. "Of course, Yuu-chan, I wouldn't expect anything less from you!"

It seems that the Universe is feeling generous, because Yuu carries on as though Lavi isn't having a bit of a break in the head from pleasant surprise. "I want to go find Marie, and take Takla on a beach holiday. As long as you're not dead weight, you can come."

You can come! A direct actual invitation! From Kanda Yuu, the man with 7 kingdoms to his name!

Lavi settles back in his seat, and tries really hard to avoid crowing with delight. "Darlin', would it be bad t'say that I'm probably gonna try harder t'stay in your good graces than I did fightin' the forces of evil for the sake of mankind?"

"No," Yuu says with utmost confidence. "I'm a hell of a lot better than mankind, after all."

And that, after months and months riding across a billion types of wasteland, is the first time Lavi actually falls of Takla, laughing so hard that he chokes on a mouthful of ash from the destruction of millions.

(Things are looking up).

A/N: God help me I love 1. camels 2. travel fics 3. aged-up AUs

Camels can carry up to 270 kilos, move as fast as horses, and can survive a temperature range of -29 C to 49 C, so everything allegedly checks out. Takla is named after the Taklamakan desert where Yuu found her, and I love her. It’s been so long since I wrote anything even vaguely canonical it’s wild oAo

Hope y’all enjoyed it!

Masterlist + Commission Info

#dgm #dgm hallow #laviyuu #lavi #kanda yuu #dgm fanfic #fanfic #this was 100% inspired by recent events #that had me staring at the inherent fragility of being human #and how tf that would feel #for some dumbass that's been invincible for most of his life #i like the thought of #yuu being used to intense pain #but also a short-terminess of suffering #that's on par w the short-terminess of #his existence #damn b #whale writing

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