#Also that she replaced the green ribbon thing i hope that the name with a blue one after she left again

[roastedmoth]

[xxmyhomexx]

Flower From Tiamat's Fire: Salute to The Five, Part 1

I keep getting ideas for writing after seeing all the posts people keep putting up! This will be a couple of parts, as it is about Kingu and Nikkal's daughter as an adult! It has no connection to the game, and is once more about The Five!

~~~

"Since Kingu is stepping down, it is mandatory to balance the thrones. Once she reaches age 25, Laney must take her Father's place."

"Your daughter controls Chaos better than anyone. She is perfect."

Laney's yellow eyes snapped open think over the events that transpired over her life. She remembered meeting The Five for the first time, sleeping in Ishtar's bed and eating cookies with Enki. It was only a handful of times they welcomed her, but those times were the warmest the world's rulers treated her. Now, just as her parents' taught her, her 25th birthday was here, which was also the annual Salute To The Five Ceremony.

Sitting at the vanity in her old bedroom, she observed her reflection. Her skin reflected her father's pallor, midnight black hair falling in waves down to the small of her back. Her angular face produced high cheekbones, and her yellow eyes reflected her mother's. The cherry-red lip paint on her lips glossed as she puckered, sighing deeply in her chair.

Her dress was outfitted in a style that suited her tastes, a simple but elegent lavender with a flared out bottom and off the shoulder sleeves. The Five ceremony would start in two hours, and she still hadn't moved a muscle to get to the door. Why was she like this? She had the confidence of her father, but the timidness of her mom.

"By Lahamu and Lahamu, curse you." She sneered.

"Curse me? I hope not, because I bring gifts!" A man's voice startled her from her chair. He wore orange robes, his dark brown hair tied back in a manbun, green eyes dancing on her while carrying a basket with ribbons, a dagger, and other trinkets. Laney's muscles relaxed as she recognized Kishi, a boy from a neighboring village near The Academy, and one whom her mother rescued from an Annunaki.

"Kishi," she hugged him as he sat the basket down. "By the name of Irkalla, never scare me like that again. I could've scorched you and fed you to the Annunaki.

"Psssh, bitch please," Kishi scoffed. "A little thing like you could never."

They both laughed as she sat back down. Kishi leaned forward and massaged her shoulders, figuring out how to style her hair. He fanned out her locks to her face, asking her if she had any suggestions.

"I'm thinking braided buns and curls going down your back," he scratched his chin. "Or maybe clipped back in a crown?"

Laney's lips formed a thin line. She had always loves long hair, and she swore to never get it shortened unless the ends needed trimming. Now gazing at her reflection, she inhaled through her nostrils and nodded to herself.

"Cut it off."

Kishi froze. "Excuse me?"

"I want it short," Laney leaned back. "Maybe down to my chin. Yeah, let's go with that."

"Darling," Kishi was perplexed. "You never wanted anyone to cut it short."

"Times are different, Kishi," Laney relaxed her shoulders. "I'm about to...become a part of The Five."

"Oh, Laney," Kishi rubbed her head. "You never asked for this life."

Chuckling, she shook her head and lowered her lashes. He was right, she never asked to become Kingu's successor. Enki wanted a replacement, and Tiamat's thrones needed five people to rule over the world. Humans and mages lived in harmony now, and the peace following Tiamat's demise lasted years and years. She thought she'd be at the House of The Lion practicing sparring with Aunt Su, listening to Uncle Iyar plucking his strings, or listening to Guardian Niall and her parents reminiscing about her childhood.

Instead, she was privately tutored, trained twince as hard from any other mage, and learned the ins and outs of ruling as part of The Five. Kingu and Nikkal taught her as much as possible, preparing her to their best for her 25th birthday. Now it was here, and a part of her wished it'd end as fast as it started.

"Me too, but I'll make best of it," she finally answered Kishi. "I won't let The Five down, or my family. I'm not weak, and I sure as Irkalla am not someone to give in. I'll be the best damn ruler Ur has ever seen."

"That's my girl," Kishi rubbed her head. "Now, how do you want the cut?"

"In waves."

~~~

Outside her daughter's room, Nikkal's hunched shoulders rolled back in anxiety. Clutching her blue dress's wrap tightly around her chest, her long fiery hair tucked tightly above her head in a braided bun with ringlets framing the sides of her face. Today, she'd guide her only daughter to the Ziggurat, where she'd start her rule alongside Enki, Ishtar, Shamash and Enlil.

She was so strong-willed, but her poor girl had to learn faster than anyone to fight and learn magic. Never once did she complain, cried a few times, but never gave up. Now, on her birthday The Five Ceremony would take place, which meant her induction as well. She was a proud mother, a very proud one.

"Are you all right, My Lady?" a familiar figure wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest. Kingu, her child's father and husband, wore black robes with a long flowing cape. It was traditional Five clothing, although he'd be inducting someone else. His hair was fastened in its normal style, but looking at him, she'd fallen in love with him all over again.

"Yes," Nikkal turned around to kiss him. "Just trying to delay the moment our girl takes her place with Enki."

Kingu pursed his lips. "A part of me feels guilty."

Nikkal's eyebrows rose. "Why, dear?"

"It should be someone else, not Laney. If it were up to me, I would've never have left if they told me she needed to take my place."

He closed his eyes and frowned. Nikkal cupped his face, forcing him to open them.

"Laney chose to accept this, Kingu. She is scared, but she understands her duties. Believe me, as her mom, I'd have change fate as well."

The two leaned in and pressed their foreheads together. For a few minutes, they remained together, in a mental embrace hoping the hours of the ceremony wouldn't come. Unfortunately, reality wasn't fantasy, and they needed to face Enki and the others sooner or later. Kingu released his wife and walked to the doors, grabbing both handles and opening them to reveal a shocking display.

Their eyes widened when they saw Laney facing them, fanning out her dress. She looked like an angel, although they notice Kishi sweeping the strands of her hair into a pan on the floor. Her once long, lush locks had been chopped off, reaching now her chin in wavy strands. To keep it out of her face, Kishi clipped two strands back with silver and purple hair ornaments. Her makeup was minimal, only cherry red lip paint and pink powder to accentuate her cheeks. A matching shawl draped over her shoulders completed the look of her beautiful gown.

"Mom, Dad?" Laney tilted her head. "What time is it?"

"It's still early, but we came to get you," Nikkal smiled. "You look gorgeous, my dove."

"Yes," Kingu smiled wide. "Like an angel."

He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, as close as any father could. He did not want to let her go, to start a new life, he just wanted her to stay here and keep on nurturing and loving her. But as any father, he had to let her grow into an adult, an adult who was now going to be a new member of The Five.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered in her hair. "I wish things were different."

"Father, no," Laney shook her head. "Don't say that. I know it wasn't the life you wanted for me, but I've come to terms with it. The Four needs a successor, and I can control Chaos. I'm not afraid."

Kingu stroked her cheek and smiled. "You're a terrible liar."

Laney smirked. "I guess you can never truly be ready, huh?"

"Things will get easier," Kingu gripped her hand. "Trust me."

Nikkal walked in the room and pulled her daughter close as well. She may not have been a special mage unlike Kingu, but she was still an equal in this family, and her daughter was her everything. As a mom, she envisioned her life as a free spirit, choosing her own path and creating happy memories.

"Just know we are still proud," her breath hitched. "So, so much."

Tears threatedned to spill out of her eyes, but Laney shook her head and cleared her throat as the family separated at a knock on the door. A servant entered her chambers, bowing to the family.

"Pardon my interruption, but Lord Enki has arrived. It is time to take Laney to the square."

Laney braced herself as she followed her parents out of the room.

[chiefbeifongcanrailme]

i had a linzin idea, which might be unoriginal but idc.

a young tenzin trying to ask out lin by using momo to deliver notes to her, but bumi and kya catch momo, replace the notes and send momo on his merry way.

Lmao the plot is pretty much in the prompt, but this is so cute I gotta write it.

You can also read it on AO3

Enjoy!

"Momo, you have to get this to Lin, okay?" Tenzin said as he tied the note to the ribbon across the flying lemur's neck, "Lin? Beifong? She is the one with the green eyes, black hair, soft smooth skin, pink lips with the smile that could end wars-" He shook his head, "You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you?"

The lemur tilted his head to one side and chirped.

Tenzin sighed, "Just please, get this to Lin. I really need her to know how I feel before she goes out with that stupid partner Shun of hers."

Momo stood up, faintly examining the tiny scrolled up note within the ribbon that hung around him like a lanyard. He chirped again to the airbender, who couldn't be sure whether or not the lemur understood his assignment.

"Go. To. Lin." He repeated, hoping something would percolate, "Please."

Without another word, chirp or sound, the lemur hopped off the balcony and soared through the air in the direction of the training grounds.

It was the one day a week Lin trained with Avatar Aang on her own beckoning, having grown exhausted of Toph's methods. Aang had patience in abundance and sometimes, all Lin needed was a softer touch.

This time two weeks ago, Tenzin had learned of her partner named Shun, a word that was spoken at the highest frequency from the subtotal of all the words Lin had uttered that day. Every sentence either started or ended with Shun. Shun this and Shun that- if only she knew how badly he wanted to shun Lin for speaking so much, and so fondly of him. He wasn't her new best friend!

This time a week ago, Tenzin learned that this cretin named Shun would be going out on a date with his best friend. Lin even had the audacity to sound jittery and excited about it; something that isn't a trait this Beifong characterizes. So he amused her, feigning excitement on her behalf until he needed to take a breather in the kitchen just so he could freely roll his eyes.

Sure, the date was a week away and he had enough time to stop it from happening if it bothered him so much. But the poor airbender was totally in the dark of why he was so hot and bothered about it. Lin was his best friend, shouldn't he be happy for her? Wouldn't she be happy for him if he landed a date with someone as attractive as Shun? Just the thought of his name made Tenzin gag. Eventually it took him full seven days to figure out why he didn't want Lin to go out with this man: Day one: He was protective of Lin, and cared for her career and wellbeing. Dating a co-worker couldn't be in her best interest. Day two: Lin didn't know anything about dating, what if she ruined the date and got unhappy? Day three: He didn't know Shun well enough to trust that he had the right intentions with his best friend. Day four: If the date went well, he'd have to hear more and more about that Shun fellow. Day five: If things do go well, they'd never break up and he'd never have alone time with Lin. Day six: If Lin stays with Shun, what would happen with him? Day seven: Damn it, he likes Lin.

Well, he took his sweet time meditating over it, but at least he got there finally.

Tenzin was too late and too cowardly to face her and tell her how he felt. So after hours or driving himself up the wall, thinking of ways to stop her from leaving the Island, Tenzin concluded that Momo may just be his saving grace here.

Of course, Tenzin was yet to taste of the fruit of making hasty decisions and tying his fate around the neck of the arbitrarily reliable flying lemur.

Momo landed at the right place: the training grounds, however, at the wrong time. The lemur took his own sweet time flying about the Island before making his arrival on the ground. By now, Lin was already in the shower back home, getting ready for her date, while Momo lurked about looking for some form of human life so that he may be relieved of his duty.

And fortunately, or unfortunately, Momo found the human- two of them in fact, but neither was the one he was bid to encounter.

"Kya, looks like Momo is wearing a betrothal necklace." Bumi laughed as the lemur landed hopped up in the path of the siblings' evening walk.

"That's not a betrothal necklace, silly." Kya shoved her brother's arm lightly before she bent down to examine the flying lemur, "That's- that is a-"

"What?" Bumi's curiosity got the better of him while Kya tried to untangle the scroll from the wiggly creature.

Once she managed to successfully capture the scroll, Momo squiggled out of her grasp and flew to the side, patiently awaiting his next orders.

"TENZIN HAS FEELINGS FOR LIN!"

Kya gasped out loud.

Bumi rolled his eyes out of boredom and slapped his forehead.

"You're not surprised?"

"You are?" Bumi joined his eyebrows, "I could've told you this years ago."

"Right." Kya rolled her eyes, "What do we do now?"

"We?" Bumi shook his head, "Lin is already back home- we can't have her seeing this just moments before her date! Besides, I don't want to meddle."

Kya smacked his arm, "We have to meddle now! We can't let Tenzin ruin Lin's date."

"And he can't just get whatever he wants when he wants it!" Bumi let out some of pent up frustration for his brother, "It isn't fair to Lin. She was so excited to go out with this guy, and we can't let Tenzin ruin it."

"You're right.. I think." Kya considered, "I have an idea for a good prank. You bring Momo here, and I am going to compose a wonderful note for Lin on Tenzin's behalf."

Bumi eyed his sister skeptically before deciding not to question and simply fetch her their lemur.

Kya had her note perfumed and prepared by the time Bumi arrived with Momo on his shoulder. She dawned a huge smile on her face, perhaps amused by her own composition of a love note from Tenzin to Lin in his handwriting. Just as she was tying it around their beloved animal's neck, they heard someone behind them, clearing their throat.

"Now, what errand are you two sending my little guy on?"

Bumi and Kya turned around to see their father, smiling his signature Avatar smile with his arms crossed in front of him.

"Oh- we're just-" Kya tried, and before she knew Momo had hopped out of her grasp and straight onto her father's shoulder.

"What do you have there, Momo?" Aang asked, releasing the note from the lemur's neck. He opened it up and examined it's contents, scrunching his eyebrows together in confusion, "Have fun on your date?" He read out loud, and then looked at his oldest two in front of him, "Who's going on a date?"

"Uh- Lin is." Bumi offered nervously.

"Lin." Aang said thoughtfully, "That would explain why she was so spunky and distracted during today's session."

Bumi and Kya nodded along.

"Say, how does Tenzin feel about this?"

The two of them exchanged a nervous glance, before Kya spoke up, "This note is from Tenzin actually. We just wanted to make sure-"

Aang brought his eyebrows together in confoundment, "Huh." He bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from saying anything more, deciding it was best to leave this alone, "Well, I do hope Lin has fun at her date then."

He turned to Momo on his shoulder and gave him fine, precise orders- orders the flying lemur was sure to follow, "Get this note to Lin in the city, okay Momo? No loitering."

The kids were always flummoxed by the way the lemur only ever understood their father correctly. They used the same words as him, and yet anything involving Momo would crumble into chaos if Aang didn't clear things up for the little guy. Oh well, at least now the note was sure to reach Lin.

Momo flew off on his merry way once Aang got him ready to go. The Avatar also decided to return back into the house, bidding his two to bring his third in with them for dinner after a some time. Once he was out of their proximity, the two of them turned to each other in surprise.

"Have fun on your date?" Bumi exclaimed, "That's your big plan?"

Kya only laughed, "Read it in Tenzin's voice."

"Have fun on your date." Bumi repeated, in a condescending manner relaying a passive-aggressive undertone, "Ohhh.." He said with realization stark on his face, "Lin's going to read it with a hothead in Master Hothead's voice himself."

"Yes." She mimicked his tone, "Let's go get Master Hothead and help mom with dinner now?"

Kya started walking ahead anyway, with Bumi following behind, amused, "Boy, you're evil." He laughed.

The Avatar's family took dinner time very seriously- in the sense that everyone must be present at the table, physically and mentally, eat graciously what was served and make merry conversation.

Aang had just taken a sip of the steaming soup on his side, "Dear, this is wonderful. Did you add those peppers that Zuko brought with him the last time he visited?"

Katara smiled at the compliment, "Actually-"

The Earth beneath them shook with gravitas. It wasn't the doings on anybody within the house- since the floor was wooden. But the land beneath the entire house- the whole Island- was invigorated with tremors.

"What was that?" Katara whispered with fear.

And as if her question was heard, a formidable shout was heard from outside the house.

"Get the hell out of your house, Tenzin and fight me without your stupid notes!"

"LIN!" Kya and Bumi gasped.

"What happened?" Katara asked her son.

Tenzin was petrified, choking and swallowing repeatedly on his food and then his own spit.

"I- I sent her a note." His voice was a hollow whisper.

"What note?"

"Dear, it was harmless. I saw the note. " Aang offered.

"You saw the note!" Tenzin's stomach dropped.

"Yeah- what's the big deal?" Aang questioned his memory ofn innocuous note

"I- I think I might have-"

"Tenzin!" Kya interjected, "Go speak to her instead of us before she tears the house down!"

"She would do no such thing!" Katara shook her head, "She's all bark and no bite."

The house shook again, this time dropping a vase to the floor.

"Tenzin, Go!" Bumi repeated.

The young airbender did as the panicked inmates of the house bid him to. He swallowed the remnant noodles in his mouth as he stood up and silently made his way out of the house.

Of course, even the acolytes had gathered outside to find out what the commotion was all about, but the sight of Lin Beifong fuming like a wild gemsbok bull, looking beautiful in her emerald green dress, left them deciding it was better to return to whatever they were doing and pretend like nothing was wrong.

The Avatar's family all gathered by the window to watch the show down between earth and air, with the sound of Bumi slurping his noodles loudly beside them.

"Lin." The airbender exhaled.

"Tenzin." She snarled.

He couldn't muster up any more words from hereon. He knew the note he had written to her was controversial- it was uncalled for- it probably even came as a shock too- but was this reaction warranted?

All the note said was that Lin was beautiful- that she was smart, witty, funny in a way he didn't get until the next day and his best friend most importantly. It also talked about how much time he'd spend in a day thinking about her- how most things that any of his five senses picked up reminded him of her- how any amount of time he spent with her was never enough. It went on about how much of his heart is governed by her. How much it pains him when she's hurt, or joys him when she so much as smiles. That she would always be the most wonderful person he had ever laid eyes on. And how badly he wanted to be the one taking her out on a date- if she would give him the chance.

The note didn't even delve into how much he would hate to have her waste her affection on the likes of an oaf like Shun.

Was this reaction really warranted?

All he said was how he felt about her- head on- as she would've liked.

He all but told her was in love with her.

Of course this reaction was warranted.

Tenzin swallowed on his dry mouth. Lin was going to kill him.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" She growled.

"Look, all I did was tell the truth," He moved closer to her, raising his hands in front of him, making sure she didn't attack, "I didn't think you'd be so.."

"So, what? Angry?" She spat.

"Yeah," He said softly, finally at arm's length from her now, "I thought- Lin are you really mad at me for telling you how I feel?"

"Have fun on your date?" She said too loud for their proximity, "Those are your feelings? You know how excited I was for this but you just had to ruin it with terrible sarcasm- you've been mocking me from day one about this! You don't even know the guy and-"

"Mocking you?" He matched her volume, "How in the world have I been mocking you?"

"Oh!" She grunted, "Ever since I've mentioned Shun to you, you've been leading an awful pretense of caring about my life. Every time I told you anything about him, you'd act all disdainful! Newsflash, Tenzin! I'm your best friend. So I know when you're being a jerk!"

"I'm being a jerk? Lin, I bore my heart out to you in that-"

"Bore your heart?? What are you, some kind of scornful old lady?"

"Oh, don't you insult me now. You're the most unreasonable-"

"-Selfish-"

"-Conceited-"

"-Terrible-"

"FRIEND I COULD HAVE ASKED FOR!" They yelled in one voice.

Both of them were heaving from their screaming match. The air around them fell silent as the trees carried the echoes of their shouts away. And it was only then that they noticed a tiny chirping sound coming from the ground.

They turned to the side to see Momo carrying a note in his hand, offering it up to her. Lin eyed Tenzin for a moment and then bent down to collect the note.

The airbender was having a hard time catching his breath as he may have potentially lost his only best friend in the world. He turned to the back to peek into the house, to have one look at his family, that they'll probably offer some comfort and tell him this would blow over. But instead, he saw his mother twisting both his siblings' ears by the window- maybe they had some bickering of their own.

Tenzin shrugged and turned back to watch the way in which Lin's lips moved as she read the contents of this new letter Momo had brought. She looked calmer now, something about that note had made her anger dissipate. Probably was some of those wise words from his father.

"Is this true, Tenzin?" She whispered.

"What?"

When she looked up from the paper, he noticed that her eyes were glossy. Something about at had touched her.

"You- You- Do you have feelings for me?"

"Yeah," He whispered back, "I thought that's what you were so mad about."

"No, of course not." She looked away from him momentarily. Once she brought her gaze back to his gray eyes, she whispered again, "I thought you hated me for going out with-"

"I would never hate you, Lin." He moved closer to her. He chanced one hand on her waist and leaned down to touch his forehead to hers, "I hate Shun for going out with you."

He snaked his other hand around her back and pulled her closer into his body for a hug, "Would you hate me for wanting to go out with you."

"Never." She whispered against his mouth, "Would you hate me if I wanted to kiss you right now?"

The airbender smiled and pressed his lips to hers, taking her in in her entirety.

It was only when they heard another chirping sound that they broke apart.

Who knew how long Momo had been chirping for?

"Thanks, Momo!" Tenzin whispered with Lin still in his arms.

Dinner and dates would have their time later- right now, both Tenzin and Lin had a little lemur to treat.

[mitamicah]

Spoilers from both Trollhunters the book and Trollhunters the series!

While reading the book I was really impressed with how many differences there were between the character so I have worked on giving my take on six characters from both media, book vs series, and how they differ from each other :3 

I should mention that while there was illustrations in the book I tried for the challenge not to copy those but follow along the describtions in the book - when possible - to give my own interpretation of the characters ^v^ 

Steve

First up we have Steve. Starting out as the stereotypical bully in both version their paths seperates quickly resulting in two different ending for the musuclar blond Jorgensen-Warner is the book version of Steve. Here's how he is described from our first encounter with him: "He was handsome but in the oddest way- He eyes were too small and his nose piggish: he had a ridiculous amount of hair and a couple of teeth that looked like fangs. Yet somehow in combination these features were sort of mesmerising. His unnatural muscular bulk and odd way of speaking -crisply, politely, as if he were a foreign student who had learned English in class - completed the strange package." page 21-22 For his outfit I went with the description of him on page 224 "[my clothes] ... didn't cast me in the best light when compared to Steve Jorgensen-Warner, who looked rather rakish in blue jeans and a shirt - definitely not a blouse - opened to the third button. He dribbled the ball casually with his left hand." The bold passages is added by me   This Steve is later revealed to be a changeling aka a troll   Before we go on: can any of you explain to me what a "ridiculous amount of hair" even means :'D? I had a lot of trouble with this prompt because isn't this so darn subjective :'D? and the official art look way less ridiculous than I'd figure it'll be :'D x'D Palchuk is the series version of Steve. His facial appearance being way less specific (I'd say he has normal sized eyes, a big roman nose and some more or less normal teeth) and his way of speaking is definitely not polite. Like book Steve, this Steve starts out with pushing smaller guys into lockerrooms yet after that he becomes way less of a terrifying bully and much more of a silly goose who brings a lot of the comic relief in my opinion Douxie says it best in Wizards when he calls Steve the "village idiot" x'D I do not recall seeing Steve being that sporty in the show, he is much more interested in becoming homecoming king  no basketballs around x'D While book Steve is revealed to be the enemy (a troll) series Steve joins the "good guys" creating the creepslayerz with the character Eli Pepperjack

Blinky

Blinky is just called Blinky in the book  Here's a bit of description of him "The third [troll] had scarlet eyes, eight of them on long stems. (...) The thing from my house glided toward me with a surprising grace for something with an indetermined number of legs, all of which were hidden behind a patched kilt scaled with layers of medals, prizes and trophies and award ribbons. An incalculable tangle of tentacles twined around one another as if dying to squeese something to death. As it passed the oven, the firelight revealed olive-green skin, reptilian texture, and lacquer of slime lubricating its undulating appendages Its moth a horizontal gash.. " The bold passages is added by me   So yeah this Blinky is quite something :'D I stopped caring to draw tentacles after a while but overall this was silly but fun to draw  since his teeth later is described as big as traffic cones I believe he must be very tall :'D Also he's close to blind   Has a bit of a dirty mouth but in a very "read" way if it makes sense :'D cannot seem to stop calling Jim dimwitted and tiny and Tobias big :'D Blinky's full name in the series is Blinkus Galadrigal  he has six eyes instead of eight and they are all working just fine, thank you very much x'D His tons of tentacles and legs has been replaced by four arms and two legs and while he is still olive-green he is now made of tone like texture just like the other trolls  the kilt turned into shorts and he is quite a bit smaller now not even as tall as Jim  He still has this very academic way of speaking yet he is way nicer to Jim calling him "Master Jim" instead of "the short one" x'D

ARRRGH!!!

Book ARRGHHH!!!s full name is Johannah Mmmm ARRRGH!!! and she is a pretty big deal warrior among the trolls in the book - she's so badass in fact Blinky has decided to call her by her last name to honor her for her deeds for trollkind   Here's a qoute from the book describing her appearance   "The goliath emerged from the tunnel as comfortably as a dog from a doghouse, coarse black fur pouring into the chamber before I could make out any actual arms or legs (...) Even beneath the fur I could see loops of muscles flexing. (...) ARRRGH!!! was built like a gorilla but three times larger: Two arms, two legs, and, thankfully, just two eyes. Horns, curled like those of a ram (...) The thing's orange eyes cast about with animal perceptiveness, and it used its snout and sniffed. Its jaws fell open to reveal a purple, slavering mouth armed with haphazard daggers of teeth." Page 75-76 The bold passages is added by me   (Also worth mentioning: the qoute is from before the protagonist knows of ARRRGH!!!'s gender which is why he calls her an 'it') At other times in the story we learn that ARRRGH! has quite scarred arms and really wishes for better tooth hygeine; so much so that Tobias actually end up making her a brace out of chicken wire :'D Idk I find it quite adorable :'D Now unto the serie's ARRRGH!!! - first up he is male, his name is Arghaumont and he is famous for another reason than Johannah: he was a general of Gunmar but retreated from the war making him a traitor to his people yet a hero for the good trolls in the series. Series ARRRGH!!! is likewise built like a gorilla but made of stone and having a mane long and green like it is moss  his horns is way smaller and less curvy and his teeth hygeine is never brought up  also his face is way less dog like x'D 

Tobias 

Book Tobias' full name is Tobias M. Dershowitz yet he is going by 'Tubby' or 'Tub'. Here is a describtion of him from the book: "You could call Tobias Dershowitz chubby, if you were being cute, or husky if you were being diplomatic. The fact is he was fat, and that was only the beginning of his problems. His hair was a thick, orange, out-of-control hedge. His face spilled over with the kind of freckles that make kids like Tub look like overgrown toddlers. Worst of all were his braces, marvels of modern torment: whips of stainless steel crisscrossing each tooth seperately and lashed to a dozen silver fasteners. The braces clicked so much when he spoke, you expected sparks. At least he was tall..." page 27 The bold passages is added by me   The outfit I went with is described on page 259 like this: "He stood in the driveway decked out in his best approximation of a ninja: black tennis shoes, black sweatpants, a black hoodie, a belt made from a red curtain sash, and an oversize fanny pack holding his gear (...) It was unfortunate that the fanny pack was lime green..." To describe Tub is a bit difficult because sadly he is not much in the story as I'd liked - mostly he is being quite serious and let us know he is not happy by being sidelined not speaking troll nor being invited on hunts which I completely understand tbh :'D What I do find interesting is how Tub and series Jim has seem to have switched roles a little bit: In the series Jim is the one giving a speech about how he is insecure about his place in life and how he wants more - in the book this is Tub in more than one occassion: "We have to accept who we are. And before you ask, I'll tell you. We're nobody. We have no life. We have nothing to look forward to. We're not special. I just want it to go away. All of it. The stupid being scared. Doesn't it seem we've been scared forever?" page 37 "Jim, you're wrong. We were meant to do this. This is exactly what we've been waiting for. They've chosen us. Of all people! Us! (...) Jesus, Jim, take a look at my life! You know what I'm worth! To anyone? Zero! Nothing! I'm a fat loser and will always be a fat loser. Until this. This is like a present. Full of, man, I don't know. Hope?..." page 196 (talking about trollhunting here btw) Oh yeah and book Tobias gets this badass scene where he uses his dentist's tool to kill trolls I loved that   Now series Tobias is way different :'D first up his name is Tobias Domzalski and his nicknames are Toby and Tobes. He is way shorter and has more neat hair (what is it with the series neating up the hair :'D? x'D). He also seems way cheerier and pretty happy with his place in life more or less  Unlike Tub, Toby is in it from the start being an important player in the story   He doesn't have the same drive to be something more than he is as Tub has instead Toby is going with the flow starting out quite afraid of everything troll and ended up being as brave as the rest of the team *tbh Jim's scared out of his wits too so they mimic each other x'D* Where Tub has dentist tools Toby gets a badass hammer so I'll say its an upgrade  

Claire

First off we have Claire Fontaine, a foreign student from no other than Scotland with a taste for military clothing and liqourice   Here's how she's described in the book   "She tucked her long dark hair behind her ear and left ir with an adorable smudge of white dust. I thought she was beautiful, though she wasn't in the classic sense. The popular girl would say she wasn't skinny enough. They would also point to the fact that she didn't wear makeup or do anything to tame that hair. And her clothes -well, what could be said about her clothes? Her boots were not sexy and knee-high: in fact, they were ankle-high and rubber-soled and looked picked from military surplus racks, an array of pea-green coats and multi-coloured slacks, all of which looked as if they'd been through actual World War II combat. And that beret she wore before and after school wasn't of the look-at-me-I'm Frensh variety: it was more in the style of I'm-going-to-invade-your-country-and-be-your-new-dictator. Only one thing didn't make sense: that bright pink, exceedingly girlish backpack that inexplicably hadn't one anti-establidh patch sewn onto it (...) Oh, I forgot to mention that Claire Fontain came from the UK. That's right- the girl had an accent. I think you are starting to get the picture." page 30-1 The bold passages is added by me It is hinted at that Claire is quite tall and a great deal taller than Jim (more when I get to him) and she is actually a whole year older than Jim since they both have birthday May 2 but Claire is 16 while Jim is 15  Since Trollhunters in this story is not a "protected title" (aka the chosen hero type) Claire ends up being one herself even though nobody even herself didn't know: AND. SHE. KICKS. BUTT! She's even better than the guy that had 40+ years experience so yeah safe to say she's badass :'D Even before that she has a hilarious scene calling out Steve in the wildest shitstorm of Scottish slang I lived for it x'D She's described quite a few times with lots of bracelets, sometimes made of wire so I gave her a bit of both   She's not really a part of the popular group but has her own thing going on   Now onto Claire Nuñez the series' version of this badass   Here Claire is hispanic and pretty much one of the most popular girls seen around  her style is way more ... I've called it punk rock in purple but Idk exactly what to call it x'D she's shorter than Jim and slimmer looking than her book counterpart   She enters the story not as a trollhunter but as a victim of having her brother stolen by changelings and as time progresses she becomes a fastlearning and quite competent sorcerer dealing in shadow magic   Unlike Fontaine, Nuñes is seen wearing make up, shorter hair with dye in it and hair clips instead of bracelets  

Jim 

First up we have book Jim. His full name is James Sturges Jr. and lives with his single parent, his dad, after his mother went away the day before his birthday in start May and never returned. Sturges Sr. had been traumatized loosing his brother to trolls although none of the characters didn't know this yet - only Senior had seen the creatures making him paranoid and in turn making Jim very embarrased about his father. At the same time Jim seems to honestly worry for his father and his behavior too makes Jim very cautious and fearful a character. Book Jim is pretty much a typical teenager for the most part  He is seen to be a tad clumsy and not exactly brave really. And the author's choice of basically not describing him anywhere made my job way harder trying to be book accurate :'D So I've mostly inspired him of the official illustrations in the book   Here's what I could find about our little trollhunter   First off: he's a short fellow  that is first mentioned on page 14; "Sunshine is important for growing boys." (...) "I am not growing" I took after my dad when it came to size and was still waiting for that growth spurt everyone kept raving about. "In fact I think I'm shrinking." This is brought up most of everything Jim through the movie from him not being able to reach a point of a chalkboard (page 32) to people's dissapointing sighs taking meassurements when he is chosen as Romeo (107) and him wearing super high heels for the same reason (224) but also Blinky directly calling him a "little fellow" (page 127) On page 27 we learn that he is getting a bruise on his chin after being slammed into his locker by Steve  Lockers he has been thrown into enough to have learned to open them on the inside :'D He is a skinny fella which Tobias so politely call "lack of muscletone" due to "glandular" at page 120 He is not very good at anything describing his room full of stuff from hobbies he tried and failed at (page 63) The longest describtion about his appearance is probably page 105: "I lowered my eyes and regarded the chewed, dirty fingernails holding my script, thes scuffed shoes on my feet, and realized that these were the symbols of my pityful life: worn-out, insignificant, ready to be thrown beneath Dad's industrial mower" It pretty much says it all when this is the longest quite I could find :'D For the outfit I mostly went by the small describtion on page 89-90: "I tucked the medallion beneath my shirt. After a full day of wearing it, maybe the rest of the suffocating fear would go away too. My plan was to dart into the kitchen, grab my sweatshirt and be out of the house. " I added jeans since he is said to wear jeans on page 283 - the medallion sneak out beneath the sweatshirt/shirt on page 97 which is why I added it on top here as well   Now since there's a bit more to both versions of Jim due to their role as the protagonist I've added in a little extra features here being the medallion in the book vs the amulet in the series and the weaponry given to the characters   For Sturges we have the medallion who's described like this: "It was a bronze medallion conntected to a rusty chain. It was engraved with a foreboding crest: a hideous, snarling face; indecipherable markings of a sevage language, and a magnificent long-sword across the bottom." page 9 The medallion is treated like it is a common artefact if a bit rare in the book - its purpose is to translate trollspeak for the wearer. Jim is giving two swords in the book; a rusty longsword he calls Clairesword (do I need to explain this one?) and a cutlass he calls Cat #6 after the one cat at Tobias' house that liked Jim  x'D For Sturges' personality my feeling about him is that he is a bit more ... passive than his series counterpart. He is not really standing up for himself that much and would rather blend into the background. This qoute from Claire sums him up pretty nicely I believe   "You're a good person, Mr. Sturges. A bit gloomy, but good" page 246 I do like that Jim in this version is a Taurus  (I am a taurus too x'D) born on May 2nd so that's a plus   It is probably also worth mentioning that in this world trollhunters aren't a chosen hero type like in the series: trollhunters or paladin was once a title held by many warriors yet now there's very few left. Sturges was a proud paladin family making Jim a chosen candidate for the honor of becoming a trollhunter but he is not the only one - or even the best - in the book. In fact out of the three trollhunters we learn about I'll say Jim is the weakest (and he is not even the least trained; ouch :'D) Jim doesn't get a nice armour like his series counterpart either but is seen in the illustrations wearing a blue hoodie (like the one in the little doodle)   The full name of Jim in the series is James Lake Jr. He is the child of a single parent and lives with his mother whom Jim "mothers a lot" (Tobias' words in the first episode) This Jim is pretty "tall for his age" (Jim's own words uttered quite a few times across all three series) yet with quite skinny legs (he is called out for this by multiple characters). He is much more competent in life than his book counterpart being an exceptional cook, good at Spanish, seemingly alright in PE and at school he seems to stand pretty good if only holding himself back. Unlike book Jim, series Jim seems much more active and longing to be something more than he is - he is seen to be quite brave and protective of his friends, very kind and selfless. Also even from the start he seems much more nimble than his book counterpart being able to climb the robe (a feat book Jim didn't do before later) and with his training as trollhunter he becomes even more badass   Trollhunter status in the series is way more important since the title is given to only one chosen warrior of Merlin chosen by the amulet of daylight (the medallion in the book). This also makes the amulet way more special and important in the series which probably explains its shine up from rusty bronze thing to silver and blue. While Lake Jr doesn't have named sword he does have a magical armour and sword made of daylight   We do not know the exact birthday of Lake Jr but the creators have replied to a fanquestion saying it would be around fall especially October so by that estimate Jim is probably a scorpio  pretty far from the before mentioned taurus in the book   While Jim Lake Jr isn't seen with long lasting bruises in the original series he does get two more permanent scars in Wizards  

[coffeestainsandcashmere]

Let No Man Steal Your Thyme - (older Dramione) Part Five

I hope you enjoy this one! It features a surprise snooty owl (I wonder who could own such a creature???) and some well-meaning concern from a friend. And some banter. And an expensive lunch. Because Theo is extra and can’t help himself. And it’s 4.6k words long...

I also realised that, since I wrote the first chapter basically out of the blue and not really intending for it to blow up into a big multi-part story, I’ve messed up the timeline a little with Harry’s kids, so I’ll have to go back and fix that when it comes to a re-edit before it goes up on AO3, but for now, just handwave it, ok? :)

Finally, many thanks for your lovely owls, anonymous or otherwise, about this story and where it’s going! I was honestly floored by the feedback I’ve got, and thank you to those who’ve reblogged it and helped get it out there for folks to read. I have a very small following since this side-blog is fairly new, so all reblogs are very much appreciated. I did a quick doodle for the cover of the story which you can find here, if you’re interested in how I pictured Draco and Scorpius standing in the steam from the Hogwarts Express from chapter one.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

___

Far earlier on Monday morning than she was accustomed to these days, Hermione woke with a start and frowned, confused. Eyes dry and prickly, and hair absolutely everywhere, she sat up and looked around, straining her ears as she blearily tried to work out what had yanked her so unceremoniously from a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep. Her Muggle alarm clock silently showed 05:54 in harsh red numbers, and nothing had touched the wards or tried to get in, though there was something thrumming against them, like the lingering reverberations of a plucked harp string.  

The temporary stillness was shattered when a wild scrabbling of claws and the beating of enormous wings started up against her bedroom window. With a flailing shriek of surprise, she nearly fell out of bed, but after taking a deep breath, she stumbled out from under the covers to wrench the curtains open.  

“Bloody owls!” she began, but drew up short when she saw the unfamiliar bird waiting impatiently on the other side of the glass.  

There, battering its truly monstrous talons against the glass, was a colossal eagle owl. When it saw her, it stopped its fussing to perch haughtily on the brick windowsill outside and fix her with a fiery red glare. If owls could have raised their eyebrows, she got the impression that this one would have done it at the sight of her.  

“Yeah, well, it’s early. What did you expect?” she groused as she slid the window panel to one side and the bird looked around her bedroom with obvious disdain. Imperiously, it stuck out one leg, like a noble expecting a servant to remove a dirty boot, and she saw a rolled-up piece of parchment with a green wax seal and a green ribbon to bind it together.  

“Who do you belong to then?” she asked, going automatically to stroke the bird’s flight-ruffled chest plumage. It instantly hissed and nipped at her fingers, and she barely drew them back in time. “Christ! No need for that,” she gasped. She’d never met a postal owl as cantankerous as this one. “I usually give visiting owls a treat, but I don't think I like your manners one bit.”  

With the letter in hand, she slid the window closed again, leaving a gap just small enough that the bird wasn’t going to barge its way in. She wondered if it had been instructed to wait for an answer because it began almost immediately clicking its beak against the glass and hooting indignantly. 

“Manners makyth bird,” she snapped without looking up, and broke the unfamiliar wax seal on the letter.

It had a cursive ‘M’ within a circle, but was otherwise unadorned. Unfurling it, she glanced at the name on the bottom and her eyebrows rose as her growing suspicions were confirmed. It was signed in a princely English roundhand by none other than Draco Malfoy.  

She snorted, glancing back at the bird who was doing its best basilisk impression from the other side of the glass. “Who else would have such a snotty owl?”

It hooted childishly at her again and she laughed.  

Dear Hermione,

I must beg of you to forgive the unspeakably rude hour of this correspondence, but I am leaving this morning for France by portkey for a couple of days and I had hoped to get your answer before I left. I should add now before you read any further — although with your kind heart I fear it may be too late already — that Cassiopeia here is not fond of physical affection, but is very partial to owl treats. She can be bribed into doing almost anything for food, but affection is sadly not in her nature, so please be careful with your fingers around her beak. The only reason I was able to get her to fly at all at this time of the day was to bribe her lavishly. She’s terribly spoilt, and for that, I’m sorry too.  

Hermione shot another look at the bird, who narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Cassiopeia, eh?” she said and the enormous owl bobbed a few times. “Prideful about your good looks then, are you? You should know how your namesake’s story ended then. But, I suppose you could be forgiven since you are an inordinately pretty bird. You’ll still not get a crumb from me after trying to take my fingers off though. I’ll be having words with Malfoy about that.”  

Cassiopeia ruffled her feathers and promptly turned her back on Hermione. The bird didn’t take off, so she returned her attention to the letter.  

I spent all weekend thinking about our evening together on Friday, but it will come as little surprise to you to learn that it has taken me all that time to muster up my limited courage to ask you to dinner at your next convenience. Naturally, I left it to the last possible moment to ask you. I have a place in mind in London, but it’s a little more out of the way than the restaurants on Diagon Alley. I have it on authority from the owner that you have never been there, and I would very much like to surprise you, but if you would feel more comfortable knowing in advance, then you can ask Theo while I am out of the country.  

Staggered, Hermione stared at the letter and found her vision swimming a little. Blinking, she was shocked to find tears blurring his formal — almost painfully formal — words.  

But how long had it been since anyone had actually asked her on a date? ‘Too intimidating’, ‘too boring’, ‘too work-orientated’, ‘too bossy’, ‘too driven’ were all things she’d heard at one point or another, and admittedly many of them from Ron.  

Thirty seven wasn’t even old - especially by magical standards - but she didn’t exactly have the same bright-eyed charms as someone like, say, Lavender did anymore. Hard work, and a draining marriage seemed to have sapped much of the youth and vigour from her. And, if she were honest, being replaced by someone supposedly ‘more attractive’ had damaged her more deeply than she cared to admit, even to herself. There were certainly days when she felt like a washed-up, burnt-out, dowdy old matron. She had crashed out of a sparkling career in the Ministry to run a scruffy old second-hand bookshop next to the newly-refurbished Florian Fortescue’s ice cream parlour.  

“Why are you even bothering, Malfoy?” she murmured aloud as she stared blankly at the letter in her hands. With looks like his — and a groaning Gringotts’ account if the rumours were to be believed, not that that mattered a jot to Hermione — he could probably have had almost any witch he wanted, his past and reclusive behaviour be damned. And yet he was asking her to dinner after having only met twice since they turned eighteen? Three times, she supposed if she included that brief encounter at the Ministry on the night of the attack.  

Perhaps he was lonely just wanted the company. Perhaps she was just… convenient; a chump with a soft spot for outcasts…

Before she let herself go too far down that unsavoury rabbit hole, she forced herself to read on, heart pounding. Outside on the windowsill, the owl had gone very still, watching her with curious, orange eyes.  

Please feel free to send Cassiopeia back with your response either way. I hope I have not overstepped or misread how things are between us now, especially given our history, but I find my thoughts returning over and over to our evening, and to that surprise lunch on the 1st of September. I’m not sure what I had expected when you asked me to join you that day, but I certainly hadn’t expected to enjoy myself as much as I did. In the years since I became Scorpius’ sole guardian, I have not sought the company of others, nor have I particularly enjoyed it when it has been inflicted upon me, but those two occasions spent with you have drawn me out of myself. You truly are a remarkable witch, and I’m more moved and honoured than I can express that you have given me even this much of your precious time already.  

Before I begin to ramble too freely, I think I must sign off here.  

Yours,  

D.M.  

P.S. Scorpius did write to me in the end. He has a detention already, and Potter’s youngest is also involved somehow… I will get more details from him anon, and no doubt a letter from McGonagall in due course.  

For a long time, Hermione stood in her bedroom, with her hair in a wild halo around her head and her scruffy old pyjamas hanging low on her hips, just staring at his signature.  

When Draco’s owl began to fidget and fuss again, she sighed and looked up. “Sit tight,” she breathed. “I’m going to get a piece of paper and if you keep quiet, I might bring an owl treat with me when I come back, ok?”

Cassiopeia narrowed her eyes and ducked her head suspiciously, but remained put on the windowsill, so she took that as a ‘yes’ and disappeared into her tiny study.  

Grabbing a biro from the chipped mug that served as a pen and quill pot, and tearing a sheaf of paper from a muggle notebook, she scrawled a note back to him.  

With that done, and before she could talk herself out of what she had just accepted, she returned to his owl with a treat. The bird mobbed her for it instantly, but Hermione scowled at her, snatched her hand back, and barked, “Wait! My goodness, you are spoilt. Let me attach this first, and if I manage it without you drawing blood or otherwise maiming me, not only will it be a flipping miracle, but you’ll get your sodding treat, alright?”

The bird went still with a tiny shuffle of her wings, and stuck out her leg.  

“Thank you,” Hermione said tartly.  

Cassiopeia took off with her note attached by the same green ribbon and secured with a basic sticking charm. The downdraft from her departure sent bits of accumulated detritus from the window ledge spiralling up into Hermione’s face, but she coughed and blinked, and watched the bird soar way up into the sky. The receding dot of her silhouette banked west, out of sight and in the eventual direction of Wiltshire and Malfoy Manor.  

Malfoy Manor.  

She’d hardly given the place any thought since that fateful night ten or so years ago when Malfoy had been attacked, a whole wing had been burned to the ground, and Scorpius had nearly been killed. They’d never said in the papers who had done it, and the Auror Office had been distinctly tight-lipped about it. Not that she’d really bothered to find out more, if she were honest. Once Malfoy’s little yowling mandrake had left her office in his father’s arms, she had been almost instantly reabsorbed with her own caseload, and Harry had never mentioned the outcome of the investigation to her. A twinge of gilt shot through her but she pushed it down. It was hardly a topic for dinnertime conversation either, so she doubted she’d find out immediately.  

She thought vaguely about clambering back into bed, but since she was up, she headed to the kitchen and put the kettle on for a cup of tea. It had been a while since she’d been up before dawn, and she had some paperwork to do anyway.  

Cassiopeia’s appearance was not the only unusual thing to happen to her that day. She had no visitors to the shop at all for the entire morning, but when the brass bell above the door did finally chime, she looked up from the desk at the back of the shop to find Theo striding in.  

“Hi, love,” he grinned, stepping deer-like over the stack of recent arrivals beside the counter and stooping to hug her where she sat. “Lunch. You and me. Now.”

“Theo, I have a shop to run,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I can’t just… leave. Besides, I brought sandwiches.”

“I will literally pay you the price of an entire chest of first editions to spend the next few hours in my company if things are that tight. Or I could just… buy you an entire chest of first editions,” he said, adding with his most dangerous puppy-dog eyes, “Seriously, please come to lunch with me?”

She flicked her wrist and the ‘open’ sign hanging in the glass-panelled door flipped over to ‘closed’. “I’m not accepting your money, Theo. What’s the occasion?”

He twitched slightly and then flashed her a grin; a combination that made her instantly wary. “Does a gentleman need ‘an occasion’ to ask a beautiful lady to lunch?” he asked, his brown eyes wide with feigned innocence.  

Hermione slowly raised one eyebrow. “You’re gay. And happily married. And that’s a terrible line. Try again.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t take my very best friend out,” he shrugged nonchalantly.  

Something was definitely up.  

“Draco Malfoy is, and always has been, your very best friend in all the world. Try again.”

“You,” he said, actually growling the word this time with comical frustration, “Are one very persistent witch.”

“Mmhmm. How do you think I made it to Minister by twenty-seven, darling,” she grinned, still without getting up from her chair. “Last chance or I turn that sign around and forcibly evict you from my shop.”  

Theo whipped his wand out from his inner jacket pocket like he was in a duel, and apparently vanished the offending sign from the door altogether. “There. Your threats are empty. Come to lunch with me.”

“Theodore Nott, you return my sign this instant.”

“Say you’ll come to lunch with me, and the sign goes back up.”

“I will not be threatened in my own shop!” she laughed, arms folding across her chest like a petulant child. “Put it back. Now.”

“Say you’ll come with me,” he said with a wide, playful grin, planting his hands on the counter and leaning his long frame forwards.  

She had to bite her lips to stop from giggling. The charming scoundrel knew she’d say yes anyway. “I’ll tell Dan you were bullying me,” she said.  

“Tell him; he’ll never believe you. He thinks I’m lovely. Come on, Hermione,” he added, softening from playful to plaintive. “I need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“You and my ‘very best friend in all the world’, that’s what,” he said, and levelled her with a flat stare.

Her stomach dropped and she remembered the letter from that morning. And its contents. ‘…if you would feel more comfortable knowing, then you can ask Theo while I am gone’ Draco had said. He’d spoken with Theo about asking her out. She didn't know whether to be honoured or embarrassed.

Seeing her expression slip, Theo came round the side of the counter to stand beside her and leaned his hips against the wooden desk. “So you like him?”

“I… Why would that be a surprise?”

Theo blinked, and then his gaze flickered down to her left forearm. Everyone knew about the word engraved into her skin with the point of a cursed knife — she’d never tried to conceal it — but not many knew the real truth of just how the slur had come to be carved indelibly into her flesh. Theo was one of the few who did. “You’re really asking me why I’m surprised you like him?” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You, of all people?”

She took a very deep breath, held it, and then sighed. “Let’s go. You’re paying though. And I’m drinking.”

He managed a shy smile, and as they approached the front door of her shop his shimmering illusion around the sign dissolved to reveal it once again.  

“Cheeky bugger,” she smirked at him and he waggled his eyebrows disarmingly. An undercurrent of anxiety still lurked beneath his jovial expression though.  

A number of new restaurants had opened up in Diagon Alley, but Theo’s and Dan’s favourite was a sleek, modern establishment, quite different from the fusty old decor of the Leaky Cauldron or the other more traditional restaurants in wizarding London. It also sat overlooking the crooked columns of Gringotts, and was eye-wateringly expensive. Naturally, Theo was greeted by name at the door, and the pair were shown without fuss or fanfare to one of the nicest — and most secluded — tables.

With food ordered, and enormous balloon-glasses of wine in front of them, Theo fixed her with a serious look and steered the conversation around to the real reason for his impromptu lunchtime kidnapping. “He finally grew a pair and asked you to dinner then?”

“Mmm,” she nodded. “I take it this is… unusual for him?”

Theo tipped his head back and chuckled softly, sounding more tired than amused. “That’s putting it mildly, love. Until Friday, I had the devil’s own job trying to get dear Draco to leave his gloomy little manor house and come to anything. I had to blackmail him into coming to our anniversary, you know?”  

Hermione just frowned, not entirely sure if he was being serious or not.  

Theo let out a slow breath and stared into his wineglass, idly twirling the stem between long fingers. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said without looking at her, “I’m beyond grateful that he finally seems to be opening up to the idea of… being somewhat… vulnerable again, but…”

“You’re worried I’m going to hurt him,” she said quietly, and Theo bowed his head. “Theo, I’m… You know me. This isn’t just some one night stand with a rich, attractive bloke I met in a bar. I haven’t —” she leaned in close over the table and hissed, “I haven’t even had sex with anyone in years, Theo. Years!” She brushed an errant corkscrew of hair back out of her eyes, embarrassed.

His lips twitched at that, but his eyes remained stormy.  

“I’m not going into this lightly. I was honestly as surprised as you are, but I wouldn’t even be considering going on a date with Draco Malfoy if I wasn’t completely convinced that he was no longer the bratty little owl-pellet he was back at Hogwarts.”

At that, Theo barked such a loud laugh that the patrons at the tables nearby turned to look at him like he’d sworn in a church. He covered his mouth with his hand and snickered himself into silent tears for a good thirty seconds before she rolled her eyes and sat back with her glass in her hand, waiting for him to control himself again.  

“I’m telling Dan you called him that. And Pansy. They’ll love it.”

“Right,” she said, cheeks suddenly hot. “Well, as much as he might have been an owl pellet, let’s not have it become a ‘thing’, hmm?”

The mirth in his face simmered back down and he looked at her steadily over the rim of his wineglass. “Look, I care about both of you, and I can see this going two ways. One: you realise that the two of you actually have an awful lot in common, he takes you to increasingly fancy places for dates, you have lots of steamy sex, and finally settle down together. Two: the past gets in the way, you both say hurtful stuff you don’t really mean, and you both end up single and twice as miserable as you were before you went for lunch at the Leaky. Don't think I didn’t know about that, either,” he added.  

“You’re such a gossip,” she snapped.  

“I was being serious, Hermione,” he said, leaning to one side as their food arrived.  

She paused until the waiter had left but didn’t make any move to pick up her cutlery. “Are you looking out for him or for me?” she asked.  

Theo sighed. “Both of you. But…”

“Mostly Draco, huh?”

“He’s like a brother to me, Hermione. He was there for me when no one else was. You know the things my father did to me as a child, and Draco helped me through all of it. And ‘Cissa too. And I couldn’t believe it when he actually showed up at drinks the other night. Watching him, it… it was like the old Draco had come back to me. The nice ‘old Draco’, I mean.” His eyes glistened and he blinked rapidly, voice cracking as he continued. “After the attack, he shut himself away at the Manor with Scorpius, as if he could keep the whole world out just to keep little Scorp safe. I thought… I thought he’d never leave, Hermione.”

“You never talked about any of this,” she said gently, forcing herself to make a start on her linguine despite the fact that her appetite had vanished almost completely.  

Theo shrugged. “I guess… I guess I wanted to give him the privacy he craved, and to be honest, I didn’t think you’d be all that sympathetic to him after your history.”

At that, she scowled, but she could see his point. “Theo, I held his screaming infant in my arms for hours while he was being questioned by the Aurors that night. I saw his face when he came to my office for Scorpius afterwards.” She shook her head. “No one who saw him then could believe he was even a shadow of the person he had been at Hogwarts.”

At her words, Theo had stopped eating, fork held loosely between perpetually-ink-stained fingers even as it rested on his plate. “You did? He never said.”

She tried not to examine that last comment too closely. “Mm. Harry didn't know what else to do with him, so he brought Scorpius to me to see if I could quieten him down. In the end all it took was a handful of my hair and a few poorly-sung folk songs. But you’re missing the point, Theo. You could have trusted me with things that were worrying you. I would have listened to you.”

“I —” he cut off and cleared his throat. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… Aside from Dan, I don’t think I love anyone as much as I love him.”

It was Hermione’s turn to choke up a little, but she swallowed and said, “Then I can think of no greater accolade for his character.” She looked up at him and added, “So where’s he taking me then?”

“You said yes?”

“I did. I like him. And not just because he looks like a flipping marble statue brought to life. He’s thoughtful, and he always was extremely intelligent and articulate. I’ve really enjoyed talking with him this time around. I think… I think…” she pursed her lips and took a too-big gulp of wine. Luckily it all went down the right way, and she forged on. “I think… we could work. Or at least… I want to see where it goes, Theo.”

With a slow nod, Theo finally relaxed his shoulders and let out a shaky breath. “He wants to take you to The Foundry.”  

“I’ve never heard of it,” she mumbled. It wasn’t one of the ones in Diagon Alley, for sure.

Theo made a side-to-side movement of his head. “I’m not surprised. It’s…”

“Oh God, is it horrifically expensive?” she asked, eyes wide with a sudden abject terror. “Theo, if he’s going to take me somewhere hideously fancy for our first date, I’m going to back out right now…”

The corners of his lips lifted and he shook his head. “Not in the way you’re thinking. You have to know the owners to get a table though, and there are no menus. They’ll ask if you have any allergies, but other than that, you eat what they serve you.”

“Holy fuck, Theo…”

“Trust me, you’ll love it. The place used to be a bell foundry in the seventeenth century — hence the name — and it’s this gorgeous brick building with arches and vaults, and cosy little corners,” he added, raising his eyebrows. “You’ll forget where you are and be as comfortable as if you were in your own pokey little Muggle living room. I promise.”

She narrowed her eyes and took another gulp of wine. “I’ll take your word for it, Nott,” she said. “What should I wear?”

Without hesitation, he said, “That burgundy number you haven’t worn since Pansy told you to buy it.”

She blanched at that. “Theo, it’s…”

“Gorgeous? Revealing in all the right ways, yet modest enough to suit you? Dead sexy? Exactly the kind of thing that will make Draco lose his goddamn mind when he sees you in it? The kind of thing that will make him spend all evening simultaneously admiring you in it and mentally tearing it off you —”

“Theo, stop!” she hissed, flushing darker. “For God’s sake shut up!”

He cackled into the remainder of his wine, but refused to give any more sartorial advice.  

“Burgundy dress and heels it is, I guess,” she said, and the two of them focused on their food again.  

“I hope,” Theo said as they left a very leisurely two hours later, “I hope you don’t think I was too…” he jiggled nervously on the balls of his feet as he held the door open for her, “Overbearing…”

“I mean, you did ambush me, blackmail and threaten me into having lunch with you at the fanciest restaurant in Diagon Alley where I couldn’t reasonably kick up a fuss, and then proceed to tell me all sorts of heartrending stories about Draco and yourself…”  

When she saw the wounded look in Theo’s brown eyes, she stopped and turned to face him.

“Theo, no. You’re one of my best friends, and you clearly care about us both. Stop panicking,” she added when she saw the slightly wild light in his eyes. “You didn’t try to tell me what to do or who to see. You’re looking out for your friends, and making sure we’re both… serious about this. And I appreciate that.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and added, “But know that if you keep meddling beyond that, I will hex your bollocks off and make you explain it to Dan.”

“Understood,” he said with a watery smile. “I was worried I’d overstepped.”

“I’ll forgive you if you tell me one thing.”

“Name it.”

“Did you have the same talk with Draco about breaking my heart?”

His handsome, freckled face split into a blinding white grin. “I did.”

“Forgiven,” she said. “Now, some of us actually have to work for a living.”

“I work!” he squealed. “I work bloody hard up in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, thank you very much!”

“I know you do,” she conceded. “Not that you actually need a job, you filthy rich prick.”

Theo laughed long and loud, scooping her hand up in his and walking arm in arm down the bustling, cobbled street towards her bookshop. “And to think,” he chimed with a sidelong look down at her, “You used to be Minister for Magic with that mouth.”

“I know,” she said. “It nearly got me into trouble on many an occasion.”

Kneazel and Quill’s little sign swung jauntily in the breeze and Theo gave a slight bow from the waist when they stopped at the door. With anyone else, it might have seemed foppish and insincere, but with Theo, she knew he meant it. He was only silly like this with his closest friends.  

“Good day, fair maiden of the dusty bookshop,” he said. “And thank you for giving my idiot best friend a chance.”

Hermione nodded and smiled. She stood and soaked up the autumn sunshine for a while as she watched his retreating back, until he eventually disappeared into the Diagon Alley entrance to the Ministry and she slid back into the musty quiet of her little sanctuary.

Chapter Six

___

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter of friendship! Next time, Hermione and Draco go for that date...!! Things will start to gain momentum too, fear not. It’s not going to be an eternal slow-burn...

writing masterlist | Ao3

[hansolmates]

jjk; angel’s trumpet [02]

summary; one second, your life is flashing before your eyes and the next, you’re transported into a world exactly like your own. but the jungkook you meet in this world isn’t a renowned singer or your former almost-lover, in fact he has no clue who you are and why you know him so well. as you work to find your way home lost and confused, you conclude that you’re either dead or in the middle of the most wicked drug trip of your life. pairing; idol!jk x reader (f), alternatively film producer!jk x reader genre/warnings; fluff, angst, supernatural, idol!au, non-idol!au, alternate universes, themes of fate, language, alcohol consumption, mentions of smut in future chapters w.c; 3.5k a/n; i know it feels like a lot of bg and internal conflict but y/n!! our girl is struggling! she’s processing and is going through some times BUT things will spice up soon so thank you for all the love +notes, see you again thursday! 

[01] [02] [03]-> masterpost

The two most frequent contacts in your phone (you hope it’s your phone? It’s the same edition and everything) are Jimin and Taehyung. 

Jungkook (or not-Jungkook) high-tailed it out of there as soon as he deemed your reactions unfit for basic human society. He muttered that you were crazy and probably under something, and sped off in his motorcycle just like that. Like you were a stranger. 

It's not easy to ignore the aftermath of your heart after taking yet another rejection, but you're independent and you must stride forward in this strange situation. Taking a cautionary look around the area, you clutch your phone like a lifeline, tethering you together in this unfamiliar place. There's not many people around, but you spot a large library and a playground. Professionals are mulling from building to building, zombies in wrinkled suits and dripping iced coffees. Your phone displays an innocent 7:51, revealing how early it is. Toggling between the two friends in your contacts you take your chances and start with Jimin. The phone rings once, twice, before his dulcet voice chimes in your ear. 

“Babe?” he croons, and your heart drops at the sickly warm tone, “you can’t get enough of me after what we did last night?” 

You’re going to throw up. Scratch that, acid is already bubbling through your throat and you force yourself to tamp it down. There is no, no way in hell could you have hooked up with Park Jimin in your lifetime. 

Unless this is hell. 

“Jimin,” you steel your voice, hoping he can’t hear how absolutely mortified you are. You can picture this version of Park Jimin now, laying around in bed with crossed legs and casually enjoying how much you’re squirming on the other line, “I just need you to tell me where I live so we can move on with our lives.” 

He laughs, giggles bubbling like soft pink champagne. “Wow, I really must’ve fucked your brains out if you can’t even remember where you live.” God, in what life would Park Jimin be “fucking your brains out”? Maybe you should find a trashcan just in case you do puke on the sidewalk. “Y’know, you signed your lease with Taehyung a month ago? You just moved in last week?”

“T-Taehyung?” you stutter, trying to imagine the notion, “I live with Taehyung?” 

A beat passes, and you realize that just like you scared not-Jungkook away, you could be doing the same to Jimin. 

He says your name softly, gone the cocky tone you were initially bombarded with. “Are you okay? You could’ve waited for me to wake up, y’know. We had a lot to drink last night.” he mumbles, almost cutely if it weren’t for the fact the he was insinuating sex two seconds ago, “Did you eat?” 

“‘M fine,” you mumble, trying to chalk up your previous question with inhiberation. “Just loopy, I guess. I almost got hit by a motorbike, so my brain is probably just catching up.” 

“You got hit? Did you call a hospital?” great, now Jimin’s panicked. “Where are you? I’m gonna go get you. Drop your location, I’m leaving now!” 

“I’m fine!” you snip, and you feel bad for nearly screaming on the line. “I’m almost home, I’m just gonna lay in bed and sleep it off. I’ll call you later, okay?” 

You don’t bother hearing his response, and you hang up. You then start to furiously scroll Taehyung’s chat wall, noting that he’s on an academic trip with his students until next week and you have the apartment to yourself. After a good ten minutes of scrolling and reading conversations that you can’t recollect you finally catch the address to your shared apartment. 

The city is the same, fortunately. So are the bus stops, and you’re thankful that your bus pass has some fare money. Turns out you’re starting your journey at the University of Seoul. The bus routes are the same as well, and you manage to take a tour of your side of the city, noting the tiny differences in the town. 

For example, there’s no BigHit Entertainment in its usual spot. Instead it’s an additional practice  space for Cube Entertainment. 

There’s no fanfare to your city tour, and it almost feels like you’re just a normal woman taking a ride home. There’s still the same trees and squirrels, familiar odeng stands and ice cream shops. It feels like you’ve been cut and pasted into this world with no rhyme or reason, a fever dream. 

The bus circles around the usual route once more until you’re in front of your supposed home, only a twenty minute bus ride from where Jungkook almost ran you over. 

It’s a lot, and you realize on the drive over that you’re probably in deeper shit than you could ever imagine. You pull out your keys, and instead of seeing the ramen keychain Jungkook got you when he went to Tokyo Disney, instead it’s replaced by a university ID labeled Assistant Professor under your full name. 

You pin that new fact for later and focus on getting inside.

Your apartment is nice, you muse. Simple black and white furniture, but there’s a definitive home-ness to it. There’s a moss green afghan folded up on the couch, presumably made by the artist himself. You’re glad Taehyung’s appeal for the arts hasn’t been lost, as revealed by the frames on the walls detailing pictures of you and Taehyung’s families, and some of Jimin and Taehyung. 

Deeper into the apartment you find your room. You choke back a sob at the familiar bedsheets your parents bought you at Target, and you even notice some familiar clothing pieces folded haphazardly in the corner. Instead of your bed being filled with shameless BT21 PR however, your RJ and Mang are replaced with simple panda and cat plushies. 

Finally letting your tears fall, you sob loudly into your pillows, hugging and grappling at anything to comfort you. You feel achy and tired, as if your heart has fallen out of your body and nothing can fill the void. As much as your bed sheets feel the same, as genuine as those pictures are in your shared living room, this isn’t your home. 

•━━━━━━»••»💮💮💮«••«━━•

Between your bouts of crying and forcing yourself to stomach cheap ramen, you find out a couple of things. 

You’re an assistant professor at Seoul University. At least this version of you is. A little part of you is pleased by this, you have always wanted to teach at the university level before settling with BigHit. To your chagrin however, you’re not a language professor. 

To your horror, you’re a pre-medical student teaching two “History of Neuroscience” classes. It’s only two classes because according to your Google calendar, you’re also balancing the completion of  your final thesis on muscular dystropathy among low-income neighborhoods. 

Dear god, if your parents ever found out you could’ve been a doctor in another life, they’d be surely choking on their own spit. In this world, you probably weren’t lazy and wholly capable of achieving the impossible. 

You don’t know why you spend the next two hours sending emails to your students about cancelling the next week of classes. Fortunately all your lessons are neatly packaged in your drive, and you send out an email with said lessons citing your mental health and how you’ll resume direct instruction the following week. 

From time to time, your eyes can’t help but travel to the frames and polaroids that decorate your walls. Some of the memories are vaguely similar, a house in the suburbs, an annoying cousin who can’t stop and won’t stop pulling at your pigtails, a movie night with unlimited pizza and breadsticks. 

Some of them are far and beyond your state of recognition. Jimin and you playing hopscotch by the river, Taehyung stuffing his face with fried potato skins in a cheap hole-in-the-wall, you winning the blue ribbon at your high school’s science fair. 

You could very well walk out of this life and just focus on going back home, but something tells you that you need to continue on with this life, at least for now. 

It feels too real to be a dream. When you tug at your hair tie, it’s painful when it snaps across your wrist. Your skin blooms with color upon impact. Could you die in this world? If Jungkook had not skidded in time, would you have survived a motorcycle accident? 

Three days pass like that. You’re contemplating, absorbing information. In-between pints of ice cream and crying your ducts out, you’re drawing conclusions. Could you be in a coma? A very realistic, painful coma? But Jimin and Taehyung are still sending you texts and the day turns to night as painfully slow as it always has. A coma can’t fake a forty person class, all of them vying for your attention through various emails and Zoom calls. It can’t be it. 

And as you rummage through your drawers, check every bit of social media and even your yearbook photos, you also confirm that Jeon Jungkook has no place in this version of your life. It saddens you greatly, and reminds you eerily about the heated conversation you had before all of this. The Jungkook from days ago, the one who looked terrified when you tried to touch him, only met you through happenstance. 

By day four, you get a phone call. There’s no picture next to the contact, only named Biggie Mentor. After a few rings, you finally get the courage to answer the call. 

A deep timbre seeps its way through the line, and you almost whine at how much you missed him. “y/n,” Namjoon says, but he doesn’t sound happy, “tell me why our students said you cancelled all of your classes this week due to mental health?” 

If Namjoon’s your mentor, that means you’re probably in deep shit for cancelling all your classes without his consent. 

“Uh, exactly that,” you say, and it hurts how much you have to strain your voice, trying not to pour any type of affection into this version of Namjoon. You’ve always had a soft spot for his gummy smile. “I’m sorry for not telling you beforehand. Something really traumatic just happened and,” you choke back a sob, trying to cover the microphone, “and I really needed some space.” 

“Hey, it’s okay,” his voice is like melted honey, and you close your eyes and picture yourself back at BigHit, Namjoon’s happy smile whenever he tries to cheer you up. It only makes you even more upset, and your mind is all shadowed and filled with fuzzies as you attempt to picture Namjoon as your boss, “I was just shocked, that’s all. Is everything alright?” 

“No,” you reply truthfully, “and I don’t know if it will be.” 

There’s a terse silence, both your breaths hanging on the line with no move to continue the conversation. If your personality here is similar to your true world, you would understand why Namjoon would have a hard time formulating a reply. You don’t even know how close you are with him here. What remains is that you’re the type to keep your secrets to yourself, and if they truly felt hindering, you’d tell somebody. Not to say you’re the suffer in silence type of person, but you weren’t one to immediately dump your feelings on someone. 

Finally, Namjoon musters a reply, “I have a break at two. Why don’t you swing by our usual lunch spot and we can talk? Their sandwiches always cheer you up. ”

“Joonie,” your voice cracks, and you shake your head despite the fact that he can’t see you. A slip of the nickname comes out before you can help it, and you hope this Namjoon is fond of the manner. “I don’t know where that is. Or what our ‘usual’ spot is. I don’t know what sandwiches you’re talking about either.” 

“Okay,” and you relax at the calmness in his tone, “I’ll swing by after my 5PM then. Set the table for us, yeah?” 

•━━━━━━»•»💮💮💮«•«━━•••

Namjoon smells of dry-erase marker and antiseptic. 

He’s bounding into your apartment like it’s his own home, carrying two paper bags and a stack of leather bound books. The items fly across your coffee table, and you two work together to organize both your dinner and the books. Namjoon looks like a textbook nerd, wearing shades of burgundy and burnt orange as he breaks into your front door. Gone are the boots and sleek outfits that trim his figure, and you can’t help but go a little anti-starstruck at how normal this moment is.

But what remains is the bumbly stance as he makes his way through your tiny space, long limbs and all flailing to help you place his work in a safe space. The curve of his nose and dimples so deep you could fill a lake in them, you can’t help but muster a shy smile as he takes notice that you’re staring at him a little too much for comfort.

The two of you eat in relative silence, and you gratefully accept the bag he pushes in your direction. To your surprise the sandwich inside is a favorite combination of yours, and you wonder if this restaurant exists in your world. 

Your world. 

“Namjoon,” you place your sandwich down, despite the fact that your stomach is protesting for you to finish the first real meal you’ve had in days, “you know that movie, Avengers?” 

Namjoon’s face is puffed with bread, and you hand him a water bottle to chug it down. “Dunno,” he shrugs, “Marvel isn’t a popular franchise, so even if I had I wouldn’t remember.” 

“Marvel isn’t popular—” what kind of fucked up world is this? Your Jungkook would have a field day if he was in your shoes. “Anyway. There’s a concept from Marvel that there’s multiple Earths. Like you can create a rip in space and land yourself in another dimension if you’re not too careful. Do you think it’s possible?” 

Your tall mentor pushes his charcoal hair back, exasperated. “Is this why you’re taking off? Because you believe in some silly comic book series?” 

You feel your heart cracking, desperately trying to keep itself together. In your haste you grip Namjoon’s arm, desperate. “Please, just hear me out.” you warble, “a few days ago I was out drinking with a friend. Next thing I know, I’m in another world where I run into a boy. That boy is my friend, but he says he doesn’t recognize me! But I don’t recognize this life. Namjoon I can’t even imagine you wanting to be a doctor!” 

Namjoon is looking at you funny, and you know he’s really trying to believe you. Instead of the reassuring words you hope for, he instead says, “this isn’t even pseudoscience, y/n. This is supernatural! How could you possibly think you’re from another dimension? I just saw you last week and everything was fine!” 

“I saw you last week too!” you exclaim, clutching your chest, “and you cried again for the umpteenth time because you lost another pair of custom Airpods.” 

A pause. “That does sound like me.” 

Hope blooms in your stomach. “Doesn’t it?”

“Well, in this supposed other life. What is my profession?”

Your face falls. “Uh, you’re in a worldwide K-pop band. You’re making millions and producing beautiful music.” 

That sounded way better in your head. Out loud it sounded absolutely bonkers. You don’t even blame Namjoon when he bursts out laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. You let him, sinking further into your seat and hugging your knees. You really hoped Namjoon would’ve come through for you. 

However you’re not laughing along with him, and he immediately stops at your teary expression. He pushes himself over to you with his long legs, quickly moving to prevent yourself from tucking into your shell. He sees how small your form becomes and he reaches over to place a hand over your hair. “You’re really upset over this, aren’t you?” he questions aloud, and he can’t piece it together, “did you hit your head or something?” 

Defeated, you explain, “I may have gotten hit by a motorcycle the other day.” 

“What?” he squeezes your shoulder, “well, that explains a lot! What if you’re hallucinating? What if you have a concussion? You could be suffering from short-term memory loss!” 

You’re sure it’s none of those things, but you let him ramble. The explanation is clear-cut and so painfully normal that it’s the only conclusion that Namjoon will cling to. Your mentor insists you take a medical leave, and says he’ll take over your classes in the meantime. He gives you a number to call, explains there one of the best doctors for trauma and motor incidents. You don’t say anything to that, but you accept the number and lie when you say you’ll call them in the morning. Namjoon still treats you like a friend however, despite your fruitless confession, and you concede that his comfort is more than enough after such a rough week. 

•━━━━━━»••»💮💮💮«••«━━••

It’s been nearly two weeks since you’ve contacted Jimin. 

Sure, Jimin’s contacted you. A couple flirty texts here, some low-key sexy selfies there. Usually, you’d eat that up like honey and butter. Now, there’s only one-word replies and half-hearted attempts at continuing a conversation. He loosens his tie, thankful he’s working out of the office today. He can look at his phone all he wants, and no one will judge him. 

Jimin finally looks up at the photographer his marketing company contracted, who’s still mulling over the contract. “We’re not trying to jip you, promise.” Jimin assures, and he almost laughs at the comical way the young man’s large eyes catch his concern. “You’ll get all that money, and then some if you need to work overtime. It’s a sweet gig.” 

“Yeah,” the young man nods, and grabs the pen to sign at the bottom. “Looking forward to working with you.” 

“Same to you, Mr. Jeon,” Jimin grins, meeting him halfway across the table, “I’ve seen your work, I’m sure the commercial will be beautiful.” 

“You can call me Jungkook,” the new employee flashes him a quick grin, taking his palm in his. Jimin tries not to twitch at this cute kid, who is both devastatingly handsome and cute at the same time. He’s a little jealous, a little attracted. 

“Great, because Mr. Park is my dad. Jimin’s fine.” 

It’s then that Jimin’s phone lights up, both pairs of eyes darting to the picture of you decorating the wallpaper. 

While it’s not a completely flattering picture (you’re asleep with your wire-rimmed glasses half-off and there’s drool dribbling down your chin.) However it’s definitely you, the person Jungkook nearly killed a couple days ago.

Jungkook’s mouth goes dry, and he lets go of Jimin’s hand like it’s fire. Jimin hardly notices, grabbing his phone in hope that you replied to his text. To his despair, it’s just Taehyung. He ruffles his hair in frustration, letting the slick ebony strands fall out of his hairstyle.

“Fuck,” Jimin curses, shoving his phone in his blazer. 

“Everything alright?” Jungkook asks, trying to be polite. On the other hand, he’s rather curious about the girl from weeks ago, who still hasn’t left his mind. 

In the heat of the moment, Jungkook left the scene with you blubbering on the road. How wide your eyes were with recognition, and almost mother-like as you coddled him like someone to protect. He’s felt bad about it since, but he had an interview with Jimin’s boss and he couldn’t blow a job opportunity. It couldn’t be helped that your sad expression has been his midnight fixation when he can’t sleep or has a creative block. He should’ve at least called a cab to take you to the hospital or something, you were clearly not in the right mind. 

“Yeah, it’s just a friend.” Jimin forces a smile, not wanting to dump his baggage on the new employee. “She almost got hit by a motorcycle the other day,” Jungkook masks a wince, remembering the horror he felt when he saw you, just lying there across the street. “Ever since then, she just hasn’t been herself. I’m just worried. It’s like she’s seen a ghost or something.” 

“Oh,” Jungkook steals a glance at Jimin’s phone again, hoping to see your picture light up again. He does feel a little guilty pushing you off him and running away, but then again it was you that started being weird. 

How did you know him, and why were you so concerned for his well-being? Would he get fired if he asked Jimin about you? That would be the quickest job he ever got contracted for. Instead, Jungkook forces a smile and offers a neutral, “Well, I’m sure things will work out.” 

“Thanks, I hope so too.” 

Jungkook’s palms are sweaty, as if it’s a dark premonition that something will happen. With Jimin around supervising him, he has a feeling that if things don’t work out, things will happen regardless. 

Maybe he’ll understand why you were so concerned for a stranger’s well-being, and why you looked at him like that. 

Like someone in love. 

[adventures-on-foster-island]

Adoption Application Recieved!

Name: Rowan Mackinnon

Age: 19

Region, city/route... or describe the climate you live in: Wedgehurt in Galar.

Home size: ground floor and first floor aswell as a garden and a large patch of land owned around our house. About 200 miles.

Other people or Pokémon in your home: In the house it is me and my partner. We live with a Munchlax, Galvantula, Zoura, and a Vulpix. I’m hoping to get them someone to play with.

Also Noibat occasionally goes in the house because he feels safest here.

How many hours are you away from home per week for school/work? I am in part time college which is 4-6hours two times a week and i work at the farm which is around the house anyway. My partner is a ranger and the land around us is classed as protected so they work nearby to the house and usually at home if others are around too.

Any allergies or aversions? Im allergic to galarian Meowths and I want to avoid Pokémon who don't live in Galar, including the Isle of Armour.

Tell me about yourself, and what your goals for you and your new Pokémon are, as well as anything else you think I should know.

I run a small wild farm. Pokémon come and go as they please, however I do breed Pokémon from time to time. I make sure their homes are perfect for them. My farm has various different areas Pokémon find perfect to live in. I also have a enclosed garden I can use for the new friend so they can get use to other Pokémon around outside. They will have access inside as well. After that, I'll allow them free range of the outdoors. Though, I'll check on how their doing, and we have shelters for Pokémon as well as tracking chips for all Pokémon in case of any issues.

Alright Rowan, I'm happy to inform you that due to your property size and your partner's status as a Ranger, you're eligible to adopt two Pokémon if you'd like to. The two spoke over the phone, and decided it would be best to bring the two most promising candidates to Rowan's farm to make sure they like all their new friends, including the small herd and a few Lotad on the farm.

Ellisa woke early this morning to prepare for a trip to Galar. Her mom and siblings came to watch the Island for the day. Dusk, her Drifblim, was saddled with a hanging basket for the passengers, who were waiting patiently to go to their potential new home.

"Alright kids, load up. We have a long flight to Galar ahead of us." A nervous Galarian Ponyta colt stepped cautiously into the basket, followed by a relaxed flowering Lotad, who then asked to be picked up. Pearl, Ellisa’s Gardevoir, wearing a back pack, obliged the little plant, and closed the gate behind them. Ellisa had offered to put the Pokémon in balls for the trip, but they wanted to see the sights on the way. There's no better way to sight see than from a Drifblim, Ellisa thought. As the basket rose from the ground, Ponyta let out a whine, and stamped his feet lightly, getting used to the change in elevation. Ellisa pet his head and soothed him until he seemed more comfortable.

Most of the journey was over the ocean, although the coasts of Johto and Sinnoh were visible for some time as the group traveled north. Lotad looked with bright eyes over Snowpoint city, having never seen snow before.

"Just wait until we pass over the Crown Tundra little guy, It's absolutely beautiful." Indeed, his excitement increased as we flew lower over the tundra. Snowflakes landed on both Pokémon, causing little squeals of joy. Soon enough, Wedgehurst was visible over the horizon.

"Rowan said his farm was just outside Wedgehurst. We should see it soon." As Ellisa finished her sentence, she saw the river that cuts through the field and disappears into the forest. Several Ponyta and Mudbray galloped through the patches of short and tall grass, the river was alive with water type Pokémon, and a beautiful garden with a green house decorated the land. A lilly pond sat in the garden, and the distant figures of a person and their partner Zoroark were the last things Ellisa noticed before looking for a place to land. She settled on a patch of short grass near the pond, and Dusk slowly floated towards the ground.

Rowan walked over to the group, releasing their Gardevoir in case any extra help was needed. A Sylveon followed closely behind him wearing a little diabetic alert vest.

"Morning! Hope your journey was pleasant. These are Nyx, Opheila, and Serena." Rowan greeted as he pointed to each Pokémon, before scratching Serena's head and ribbons. "The other Lotad are in the pond at the moment, and I'm sure you saw the herd." Rowan extended his hand to shake, which Ellisa took excitedly in her grasp.

"The journey was lovely. I think the youngsters enjoyed the experience as a whole. I have a service Pokémon named Nyx as well!" She pulled a ball out of her bag and released an Umbreon, who nuzzled into Ellisa’s leg. "She helps me with anxiety and ADHD, along with my boy Pan, an Espeon who stayed at the island today. You have a lovely property." Pearl put down the Lotad, who stretched out his legs and sniffed the dirt. The Ponyta looked eagerly at Ellisa, waiting to be told he could go for a run with the others.

"He can go off if you're alright with it, I'll just make sure they're in eye sight and that Nyx is nearby since the others do as she says. There shouldn't be any problems." The breeder smiled and made sure that his treat bag was secure. "We can give you a tour of the place."

"Run along little one. Have fun, but don't go too far okay?" Ellisa pat his back for reassurance, and he took off clumsily after the herd. "You too Lotad," she knelt to talk to him, "Can you get to the pond by yourself?" He nodded happily and started his waddle to meet new friends. "I would love that! It would give those two some time to get to know the others, and make sure they all get along."

Serena got up and curled his ribbons round Rowan's arm. Nyx wondered off to the herd, and Rowan turned to Opheila. "Make sure Flowers doesn't stay out of the pool for too long, and keep a eye on them all for me, please, Opheila." The Gardevoir nodded and headed off toward the pond. Ellisa told Dusk to rest up, returning them to their ball.

The, now smaller, group began their tour around the farm. As they left the garden, Rowan turned to Ellisa, "I've been meaning to ask you if there was anything special I should know about those two."

"Lotad's bloom attracts Combee, but they don't bother him. He's super easy going, and will do any favor you ask of him, which can get him stepped on. Ponyta has a lot of energy. He's still really young, only four months, but runs like a mad man. Otherwise, I assume since you already have some members of both of these species, that you can take care of them just fine."

Rowan grinned shyly and rubbed the back of their head, "Yeah, I've been tending to these Pokémon for a while. I think this Lotad will get along well with one of ours. We've nicknamed him 'Flowers' because he likes flowers so much that we catch him wandering away from the pond. We've been planting flowers around it to encourage him to stay, but a flowering friend may do the trick. Also, that's good to know! I've been trying to get Combee here for ages."

"If you want Combee, I recommend replacing some of this grass," Ellisa gestured around at the surrounding land, "with clover. Your herd will love it as well, and it doesn't grow as tall, limiting up-keep. Lotad is also nearly at the age of maturity, meaning you could cross breed him to have more flowering variants to attract more Combee if you wanted."

Nyx whined and nudged Ellisa’s leg. The caretaker reached down to touch her, realizing that her partner was cold. Pearl picked up on what was happening instantly, and dug through her bag for a jacket, helping Ellisa put it on the dark type. As the group continued their tour, they came upon a building.

"These are the stables, but I'm having another built on the opposite side of the field that will be more open and airy for summer. My partner and I have been looking into Pokémon safe natural foods, including more kinds of grasses, since we'd like to give them the best possible lives. Thank you for recommending clover, I'll be sure to get some."

The group began to circle back around to the pond when Rowan remembered something. "Oh I almost forgot to mention, a friend of mine recommended you to me. It's Noire, she adopted a Houndoom from you named Violette."

Ellisa's eyes widened in surprise. "I didn't know you and Noire knew eachother! What a small world. Her and my line of work are similar, you know? I mean, her's is more on the educational side, but we have the same goal. I was so happy to adopt out Violette to her. They make a good team."

"Yeah, we met through another friend of mine who is a ghost type breeder, since they used to work together on ghost type education. I was actually thinking about taking your breeding suggestion with Lotad and using the baby variants to teach people about grass type variants so that maybe someone else won't make the same mistake as this one's previous trainer, thinking that they are sick. I've always loved grass types, and Lotad are an old favorite of mine, but I've never had a flowering one before. This is an exciting change."

As they approached the pond, Ellisa could see that the herd had stopped to take a drink from the pond and rest. They seemed to get along great with their newest member, who was playfully nibbling one of the Mudbray. Rowan's Zoroark, Nyx, was nearby, leaning against a tree as they kept a watchful eye. Opheila sat with her feet in the pond, smiling happily. As they got closer, Ellisa saw the Lotad variant floating calmly in front of her as another stared in awe at his water lily, seemingly entranced by it. Ellisa got a little sad, knowing that she would have to say good bye to these two, but also knew that they had found their perfect forever homes and would be happiest here.

Rowan brought Ellisa out of her contemplation, asking, "Can people adopt again? These two are such a perfect fit for our home, and since we have so much space we would love to help out more abandoned Pokémon."

"You'll need to catch these two in a Pokéball today to register them to your ID, and we will have to have a visit again in six months to check on everything, but since your property is so large you'll be able to adopt more at that time. You could even become a transfer site for foster Pokémon that the facility can't care for, such as ice types during the spring and summer months or very large Pokémon that the island can't support. I'll keep your adoption application on file to make the process smoother next time."

While filling out the paperwork, Rowan and their partner Raven decided on Clurichaurn as a name for the Ponyta. They also offered Lotad a few names to pick from, with Opheila as a translator, and he chose Kaj. Ellisa said goodbye to everyone, wishing the two she was leaving good luck in their new home, before releasing Dusk once again for the flight back home.

@poke-breeder-rowan

[henryobsessed]

The Widow and the Witcher  Chapter 4

Summery, Budding friendship, A wedding and possibly something more

Word Count: 2600

Warning: Fluff

A/N Thank you for the amazing engagement and encouragement  

Chapter 4

4 weeks had past and the household of Julia of Wolnosci was full of excitement. Julia had begun to feel like she was getting closer to finding a place of peace. Her clients were beginning to see the changes in her, causing her clinic to begin to make a name for itself again. The estate was also thriving, each of the new servants were adding there skills to the benefit of the family.

Geralt had begun to feel like he was gaining his strength back. He had been working hard with his sword training and was finding working with the horses very therapeutic. Each day Julia continued to work with him in the spring, and using remedial massage to help aid his recovery after each training session. Julia was sure he was well on the way to a full recovery, there were still some scars that were healing but they would fade in time.

Every evening Geralt would come and visit Julia in her library. Some nights the room would be silent as they were both lost in the worlds painted in their books. Some nights the room would be filled with animated discussion debating monsters, politics, and everything in between . The surprising part for Julia was that a real bond of trust and friendship was growing between them. Many night the servants could hear as they went about their chores, deep discussion and laughter coming from the library.

Today there was an air of expectation on the minds of every member of the estate as preparations for a grand wedding celebration were in full swing. Tobias and Renee would be man and wife in just under 3 hours, followed by a huge celebration. The first one to be held at the estate since Wilfred had died. Julia once again looked at the great room, this time the colours were of soft pinks, rose gold and white, Renee's favourite colours. The columns were wrapped with green Ivy and white roses, the tables adorned with pink silk, white and pink roses, rose gold goblets and rose gold and white crockery.

Julia narrowed her eyes and gazed around the room critically looking for anything that was out of place. Just one last look, although knew she didn't really need to. She knew that it had been  lovingly done by the servants for their favourite couple, and as she suspected it was perfect. Julia was so grateful for Renee; she had come to be invaluable at the estate. She had refused to return to her family until yesterday. Only leaving to full fill the tradition of her Husband coming to claim her before the ceremony. Not only had she endeared herself to the servants, but she had become a great friend to Julia. They shared many similar passions, hospitality, reading, and Renee had even shared a longing to learn the art of healing from Julia. The unnamed God surely had a hand in bringing Renee to her family, not only for Tobias, but for her as well.

As the sun hit the room a rainbow danced across the wall reflecting off one of the crystal vases. It was only a small rainbow but it was enough to trigger a wall of sadness in Julia, as if a cloud had moved over the sun, suffocating her joy making her heart ache. Her mind remembering the last party she and Wilfred had shared with the village. He should be here. Wilfred would have loved this; He would have loved seeing Tobias married to such a beautiful bride. Allowing herself to dwell on the grief of one more thing that had been stolen from them, Julia began to silently weep.

Geralt was heading to the kitchen to get some apples, his favorite food to give as treats to the horses. As he passed the great room he spotted Julia standing in the middle of the explosion of flowers and finery. Something caught at his heart as he noticed Julia was weeping. Without a thought he quickly moved into the room, and without a word pulled her into his arms. Julia stiffened for just a moment then melted into his chest sobbing as Geralt held her tighter.

After a few minutes her sobs turned into small hiccups, and then she calmed. They stood in each others embrace for what seemed a lifetime. Geralt did not want to let her go, he was surprisingly enjoying the feel of her body against his. Julia also felt surprised, her body enveloped by the warmth of his body and security she felt in his arms. Eventually, Julia pulled back and looked up into his now softened eyes "Thank you" she whispered unsure of what she was feeling she stepped away.

Geralt felt the loss of her body. An ache he had not felt for a very long time spreading through his chest caused him to want more.  Silently he reached a hand out to brushed a stray tear from her face, before saying with a low whisper "will you be ok? I sense today might be hard for you." Julia overwhelmed by the compassion this man was showing her, and amazing that he had read her emotions so accurately stood silent. "Mistress?" Tobias stood at the door a bunch of flowers in the crook of his arm. His words broke the spell over Julia, stepping away from Geralt she turned to Tobias answer. "yes my boy?"

Tobias had been nervously pacing the gardens, his task was to make the perfect bouquet to present his bride. This evening when he went to claim her from her father, it would he his gift to her. He had found a beautiful array of her favourite flowers, baby's breath, gardenias, and roses in pink and white. Their beautiful aroma's filling his nostrils, all that was left was to find something special to bind them together. Julia would have just the right touch to make it perfect had been his thought as he strode towards the house. Moving down the corridor, he heard the sound of Geralt's voice coming from the grand room, and on inspection had seen him hovering over Julia who looked like she had been crying.

"Mistress?," he voiced with concern, Julia turned away from Geralt looking at him and replied with a soft voice, "yes my boy?" that endearment never grew old filling him with a familiar warmth. Not sure of what had transpired he entered the room intent of protecting her. "are you ok?" he looked at Geralt who now looked at him with a stony stare. "yes, Tobias I'm ok, I just had a sad moment and Geralt came to my aid. All is well now." Julia wondered at the change in Geralt's face the softness had disappeared replaced with a hard frown, but she decided to ask him about it later. For now, her faithful servant, her Son, had an arm full of flowers, and if he was seeking her out it could mean only one thing, he needed her help.

Tobias sat tall on his horse; he was dressed in the finest ivory silk suit his dark brown hair curled atop his head. In his arms, the bouquet of flowers sat now tied together with an ivory ribbon with two crystals hanging from the ends. Even though it was a cold night Tobias was oblivious to it, his body full of nervous energy right now. All that was on his mind as he kicked his mare into a gallop was that he was going to fetch his bride.

Standing at the doorway to her house Renee stood ready, she too was adorned in a beautiful ivory silk dress that was edged with rose gold satin. Her headdress dripped with crystals across her forehead securing the long shear Vale that covered her face and hair. She held her lantern up peering into the distance, not knowing the hour that Tobias would come as was custom but hoping with nervous expectation that it would not be too much longer.

Her feet tapped the earth in an expectant rhythm, her mind filled with thoughts of the night to come when she felt an soft hand on her arm. Her mother's smile calmed her beating heart as she heard her whisper, "Peace my child. The waiting, the giving and the sharing will all be over in the blink of an eye. So cherish each moment. The waiting is important, there will be many times in your life when you will be waiting for him to return, learn to be content in the waiting." She knew her mother was true, the life of a merchants wife was filled with waiting.

She could hear her father chuckle beside her mother "listen to your mother my daughter, she speaks wisdom from experience." He drew her mother into his arms and kissed her cheek, the love between them was tangible and she hoped that when she and Tobias were their age they would still cherish each other in the same way. Together they waited enjoying the peace, it was her parents who would hand Renee to her betrothed tonight, signifying their agreement of the joining of the two in marriage.

As Tobias approached the city he slowed his horse to a walk. His heart hammered in his chest as he began to see the streets lined with their friends and family. Each holding a lantern to light the way, he smiled at each one until he could see her. Even from a distance she stood out from the rest. There she was holding her lamp a symbol of the love she had for him, it glow illuminating her satin gown creating a vision the brought him to tears. His beloved was waiting for him.

He dismounted and walked to her father and kneeling at his feet, lowered his head and asked "I have come to humble myself before you and your wife. I love your daughter, and ask that you give us your blessing to become husband and wife" He felt a hand reach under his chin and lift his face up, so he could see her father's eyes shinning with tear as he gazed at him replying. "Tobias of the house of Wilfred and Julia of Wolnosci, we have watched the way you care for our daughter. We have seen your character as you deal fairly in the marketplace, and we have witnessed your compassion and loyalty to your mistress, and to the people of this town. Yes, we gladly give our blessing to you and our precious daughter. We welcome you as our Son" helping Tobias to his feet Renee's father brought him to face Renee. "Daughter, do you take this man to be your husband. To love him, and honour him no matter what life's difficulties bring to your house?"

Renee peered up at Tobias through her vale, she could see his handsome face staring at her with a soft look of love, and tears shining in his eyes. She had no doubt in her mind that she would love this man for the rest of her life. So with a strong voice, she said "yes". At this, the street erupted with celebration as Tobias lifted her vale and kissed her sweetly on the lips. Releasing Tobias from the kiss Renee turned and hugged her Mother and Father, as did Tobias then together they walked to his horse. Tobias lifted her into the saddle and jumped up behind her. Together with the rest of their family and friends began a procession back to the estate.

Julia shivered as she stood at the archway to the estate. The road to the house was lined with the servant's, lanterns in hand. Standing in place of Tobias's mother it was her job to accept and welcome the bride and groom to her estate. She had spent the evening with Hannah and Ruth "getting pretty" as Wilfred had called it. She wore a lavender silk dress adorned with crystals that caught the lantern light. Her hair, curled, was half up and half down covering her shoulders with a ring of crystals in her hair. She knew this night would be a wonderful celebration, and she would be happy for this beautiful couple, but there was still an element of sadness.

As she shivered again, Julia felt a warm hand place a shawl over her shoulders. Looking up she found herself lost in a warm gaze of amber-yellow eyes looking down at her. The softness she saw in his eyes caused a quivering in her stomach. An awareness that this man was becoming more to her than she was ready to accept. She shifted her eyes as the intensity of his gaze was becoming unnerving moving to his body. She could see he had washed and his white hair was pulled up into a bun at the back of his neck making him look even taller than his 6ft 1inch height. He was dressed in a simple black outfit that befitted his station and made his silver medallion of a wolf even more prominent on his large chest.

Geralt sensing her discomfort leant down to her ear so only she could hear, "I can leave if you want, but I would prefer to stay by your side tonight. One because I sense you need it, and two I am not great in crowds and would prefer to be near someone I know." Julia felt it took a lot for Geralt to admit this, and realised she was actually comforted by his close presence. Returning his quiet statement with her own whisper "No, don't go, I would be happy for your escort tonight. Thank you for the shawl, I didn't realise how cold it was."

Emboldened by her words Geralt wrapped one arm around Julia pulling her into his side, a soft smile forming on his lips as he teased, "it's even warmer here." Before she had time to protest, she heard the sound of an army of people singing and laughing, she looked into the distance seeing an ocean of glowing lanterns following a lone horse with its two riders. Stepping out from his warmth Julia walked forward in anticipation of greeting her Son and his Bride.

Julia walked to Tobias as they dismounted, her heart bursting with joy as she spoke "Son of my house, I welcome you and your bride to this estate, I pray blessings on this union" Lowering her head as she took each of their hands, she prayed "to the unnamed God, we ask you bring many blessings to this beautiful couple, may you bring them peace and many years of joy" with tears in her eyes she kissed them both on the cheeks, turning together to walk the illuminated road she felt Geralt come up to her side, his presence felt right, filling her with a foreshadowing of something new uncurling in her heart as they walked with the bride and groom to the main dwelling.

Tobias and Renee were standing on the balcony of their apartment at the estate. The sound of music and laughter floating up to them as the celebrations raged on. The love Julia had shown to Tobias and his bride had touched him deeply. The evening had been more than he could have ever imagined. Now with Renee tucked against his side he felt complete, as they looked at the stars. This was their favourite place to be, and it helped to calm his nerves being in this familiar embrace . "are you happy Renee, is this how you imagine it would be?" turning to face Tobias Renee reached up and cupped his face her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone as she spoke softly. "I would have been happy if we were in feed sacks and it was just my family and yours downstairs. But this" her face held an overwhelmed awe.

"This was beyond any expectations; Julia truly loves you and  it has been made even more evident by how  lavishly she had blessed us." Tobias smiled down at her chuckling at the dimples the were deepening as her smile echoed his "I think she also loves you; I have seen how close you have gotten over the last few weeks." Tobias tucked a strand of her sandy hair behind her ear, his pulse racing at the intimacy he felt as his voice deepened "and I am glad for it. For whom could not love my sweet and beautiful wife" at this he bent and kissed Renee softly, she responded gently at first then deepened their kiss with more intensity, together they moved to the bridal bed both nervous but happy to explore this new journey together.

Back at the celebrations, Julia found herself lounging against a very warm and firm chest, as the night had progressed, and the wine had flowed she had found herself becoming more and more comfortable with Geralt's touch. So, when he saw how tired she was and suggested she rest against him there was no hesitation. Feeling snug and secure she looked around the room with satisfaction. Once again, her house would be known for its celebrations, and it warmed her heart to see the happy faces, people dancing to the minstrel's tunes, and people lounging engaged in discussion. Contentment filled her heart as her body began to slip into unconsciousness.

Geralt was relaxed, and thanks to his gentle coaxing he had Julia in his arms. He could smell her honeysuckle scented hair as her head rested just below his chin. His eyes strayed allowing himself to look closely at the woman in his arms. Julia didn't seem to know what her very presence did to him. Her hair tonight was a mass of curls, and it took all his self-control not to reach out and play with it. Her dress hugged her figure in all the right places, and ..... What was he doing? He pulled his mind back from where his thoughts were headed. The last time he had allowed himself to get close to a woman other than the ones he paid for was Yennefer. She was like night and day with Julia. Where Julia was compassion, warmth and peace. Yennefer was passion, anger and chaos. Could he, would he risk opening his heart to Julia? subtle as it was her relaxed body now snuggled even further into his chest, and if he judged her weight right, she was falling asleep.

Knowing that the celebration would continue till sunrise he shifted his body so he could pick Julia up in his arms. Carrying her down the marble corridor to her room he placed her on the bed. Tucking her in he went to move away but she captured his hand. "stay with me, I'm cold" Julia whispered. Not sure if she would feel the same way in the morning but not willing to ignore such an invitation Geralt took off his sandals and slipped in beside her pulling her close. She buried her back against his chest and sighed before even breathing showed she had fallen asleep. Geralt, however, did not sleep for a long time. Holding this precious woman in his arms was comforting and at the same time torcher. In the still of the moment watching her sleep he decided she was too special to ignore, tomorrow he would tell her how he felt. Mind made up he fell into a deep sleep.  

Previous Chapter Three                                                         Next Chapter Five

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[miswaken]

excerpts from House of Leaves that I just think are neat + inform my portrayal of Alice

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      Of course, [Will] Navidson’s pastoral take on his family’s move hardly reflects the far more complicated and significant impetus behind the project -- namely his foundering relationship with longtime companion Karen Green. While both have been perfectly content not to marry, Navidson’s constant assignments abroad have lead to increased alienation and untold personal difficulties. After nearly eleven years of constant departures and brief returns, Karen has made it clear that Navidson must either give up his professional habits or lose his family. Ultimately unable to make this choice, he compromises by turning reconciliation into a subject for documentation.

      None of this, however, is immediately apparent. In fact it requires some willful amnesia of the more compelling sequences ahead, if we are to detect the subtle valences operating between Will and Karen; or as Donna York phrased it, “the way they talk to each other, they way they look after each other, and of course the way they don’t.”

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      In the living room, Navidson discovers the echoes emanating from a dark doorless hallway whish has appeared out of nowhere in the west wall. Without hesitating, Navidson plunges in after them. Unfortunately the living room Hi 8 cannot follow him nor for that matter can Karen. She freezes on the threshold, unable to push herself into the darkness towards the faint flicker of light within...

      This is the first sign of Karen’s chronic disability. Up until now there has never been even the slightest indication that she suffers from crippling claustrophobia. By the time Navidson and the two children are safe and sound in the living room, Karen is drenched in sweat.

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      Navidson was no longer around, except of course Karen still saw him every day and in a way she had never seen him before -- not as a projection of her own insecurities and demons but just as Will Navidson, in flickering light, flung up by a 16mm projector on a paint-white wall.

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      Leslie Stern, M.D.: More importantly Karen, what does it mean to you?

      Funny how out of this impressive array of modern day theorists, scientists, writers, and others, it is Karen’s therapist who asks, or rather forces, the most significant question. Thanks to her, Karen goes on to fashion another short piece in which she, surprisingly enough, never mentions the house, let alone any of the comments made by the glitterati.

      It is an extraordinary twist. Not once are those multiplying hallways ever addressed. Not once does Karen dwell on their darkness and cold. She produces six minutes of film that has absolutely nothing to do with that place. Instead her eye (and her heart) turn to what matters most to her about Ash Tree Lane; what in her own words... “that wicked place stole from me.”

      ...Karen gives her piece the somewhat faltering title A Brief History Of Who I Love...

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      There are only 8,160 frames in Karen’s film and yet they serve as a perfect counterpoint to that infinite stretch of hallways, rooms and stairs. The house is empty, her piece is full. The house is dark, her film glows. A growl haunts that place, her place is blessed by Charlie Parker. On Ash Tree Lane stands a house of darkness, cold, and emptiness. In 16mm stands a house of light, love, and colour.

      By following her heart, Karen made sense of what that place was not. She also discovered what she needed more than anything else. She stopped seeing Fowler, cut off questionable liaisons with other suitors, and while her mother talked of breaking up, selling the house, and settlements, Karen began to prepare herself for reconciliations.

      Of course she had no idea what that would entail.

      Or how far she would have to go.

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      “He’s still alive,” she tells Reston over the phone. “I heard him last night. I couldn’t understand what he said. But I know I heard his voice.”

      Reston arrives the next day and stays until midnight, never hearing a thing. He seems more than a little concerned about Karen’s mental health.

      “If he is still in there Karen,” Reston says quietly. “He’s been there for over a month. I can’t see how there’s any way he could survive.”

      But a few hours after Reston leaves, Karen smiles again, apparently catching somewhere inside her the faint voice of Navidson. This happens over and over again, whether late at night or in the middle of the day. Sometimes Karen calls out to him, sometimes she just wanders from room to room, pushing her ear against walls or floors. Then on the afternoon of May 10th, she finds in the children’s bedroom, born out of nowhere, Navidson’s clothes, remnants of his pack and sleeping bag, and scattered across the floor, from corner to corner, cartridges of film, boxes of 16mm, and easily a dozen video tapes.

      She immediately calls Reston and tells him what has happened, asking him to drive over as soon as he can. Then she locates an AC adapter, plugs in a Hi 8 and begins rewinding one of the newly discovered tapes.

      The angle from the room mounted camcorder does not provide a view of her Hi 8 screen. Only Karen’s face is visible. Unfortunately, for some reason, she is also slightly out of focus. In fact the only thing in focus is the wall behind her where some of Daisy and Chad’s drawings still hang. The shot lasts an uncomfortable fifteen seconds, until abruptly that immutable surface disappears. In less than a blink, the white wall along with the drawings secured with yellowing scotch tape vanishes into an inky black.

      Since Karen faces the opposite direction, she fails to notice the change. Instead her attention remains fixed on the Hi 8 which has just finished rewinding the tape. But even as she pushes play, the yawn of dark does not waver. In fact it almost seems to be waiting for her, for the moment when she will finally divert her attention from the tiny screen and catch sight of the horror looming up behind her, which is of course exactly what she does when she finds out that the video tape shows...

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

      nothing more now than the mere dark. The tape is blank.

      Finally when Karen does turn around to discover the real emptiness waiting behind her, she does not scream. Instead her chest heaves, powerless for a moment to take anything in or expel anything out. Oddly enough as she starts to retreat from the children’s bedroom, it almost looks as if something catchers her attention. A few minutes later, she returns with a halogen flashlight and steps towards the edge.

      Hanan Jabara suggests Karen heard something, though there is nothing even remotely like a sound on the Hi 8. Carlos Ellsberg agrees with Jabara: “Karen stops because of something she hears.” Only he qualifies this statement by adding, “the sound is obviously imagined. Another example of how the mind, any mind, consistently seeks to impose itself upon the abyss.”

      As everyone knows, Karen stands there on the brink for several minutes, pointing her flashlight into the darkness and calling out for Navidson. When she finally does step inside, she takes no deep breath and makes no announcement. She just steps forward and disappears behind the black curtain. A second later that cold hollow disappears too, replaced by the wall, exactly as it was before, except for one thing: all the children’s drawings are gone.

      Karen’s action inspired Paul Auster to conjure up a short internal monologue tracing the directions of her thoughts. Donna Tartt also wrote an inventive portrayal of Karen’s dilemma. Except in Tartt’s version, instead of stepping into darkness, Karen returns to New York and marries a wealthy magazine publisher. Purportedly there even exists an opera based on The Navidson Record, written from Karen’s perspective, with this last step into the void serving as the subject for the final aria. 

      Whatever ultimately allows Karen to overcome her fears, there is little doubt her love for Navidson is the primary catalyst. Her desire to embrace him as she has never done before defeats the memories of that dark well... In this moment, she displays the restorative power of what Erich Fromm terms the development of “symbiotic relationships” through personal courage.

      Critic Guyon Keller argues that the role of vision is integral to Karen’s success:

I believe Karen could never have crossed that line had she not first made those two remarkable cinematic moment: What Some Have Thought and A Brief History Of Who I Love. By relearning to see Navidson, she saw what he wasn’t and consequently began to see herself much more clearly.

      Esteemed Italian translator Sophia Blynn takes Keller’s comments a little further:

The most important light Karen carried into that place was the memory of Navidson. And Navidson was no different. Though it’s commonly assumed his last [recorded] word was “care” or the start of “careful,” I would argue differently. I believe this utterance is really just the first syllable of the very name on which his mind and his heart had finally come to rest. His only hope, his only meaning: “Karen.”

      Regardless of what finally enabled her to walk across that threshold, forty-nine minutes later a neighbor saw Karen crying on the front lawn, a pink ribbon in her hair, Navidson cradled in her lap.

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

      As to what happened after Karen disappeared from view, the only existing account comes from a short interview conducted by a college journalist from William & Mary:

Karen: As soon as I walked in there, I started shivering. It was so cold and dark. I turned around to see where I was but where I’d come from was gone. I started hyperventilating. I couldn’t breathe. I was going to die. But somehow I managed to keep moving. I kept putting one foot in front of the other until I found him.

Q: You knew he was there?

Karen: No, but that’s what I was thinking. And then he was there, right at my feet, no clothes on and all curled up. His hand was white as ice. [She holds back the tears.] When I saw him like that it didn’t matter anymore where I was. I’d never felt that, well, free before.

[Long pause]

Q: What happened then?

Karen: I held him. He was alive. He made a sound when I cradled his head in my arms. I couldn’t understand what he was saying at first but then I realized the flashlight was hurting his eyes. So I turned it off and held him in the darkness.

[Another long pause]

Q: How did you get him out of the house?

Karen: It just dissolved.

Q: Dissolved? What do you mean?

Karen: Like a ad dream. We were in pitch blackness and then I saw, no... actually my eyes were closed. I felt this warm, sweet air on my face, and then I opened my eyes and I could see trees and grass. I thought to myself, “We’ve died. We’ve died and this is where you go after you die.” But it turned out to be just our front yard.

Q: You’re saying the house dissolved?

Karen: [No response]

Q: How’s that possible? It’s still there, isn’t it?

END OF INTERVIEW

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

      In Passion for Pity and Other Recipes For Disaster (London: Greenhill Books, 1996) Helmut Muir cried: “They both live. They even get married. It’s a happy ending.”

      Which is true. Both Karen and Will Navidson survive their ordeal and they do exchange conjugal vows in Vermont. Of course, is it really possible to look at Navidson’s ravaged face, the patch covering his left eye, the absence of a hand, the crutch wedged under his armpit, and call it a “happy” ending? Even putting aside the physical cost, what about the unseen emotional trauma which Muir so casually dismisses?

      The Navidsons may have left the house, they may have even left Virginia, but they will never be able to leave the memory of that place.

[fleckcmscott]

Bewitching Hour

Summary: October has been a blissfully busy month. With Halloween around the corner, Arthur and Y/N have some planning to do.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 4,665

A/N: Special thanks to @hhandley80​ for this request! You've been so supportive and sweet. I truly appreciate you and hope you enjoy it!

On a side note, my oneshots will be more sporadic. I'm still writing but life has been life. Also, I've finished the first draft of another multi-chapter featuring Arthur and Y/N. It's going to take time to rewrite the subsequent drafts and edit, edit, edit. The chapters will go up once the story is ready. Thanks for your patience and support! 🙂 I heart you all!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask! 

Arthur's suggestion that they make plans to celebrate Halloween should not have been a surprise. He loved starting traditions with Y/N, and she prized adopting them with him. "It's been awhile," he'd said as they'd walked arm-in-arm to the laundromat. "I think it'd be nice."

Holidays had been a source of merriment most of her life. The beauty of red and green decorations at Christmas. Turkey and mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving. An egg hunt and chocolate rabbit at Easter. The togetherness of family during them all.

Halloween, though, wasn't a favorite.

As a child, she'd had fun trick-or-treating, riding her bike from house to far-flung house. And she hadn't minded escorting her little sister as a teenager. Y/N's homemade witch costume had been passed down. She could still recall the sleekness of the ribbon between her fingers as she'd secured the pointed hat under Mabel's chin.

But the magic had fallen away. When married to Jeff, she'd had to attend his boss's annual party. After receiving an apologetic shrug and kiss, she'd be relegated to hanging out with the other wives. They'd included her in their recipe swaps, in their exchanges of mild gossip. Her natural friendliness made chit-chat easy, far easier than having a good time. Those evenings had been spent nursing a glass of wine and willing the clock to go faster.

During the period she'd cared for her father, she'd tried to hand out candy. She liked being a good neighbor and imparting kindness in the form of bite-sized sweets. As his health had declined, the porch light had gone dark. Random rings of the doorbell would result in shouting and swearing. Repeated attempts to explain the door's lock wasn't broken. Festivity would transform into drudgery. It hadn't been worth the trouble. Instead, she'd watched terrible TV specials while her thoughts wandered to a future far from Boonville. A future she'd doubted would ever be.

"I don't know if it's your thing," Arthur had continued, bringing her back to the present. "But you might enjoy it with me." The response he longed for was evident in the worrying of his pocket, outlines of his knuckles visible through the tan cloth.

Everything they'd experienced together had soothed the sting of those wasted years. The hesitancy lurking in her was silly. Unwelcome. Less than either of them deserved. She'd met his keen eyes and half-smile. The sudden mental image of him dressed as a cowboy or pirate, eyepatch and all, prompted a laugh. Convinced her as she dug out her dry-cleaning stub. "It isn't my thing," she'd said. "But you are."

Relief had relaxed his wrinkles, save for his crows feet, which had deepened as he'd returned her happy expression. A slender arm wrapped around her waist, drew her against his solid frame. Once the clerk disappeared through the swinging doors to retrieve their clothes, Arthur grasped her chin and kissed her. The tender explorations were soon sloppy, and she'd giggled, his enthusiasm becoming her own. Their noses had met, his lashes resting on his wide cheekbones. "I think you're the sweetest treat, Mrs. Fleck."

Currently, Donahue's Department Store, Gotham's number one retail emporium (if the ads were to be believed), was bustling with last-minute shoppers. Weary mothers escorted their babbling children through the aisles. Clerks swapped out displays for the changing blue light specials. Lines went for yards. Patricia and Y/N sought refuge at a corner table in the café on the top floor. The warm glow from the pendant lamps provided a relaxed ambience, one that matched the hot cider and pumpkin spice cake they were savoring.

"I've got my grandson on Sunday," Patricia said between bites. "My daughter's going to a party with a medical records tech from Gotham General. Met him when she missed the bus. They split a cab and hit it off." Chuckling, she lifted her mug. "Speaking of, how's married life been so far?"

Memories of the past week quickened Y/N's heart, until she thought it might stop. How Arthur had gripped her replacement Social Security card, just to read her new name. The way he'd grab her for a twirl whenever they were in the kitchen. The reverence in his gaze when they'd lay together after sex, a look that both thrilled and made her blush. "The bills for his medication and appointments will no longer make us cringe," she deadpanned. She lowered her fork. "When we met, I was kind of blindsided - I'm not the type to fall in love quickly." The corners of her lips tugged up. "Being married to Arthur feels like a habit. A habit I should have learned twenty years ago."

"I'm glad you found each other." Patricia reached across the light brown table and covered Y/N's hand, gave it a squeeze. Then she wiped frosting from her mouth and nodded in the direction of the escalator. "Now let's find a costume that'll drive him nuts."

Beyond the colorful cosmetics and pungent perfume counters, they sorted through racks of vinyl smocks and plastic masks. Pop culture icons and princesses. Vampires and spooks. Knockoffs of classic movie monsters. Most were poorly made and decidedly uninteresting. Y/N pawed through accessories in a nearby basket, a cigar here, a patched hat there. "How about a hobo? I could steal Arthur's tie."

"This was his idea. Give him something a little exciting." After a roll of Y/N's eyes, Patricia held out a plastic display bag. "Found it."

The white font on its blue label declared she should "Create a unique look!" A woman in a leopard-print leotard and bow-tie wore black cat ears and a tail, the only two items included in the set. Y/N's nose wrinkled. "I don't think so, Patricia." She rummaged through another bin and examined a hockey mask. "I don't show a lot of skin."

"You show Arthur." Patricia ignored Y/N's glare, continuing to shove it at her. "Every man loves a woman dressed as a cat. Our next lunch is on me if I'm wrong."

Patricia could be relentless, but Y/N had to admit she was usually right. She arched a brow as she eyed the costume. Maybe she could find a solid body suit instead of animal print. The kit was only $2.98. And her friend had made it a challenge. "You're on. But I'm not wearing a bow-tie." She crossed her arms across her chest and tapped her mouth. "Your turn. Would Robert like you as a French maid or a go-go dancer?"

~~~~~

It was a busy season for performers. Arthur remembered HaHa's talent agency being booked solid for October by the end of August. Myriad functions at nursing homes, parties, and children's organizations took place throughout the city. Amusement Mile had a series of special events, allowing Arthur to work extra hours before the slowness of winter dragged in. Once the holiday was over, he'd buy make-up and props on clearance.

He'd always assumed he would like Halloween - if he'd had the chance to celebrate it properly. It was about connection, something he'd never managed. The customs gave him a pretense, a template to meet people, rather than leaving him wondering how to go about it. Provided a hiding place for his seeming inability to act normal.

Recollections of the day were few but vivid. When he'd been around eight, there'd been a party at school. The teacher had made brownies and given the students a half-hour respite from lessons. (A welcome relief, since he wasn't very good at most of them.) But he hadn't had a costume. Hadn't known how to reply when the other kids asked where it was. Not wanting to be left out, he'd pocketed a watercolor pallet and sneaked to the bathroom.

The teacher (he wished he could remember her name) had walked in as he'd smeared green and blue on his face, a pathetic attempt at a turtle. Fear of punishment had caused his laughter. But her kindness as she knelt, wiped away tears and pigment with a scratchy, brown paper towel, had calmed him. "Wait here," she'd instructed. It had taken all his courage not to run home.

After some minutes, she'd returned, an old white sheet in one hand, black marker and pair of scissors in the other. "The nurse won't miss this." She'd traced eyeholes, helped him cut them out. She'd asked questions. About his mother and what it was like at home. Questions he was at a loss for how to answer. Finally, she'd draped the cloth over his head. "There," she'd declared. "Gotham Elementary has its own ghost."

Even as he'd gotten taller and the sheet no longer went beyond his knees, that costume had remained his go-to. He'd venture out to the rest of his building, knocking on paint-chipped doors and pushing broken buzzers. Having learned to stay away from doors that yelling or funny smells emanated from, he hadn't gotten a lot of candy. What he had collected he'd shared with Penny. The wax lips became a free toy. He wasn't sure his memory of startling his mother and being tickled until he couldn't breathe was real or imagined.

At twelve, he was told he was too old to go trick-or-treating. He'd starting scrounging for change to buy hard candies at Helm's Pharmacy. They weren't particularly appetizing, but they'd been what he could afford. Only a few kids rang, a number that dwindled further every year. Most neighbors kept their distance, likely aware he was troubled. Cinnamon discs and butterscotch drops had loitered around the apartment for months. He'd sucked on them in an attempt to cut down on his smoking, just to save money. It hadn't worked.

Y/N hadn't spoken about the holiday, not the way she had other special occasions. At first, he'd thought it had slipped her mind. Work, planning their honeymoon, completing the red tape required to meld all aspects of their lives had taken up much of their time. But, given her reluctance to talk in detail about her past heartache, he'd come to assume her Halloweens had been unpleasant. He was certain he could change that.

Sitting on the dingy, dark green plastic seat of the train car, he giggled to himself, chest puffing up as he straightened. They'd been man and wife for eight whole days. Movies and songs said love was supposed to be somewhere between serendipitous and fated. A happy accident that was meant to be. Lying awake at night, he would find himself wondering where they were on that scale. If the emotions swirling through him - the excitement of belonging, the fear of fucking up - were what every newlywed felt. Then Y/N would snuggle closer in her sleep, murmur nonsense into his skin, and for a few minutes he'd be at peace.

Years had been spent trying to figure out who he was. Trying to find an identity, his role within the world. While he was still searching, it had been far easier to become accustomed to the role of "husband" than he'd dreamed.

Teaching his wife about events across the city had been a delight. Gotham Village's Annual Costume Extravaganza was a parade that went all the way to Gotham Square. He'd participated a couple of times, never formally registering but slipping into the clown section. It had been exhilarating. Had allowed him to pretend, for a little while, that he was being seen. That the crowds lining the sidewalks were cheering for him. Signs for extravagant balls were plastered on billboards and lampposts throughout the streets; he'd have gladly attended and shown her off. A haunted house was being held in a building in his old neighborhood, a fundraiser for the orphanage. He hadn't brought that up.

In the end, once he'd explained trick-or-treaters went from apartment to apartment, they'd decided on a cozy evening at home. The details had been left to her. Whatever she'd plan, he'd love it. He wondered what she'd disguise herself as. Would she be a sexy devil or nurse, like he'd seen on a sit-com? The notion sparked a fire in his cheeks.

Given how busy he'd be, he'd stay dressed as plain, old Carnival. Part of him regretted accepting two gigs, especially on a Sunday. He would have preferred her company. But he wanted to put the money towards the wedding band he'd put on layaway. (Even though they had one account, he wasn't going to let her chip in for it.) He should already be wearing it for all of Gotham to see.

The lurch of the subway prompted him to rise and grasp the pole grip. His stance widened as it came to a halt, knees bending with the instinct of a man who'd ridden public transportation since he was a boy. As soon as the graffiti-covered doors parted, he stepped out onto the platform and ascended the stairs, eager to share his new insurance information with Dr. Ludlow.

~~~~~

Scratchy violins and the hum of a theremin. Shrill shrieks and cracks of thunder. A cackle resounded, then a pipe organ, playing a melody in a minor key.

There was no doubt about it. Halloween spirit had saturated 4A.

NCB's Movie Marathon Mayhem had begun at 10:00 AM. Y/N had had it on since getting out of the shower, hoping to catch a horror classic while she decorated the apartment and prepared Bloody Mary mix. As she hung cotton batting between the television's rabbit ears, creating a long, narrow spider-web, she realized they were only playing cheesy B-movies. Giant insects threatening buildings. Science experiments gone wrong. Alien invasions. Oh well. At least she wouldn't have to pay much attention to get the gist of the plots.

The orange plastic platter, black bats along its edges, had been an impulse buy. She thought its array of sugary skeletons, candy bracelets, and Jolly Jack chocolate bars would be well received. But having seen only one or two kids in the lobby, she had no idea how many children lived in their building. She hoped she'd bought enough.

The cardstock window decorations she'd found were festive and matched Arthur's sweet nature. One portrayed a warted, green witch flying on a broom past a full moon. On the other, a ghost and mouse shared a pillowcase of candy and wished a "Happy Halloween." She held the tape dispenser between her teeth as she stuck them to their white front door.

Just then, the elevator dinged. Glancing to her left, she saw Arthur stroll down the cheerfully lit hallway. Buoyant expression on him, despite his white, blue, and red make-up being streaked from sweat. Striped prop bag on his shoulder and carved pumpkin cradled in his arms. "The store owner was going to throw it out," he explained with a half hug. "But he let me have it as a tip."

Classic, triangular eyes evoked the annual carving contest her parents had taken part of back home. Her father had been well-known in the community, being the town's only doctor. Entering the competition had been expected. They'd never won but enjoyed it all the same. Y/N had picked out the patterns and scooped out the squash's slimy innards. Her mother had baked the seeds. Peals of their laughter echoed in her ears, and a lump formed in her throat.

She swallowed hard against it. Dammit, Y/N. Get it together. This was supposed to be a special night for Arthur and her. She needed to distract herself. One of his curls peeked out from under his bald-cap and green wig. She twirled a strand around her finger. "With that toothy grin, it just might be your twin," she said. He pecked her temple, the kiss sticky from greasepaint. She lit the half-melted candles using his red lighter and put the jack-o-lantern just outside their door.

While he freshened his paint in the bedroom, she slinked into the bathroom to change. Arthur's and her routines were closely aligned; keeping her costume hidden had not been easy. The headband holding the furry cat ears was quite stiff, its teeth a tad sharp on her scalp. Once it was in place, she hid it under her hair. The lint on her form-fitting stretch top and leggings reminded her why she rarely wore all black. She retrieved her brown eyeliner from the nearby shelf and started in on her whiskers.

Arthur's footsteps neared, heavy due to his clown shoes, and Y/N turned to lean back on the sink. His thin lips parted as he scanned her body, forehead furrowed in pleasant surprise. His reaction planted a seed of bliss in her belly, one that bloomed every second they regarded each other. The lunch she'd have to spring for was well worth the pink shells of his ears. Eventually, she held out the fluffy, wired tail and a safety pin. "Would you pin this just below my waistband?"

Fingers grazing hers, he took it and sat on the toilet lid. He cupped her hips and pulled her closer, positioned her until the dampness of his breath hit a bare sliver of her back. "Hold still," he murmured, his voice sending a tingle through her. At his gentle ministrations, the spandex of her leggings felt snugger. "Did you- Did you read my journal?"

A faint click of metal as the pin closed. "No." She colored the tip of her nose, frowned at how lackluster the shade was. "I'd never do that. Even if I'm dying for a preview of your material. Why?"

"No reason." A soft huff, his shy smile clear in his answer. "I have an idea." He handed her a washcloth and hurried out of the room. She was patting her face dry when he returned, a fine tipped brush and pot of black greasepaint in his hand. "This'll look better."

Her brow arched. She'd only had her make-up done once; Patricia had invited her when they'd first met. Such an outing was not her preference, but Y/N had accepted, being new in town and wanting to learn about her colleague. There'd been champagne at the counter, which she'd sipped until she'd spent too much on eyeshadow and apricot scrub. The next morning, she'd put the products and a note on Patricia's desk: "I'll never forgive you. Thanks!"

The heat radiating from Arthur prompted her to close the gap between them. She craned her neck towards him, slid her palms to his yellow vest until she held him just below his ribs. His forefinger curled under her chin, lifted it slightly and angled it to the right. The cool, wet brush met her fevered skin. The dusty smell of the greasepaint blended with a whiff of stale cigarette smoke and traces of his sweat. She licked her lips.

The vibration of his chuckle was felt before heard. "I really like your costume," he said lowly. Two more ticklish caresses of the bristles on the apple of her cheek. "If you're not careful, I might werewolf and go wild."

She stretched closer to him, the fervor in his tone going straight to her center. Though he'd been growing bolder, his cocky side wasn't often revealed. She wanted it, thirsted to see more of the wild horse kicking inside him. Her touch ran over his chest, until she dipped under his black suspenders and pulled. "Are you going to gobble me up?"

Teasing strokes on her nose. "Maybe." Then his thumb whispered along her jaw and guided her face upwards. His kiss was supple, slow, a drag of his mouth as his tongue sought entry. She yielded, the simmer of anticipation bringing her to her toes. He groaned deeply and palmed her thigh, then fondled the curve of her rear-

The ding-dong of the doorbell halted them. He lifted his head and laughed, gaze sparkling. "I got paint on you."

She twisted in his arms and looked in the mirror. The whiskers caught her eye, embellished at the ends with dainty curlicues - his skill never ceased to impress her. Red brightened her lips and streaks of white were on her cheek. "It's all right. They'll just know I've been necking with a clown."

~~~~~

The sound of the bell continued. Over and over and over. More than it ever had in Otisburg. There were mummies, ghosts, a couple of skeletons. A superhero proudly displayed his red cape and blue tights, and a kid in her karate robe went on about her yellow belt. A tiny clown, too young to walk, was brought by her sister. As Arthur made funny faces, the baby cooed and tried to take his red, foam nose. Arthur parted with it gladly.

Only one member of the Wayne family appeared, slicked back hair and pompous pout making the disguise complete. The man accompanying the boy introduced himself as their upstairs neighbor and shook their hands. After one look at Y/N, he nudged Arthur's bicep. "So, she's the one keeping half the building up at night. Good on you, pal." Arthur blinked in confusion as she ushered the guy away, red-faced and muttering about his nerve.

Arthur was overly generous, giving out fistfuls of sweets while taking a few extra seconds to gather his nerves and compliment the costumes he liked best. It felt good to interact with strangers without constantly second guessing himself. Y/N would rub his arm or kiss his shoulder and tell him what a great job he was doing. "Kids are easy," he said, refilling the candy dish. But he reveled in her praises, anyway. And the knowledge that meeting the neighbors was going well.

Clean-up required little effort. The jack-o-lantern sat on their kitchen table, flames flickering as the wicks burned away. The door decor was packed safely for use next year. His plaid blazer was slung over the back of a dining chair and his wig was off. Y/N's decision to leave her whiskers on pleased him - she made a damn sexy cat. He pocketed the last few pieces of candy to snack on during the remainder of the evening.

The Sunday Night Special Presentation she'd picked out, a made-for-TV horror movie, began at 9:00 PM on GBC. Most of its airtime was punctuated by her tipsy snickers and legal wisecracks, which was typical when they watched something stupid. Yet, as the show went on, she grew quieter, barely speaking between sips of her third cocktail. As they sat on the sofa, her posture stiffened. Forearms crossed over her breasts. Her nails dug into her upper arm.

The change started two-thirds of the way into the show, when the plot about a doll running amok twisted into a story about a professional woman trying to assert herself against the demands of her mother. Against the expectations of availability. To fight for the simplicity of having dinner and peace and quiet. It resonated with him, which felt weird. Especially when the film cut to black, the implication being the mother would meet a violent end at the hands of her possessed daughter.

A cheerful jingle came on. Puerto Rico was a direct flight from Gotham Airport, it advertised, a flight that lasted "two hours and fifteen tropical minutes." They should get out while the weather was still good. The juxtaposition of mood broke him out of his ponderings. He flicked off the blaring television with the remote. Then he heard Y/N sniffling.

She set her glass on the coffee table, a slight tremble in her hand. "I need some air," she whispered as she rose, then went out onto the fire escape.

Arthur rubbed his thigh and pressed his lips together. He wasn't used to seeing her cry. Not from sadness. Should he follow her? Give her time? Both had worked previously, depending on the situation. But he wasn't sure what had upset her, what situation they were in now.

Exhaling sharply, he grabbed her glass and dumped the rest of the drink down the kitchen sink. Rinsed their dinner plates and put the slow cooker in the fridge. When he'd finished making decaf coffee ten minutes later, she still hadn't returned. He ambled towards the ajar glass door and stepped out.

Moonlight outlined her shapely figure and reflected off her hair, the silver a contrast to the orange glow of the streetlamps illuminating her face. Her stare seemed fixated on the street below. He followed it to see a group of ghouls and goblins spraying shaving cream on a shop window. A couple, one he'd see occasionally when out for a cigarette, walked down the sidewalk. A woman was half-carrying a drunk man towards a bus stop.

Upon clearing her throat, Y/N spoke. "I may not look like it, but I had a great time with you tonight. The movie just got to me." Relieved, Arthur sidled next to her, wrapped his arm about her back. Her head fell to his shoulder and she smoothed her hand over his stomach. "I don't mean to hide from you. Someday you'll know the details of my earlier life." She scoffed. "When I'm ready to think about them." He entwined their fingers and kissed her hairline, avoiding the wired tips of her cat ears.

Shivering, she took a shaky breath. "There are no skeletons in my closet. Only disappointments." Her voice cracked as she beamed at him, cupped his cheek, and pressed her face to his. "Knowing I'd get to have you would have made those years so much easier."

He held her tightly, massaging between her shoulders. She'd been speaking about herself, but he couldn't help thinking it was about him, too. His years with Penny. His stints in Arkham. The loneliness, the isolation, the endless anger and yearning to be more than a speck of dirt no one cared for. His journal was full of questions about where the hell his one and only was. If he'd known she'd be real, tangible instead of a figment, would existence have hurt less?

Wincing, he tried to push through those thoughts. To focus on her instead of himself. What mattered was that Y/N needed him. Perhaps a joke would cheer her. "I was thinking the other night of how easy it is to smile around you," he said. "You tickle my funny bone." Amusement bubbled in her throat, music to his ears. She released a contented sigh and nuzzled the crook of his neck.

Peaceful stillness ensued as the minutes passed. Though the breeze was chill, goosebumps forming on his pale skin, her affection kept his heart warm. His fingertips rubbed circles into her lower back, and she offered a pleasured hum. Across the way, footsteps pounded. He glanced to see a kid darting up the street, plastic pumpkin pail in tow. The boy's scream was filled with boundless energy: "Happy Halloween, Gotham!"

Snorting, Y/N took Arthur's hand and led him inside. The cheap tail she wore bounced with every exaggerated swivel of her hips. "I've behaved all evening, which your werewolf comment made extraordinarily difficult." She looped her arms around him and flashed a come-hither stare. "May I have a goodie?"

The scrape of her nails on his scalp coiled a knot in his abdomen. "Aren't you supposed to say 'trick-or-treat?'" he asked huskily.

"Your pussycat needs a petting or two." She closed the bedroom door behind them. "Maybe even a mauling."

His brows shot up on a hitched giggle. Then he palmed her hip while she started in on his buttons. Before she got too far, he traced a whisker with the pad of his thumb. Let their foreheads meet and pecked her eyelids. "Only if you give me something good to eat." He pressed into her, his enjoyment relentless, not waiting for her reply before devouring her mouth.

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​, @howdylilflower​, @sweet-nothings04​, @stephieraptorr​, @rommies​, @fallenstarsabyss​, @gruffle1​, @octopus-plasma​, @tsukiakarinobara​, @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​, @another-day-in-chuckletown​, @hhandley80​, @jokerownsmysoul​, @mrscarnival​

[coldcocoamilk]

Whose Horse Is That? -- the social season AU we all want

‘sup! after surviving The Big Game at my job, around a hundred cases of wings later, I’ve finally recovered enough to write again. thank you everyone for your patience as I’ve been working to get this out of my brain. please enjoy the social season au that was asked for! 

this work is also available on Archive of Our Own. please read it wherever you are most comfortable reading! as always, your feedback is greatly appreciated, and thank you so much for taking time out of your day to read my work. ♥

Chapter 1: Arrival 

The salty air finally starting to smell a bit fresher. It had been many weeks since Hange last saw dry land, and as she claps her book shut, she takes in the sights from the deck of the ship that had been her temporary home. The Port of London was not exactly attractive, nor did it show off the architecture and class she had been expecting, but still. It was dry land. Finally, it smelled like something more than fish: steam engines, gasoline, and motor oil. It was not exactly ladylike for her, but those smells brought her some joy.

“Hange,” her brother’s voice called out to her. “You shouldn’t stand on the deck while we’re trying to dock. They have a job to do, you know. Your dress might get wet, and it’s cold.”

“But Moblit,” she grinned, “It smells like cars!”

“We have an impression to make,” he reminded her, tugging at her arm gently but firmly. “Besides, I’m serious. We both should get back down.”

She sighed and took the wide-brimmed hat off her head, clutching it to her chest. The air ran through her hair, pulling a few stray clumps out to fly up onto her forehead. “Fine. I just can’t wait to explore.”

The hat came back on, and the two walked back below decks to their quarters. It would only be a half an hour until their shoes stepped back on land, and both were more than excited. Sure, they had a purpose for coming to England: find a lover, secure the family fortune, and have enough children to carry on their legacy. The British social season was the perfect time to do exactly that, and have a little fun while they could.

“What have you been reading lately?” Moblit asked her as they watched the men in charge of docking the boat through the porthole. “I haven’t heard much from you in the past couple days.”

“Oh! It’s a book on human anatomy. There’s a part about a condition called diabetes that is really interesting to me. Apparently, they’ve found out that people with that condition are missing a function of their body. But, we don’t know if we can replace it yet,” Hange explained. “They’re calling it ‘insulin.”

Moblit’s amber eyes flashed. “Do you still want to be a doctor, Miss Hange?”

She felt her cheeks grow warm and chose then to place the book into her suitcase. “It doesn’t matter.”

He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and brought his hand up through his hair. “Well, with the way things are looking in the world lately, you could at least be a nurse.”

The sudden stress in her brother’s demeanor wiped the embarrassment from the forefront of her mind. “Listen, if it comes to that, you know I will.”

“We’ll have to go back to America, if we can,” Moblit explained. “But it will be dangerous. I can’t imagine they will be allowing normal sea travel. We might be here longer than we expect.”

“I can learn to love it here,” Hange reasoned.

“You haven’t even seen the city,” Moblit fired back.

With no adequate reply in mind, Hange just sat back down and toyed with the ribbon at the edge of her hat. Of course, her brother would know it is her dream to be a doctor. But women don’t become doctors, she reminded herself. They just become bedside nurses and offer comfort. It seemed like a miserable fate for herself in the medical world. But, if there was a war like they all said there would be, then maybe she could make herself useful. It would be better than nothing, at least.

“I apologize, sister. I shouldn’t talk to you like you’re one of the men.”

“I rather you did, to be quite frank,” She replied. “If we have all this money and power, even if I’m a woman, I should be aware.”

The movement of the boat finally stopped, and a voice from above called out letting them know it was time to deboard. Chatter spread through the boat like wildfire, and soon it was full of the sounds of people grabbing luggage, putting on shoes, and walking towards the exit.

Hange looked at her brother, shrugged, and grabbed the smallest suitcase, knowing it would be a scandal if she grabbed one any bigger. She secured her hat with an extra pin and tucked the stray hairs back under it, smoothed her skirt, and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Finally, land!

As they walked across the dock out to the street, Moblit grinned, finally feeling some of the excited energy Hange did. “By the way Hange, I just want you to know. I respect you. But let me know if you ever want me to stop treating you like the boys.”

“Absolutely,” she replied.

A man stood in front of a car holding a piece of paper with their names on it, and in a quick few minutes, their possessions were stowed, and they were on their way to the residence that would serve them well for the next half-year.

It was a small residence by their standards, and quite small compared to the others in the area, but it would serve them well, nonetheless. The bricks had been recently cleaned and stood out deep red against the white trimming of the house, and when one looked at the shining windows, they also saw brightly colored flowerboxes underneath them. The top floor seemed to boast a large balcony spanning across the whole front of the house, and the grass was surprisingly green for mid-March.

Arriving at the front of the house, three people stood to meet them, one who was quite familiar to the brother-sister pair.

“Kenny!” Moblit shouted, rushing up to give his friend a hug. “It’s been so long!”

Kenny gave Moblit a small smile, a rarity for the man, and a surprise to Hange. “You two were just children when I last saw you. Now you’re out here looking for love.”

“Hange, you’ve gotten so tall,” he remarked. “And you are as beautiful as always. You two will have a great time here.”

“Thank you for having us, Mr. Ackerman,” Hange replied. “I can only hope I’m as beautiful as your home here.”

This earned her another smile, much to her joy. “This is but a cottage, Hange!”

It had been so long since she had seen Kenny smile. Sure, he made sure to keep in touch with the family through letters and photos, but since his sister Kuchel had died, those smiles had become few and far between. His letters never had the same kind of wry wit to them they had in previous years. Still, she knew he was capable of it. Kenny rarely took up the opportunity to make a good joke, but he could only joke if there were people around.

They chatted for a bit on the front steps there, catching up on life and musing about the weather while the two servants brought their luggage in. Finally, Kenny led them inside to the warmth of the foyer, much to the pair’s relief. The combination of the bitter British cold and them trying to get their land legs back meant that standing and chatting, while fun, was quite the chore.

“Moblit, Hange, please meet my two favorite servants. This is Connie and Sasha. If you have any needs or worries during your stay here, please call upon them. They are kind and capable,” Kenny explained as he led them up the stairs. “Hange, your room will be on the last door to the left down this hall, and Sasha’s quarters are right across from yours. There is a washroom just next door, too. Moblit, yours is the same, but down over here,” he gestured to a hall across the way. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to check up on dinner, so take your time to settle in. It should be on the table at around seven o’clock.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ackerman,” the siblings replied together. Moblit walked Hange to her room with Sasha in tow, and then departed off to his own room.

Turning the knob on the door, Hange was greeted with a surprisingly spacious, but cozy room. Deep green velvet curtains were parted to show the street and balcony outside, their tails just barely brushing the floor. The bed was large and four-poster, with curtains for privacy. Her suitcases stood in one corner next to several large wardrobes, and there was a writing desk, end table, and a couch just large enough for two to sit and have tea. The green felt warm, welcoming, and inviting.

“Miss Zoe, Master Ackerman said your favorite color was green, so you were given this room. If you don’t like it, we can always change it,” Sasha spoke up.

“No, I adore it,” Hange replied, walking over to the bed. She pulled back the curtain and flopped onto the bed, sinking into the cushy goodness that was goose down. “I absolutely adore it,” she breathed.

“Would you like me to unpack your bags, Miss Zoe?” Sasha asked, unsure of what to do with her hands.

Feeling the effects of several weeks on a boat combined with the general exhaustion of travel, Hange simply rolled over onto her stomach. “It’s quite alright, Sasha. And please, just call me Hange. Could you please loosen my stays? I’d like to take a nap.”

“With pleasure, Hange.” Sasha’s fingers were swift and adept at loosening the corset, and in no time, she had Hange tucked into bed. “Should I come to you when dinner is about ready, then?”

“Yeah, that sounds good…” Hange trailed off, already half asleep.

The stillness of the bed and dry land. Finally, maybe she could get some good sleep.

[koolkat9]

First Valentine’s Day

Paring: GerEng, implied PruIta

Rating: Teen (Just to be safe)

Word Count: 1949 

Summary: Germany and England are celebrating their first Valentine's day together. Germany who has little experience in the romance department and the haunting memory of their first date littered with mishaps is nervous, but vows to give his lover the best Valentine's Day he can.

---

"Germany you need to stop," Italy said, his usually cheery tone was replaced by one of seriousness. Germany had been pacing back and forth for the past fifteen minutes and the sight was making Italy's neck hurt. "I know it's your first Valentine's day, but you have nothing to worry about."

"What about our first-"

"That was only once. And still, he loved you regardless."

"Ja but...b-but..."

He grabbed his friend's forearms with a strength Germany never saw before. "No buts. Take a deep breath. In...Out...good."

Despite Italy's best attempt, Germany's stress was way past the point of deep breathing. He tried to smile at his friend, but even he could tell it was strained. For a week now he had been thinking of all kinds of plans for England's and his first Valentine's day together. Sure they had spent it as single friends over the past decade, but now they were lovers and that changed everything. England deserved only the best, and Germany had little to no experience with romance. While Germany began pacing again, Italy just rolled his eyes and headed to the living room to phone one of the best restaurants in Berlin and get the two love birds a reservation.

When he returned to Germany, said nation was still pacing around the room, mumbling to himself. "Dios Mio. You can relax a bit. I set up your dinner plans.

Germany halted his pacing. "Really.”

"Si, si. For six. Now come on, you still need to get him a gift."

Germany opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn't really argue. Also, one important thing was out of the way, which made him feel lighter. Before he could say anything, the beaming Italian was pulling him out the door.

---

"So you have the reservation?" Italy asked as the two sat in the car just outside of a glitzy restaurant. The only light was that from the street lamps and the restaurant itself.

"Ja...Ludwig for two at six."

"Perfect! And the gift?"

"Yes." Germany looked down at the nicely wrapped box he held in his hand.

They had spent the whole afternoon looking for something and regardless of how many little trinkets they found, none of them were fitting enough (at least according to Germany). Eventually, they came across a store that sold all sorts of glass items. He hadn't thought much of it at first, but he was desperate. He definitely hadn't expected to find a small glass figure of a bunny with eyes as green as England's and would walk away with such a gift. It seemed perfect at the time, but now he was starting to doubt that England would like it.

Italy gave him a slight pout as if he knew what Germany was thinking. "Don't start that," he warned, "just get in there and show him how much he means to you!" Germany swallowed hard. He appreciated his friend's advice and support, but no words were able to calm his beating heart or racing mind.

A knock on the window took Germany out of his thoughts as he came face to face with England. His emerald eyes sparkled under the lights and there was a small and endearing smile on his lips. Germany always found his smile beautiful and the image in front of him made him a bit calmer.

"Good evening love," he greeted, placing a kiss on Germany's cheek.

"Guten Abend." They stood awkwardly for a few moments, looking over each other shyly. England wore a nice a-line suit in dark green that complemented his eyes perfectly and his hair was more kept than usual. "Y-You look lovely," Germany eventually spoke.

The Brit's cheeks went pink at the compliment. "Thank you...so do you." He took the German's hand and began guiding him towards the entrance. "You know, you didn't have to go out like this."

"I-I know...I...I just...you deserve it."

"Oh...w-well.." for once England was at a loss for words, "l-l-let's just head in."

---

"What do you mean the reservation was for five?" Germany took in a deep breath, trying not to raise his voice at the hostess. That proved difficult however as she told them that their table had been given to another couple due to their "tardiness."

He was about to lose it until he felt a light tug on his arm. "Come on Ludwig...it's fine." England muttered. He began pulling Germany towards the door, despite his protests.

"B-But..."

"We don't need their fancy, overpriced meal," he said a bit louder this time to make sure he was heard by the staff.

"Arthur!"

"Just come on."

England didn't stop pulling until they were back outside and even then he didn't let go of Germany's arm. The cool night air against Germany's skin and a deep breath managed to cool him down and let go of his frustration. With a clear mind, he began thinking of what to do next. Italy was the one to drop him off so he didn't have a car and England flew here so he didn't have one either. He looked up and down the street trying to think of restaurants nearby that wouldn't be busy.

"I saw a bar on my way here and it didn't seem too busy, maybe we should try there," England stated, leaning into his boyfriend.

"We might as well check. I don't have any other ideas."

---

At least there was some luck on their side. The bar England had mentioned was practically empty and they got a table right in the front window. Their suits were a bit much for the venue, but they distracted themselves with conversation and their meals. Despite how awkward and frustrating the night started, everything fell into place once they were seated and catching up with each other.

As they ate and England went on about the disastrous meeting with the Commonwealth, Germany noticed that some crumbs had made their way across the Englishman's cheek. "Y-You got some..." he gestured to his own cheek. England lifted his napkin to the side of his face, just missing the spot. He tried a few more times before Germany had had enough and reached over with his napkin to wipe them away. The Brits cheeks went warm at the contact, but a small smile graced his lips as well. Germany was not so lucky however as his whole face and even his neck went bright red and his heart leapt into his throat.

"Thank you...now how has your week been?"

"W-Well..." Germany debated whether he wanted to admit he had been worrying and panicking over today, but considering how good things were going, he figured that it was best left forgotten. "Pretty good. Nothing too special though other than helping Feliciano pick out a gift Gil."

"I see. Tonight is at least eventful."

Germany gave a small chuckle, "I suppose. But anything with you is a highlight in my week."

"I-Is that so?" England's cheeks were flushed again as he reached for what to say next, "God you are too much sometimes...but I feel the same way."

     After finishing their meal, England suggested exchanging gifts. Due to Germany's nerves, England offered to go first, handing him a heart-shaped box with a lovely white ribbon. He looked away as Germany took the box. "I-I got Emma to help me get the chocolates. I-I-I hope it's to your liking."

"I'm sure they'll be wonderful." He looked down at his own gift box starting to think that maybe he should have just gotten flowers or chocolates.

"Love?" England called after a few minutes of staring at the gift.

"Uh...sorry. Here you go. Fröhlichen Valentinstag."

Germany was unsure what exactly caused him to drop the box, but somehow, while handing it over to England, it ended up on the floor and a loud crack was heard. Things became deathly silent as the two stared wide-eyed at the fallen gift.

"Lud-" before England could finish, Germany was already up and heading to the door, his fist clenched and a deep frown on his face. England quickly paid, gathered the boxes, and rushed after him. He shouted out Germany's name as he wandered the streets looking for him.

Eventually, England caught sight of the slicked-back hair of Germany across the street much to his relief. It did not last for long as he tripped while coming down off the curb and landed on his foot wrong in an attempt to stop himself. At least he got Germany's attention who was at his side in no time. He propped the Brit up into a sitting position and ran his fingers over the small scrapes on the other's face.

"Arthur. Mein Gott. Th-This is...I'm so sorry."

"It's...ah...it's fine love. I'll be good as new in a couple of hours."

"No, it's not fine. None of this night has been fine. I...I'm ruining it all. I'm sor-" he couldn't finish his sentence as a pair of lips crashed into his. The kiss made his mind blank and he found himself eagerly kissing back.

As they pulled back and Germany's brain began working again he asked softly, "can you walk?"

"I don't think so."

"I'll carry you."

"W-Wait Ger-" Ignoring the Brit's sputtering, Germany hoisted the other man onto his back. All England could do was grab onto his partner's shoulders and bury his burning face into the crook of Germany's neck.

"I'm sorry for a mess of the night," Germany apologized again.

"No, no, no. You have nothing to apologize for. Lady luck just isn't on our side. Plus...I still had a good time at the bar."

"M-Me too. And I'll replace your gift. It's probably even more broken from that fall."

"Yeah...you don't have to though."

"I can't just not get you a gift for Valentine's day. And don't you start arguing with me over such matter." England sighed and buried his face once more into Germany's neck in compliance.

---

As soon as they returned to Germany's home, England was laid on the couch with his injured foot and Germany went into the kitchen for ice.

"Can I get you anything else?" Germany asked after he situated the ice just right. Before getting up, he pecked the other's ankle for good measure.

"Well, there is one thing." England gave him a smirk as he gestured for the German to come over to which Germany did with a cocked eyebrow. Before he could say anything, he was pulled down into a long, slow kiss. He hummed into it as he moved his lips to match England's. They eventually (and reluctantly) had to break for air, but England's hold on Germany kept them close.

"Anything else?" Germany murmured, placing a light kiss on England's ear.

"Can I see the gift you were going to get me?"

"Nein, you will have to wait for tomorrow."

"Bu-" In a similar way that England did this evening, Germany pressed his lips against England to silence him.

"I'll get the same thing, I just have to run to the store again tomorrow."

"Fine. Chocolate?"

"I'd love that."

And so, the two lovers shared the chocolates as they sat back and watched some cheesy romance film that was playing on the T.V. Eventually, England snuggled into Germany's side and closed his eyes, content to fall asleep right there. Usually, Germany would protest such actions, but it was Valentine's Day and England's sleeping face looked so soft and peaceful so he let it happen. Soon enough Germany also dozed off, leaning his head Against England's.  

Translations:

Guten Abend= Good evening

Fröhlichen Valentinstag= Happy Valentine's Day

[vannahfanfics]

Before you read, here’s the previous chapter. New? Start from the beginning!

Daffodils Bloom After Winter

Ao3

Chapter 9: The Lowest of Lows

The window looked like a waterfall as the rain streamed down the glass. The light played across the water, painting ribbons of white over Shikadai’s face as he gazed out. He’d hoped after the small sprinkle the other day that the weather would improve, but it had only grown worse. Now, a torrent poured from the sky, and thunder rumbled in the thick gray clouds. 

I don’t want to go home, but it’s getting late, Shikadai thought with a small groan and cast a glance at the clock hanging on the wall. The minute hand was inching closer and closer to six p.m. He certainly didn’t want to trudge home in the rain and the dark. However, whenever thunderstorms choked the sky, his father’s mood plummeted to all-time lows. He’d be despondent, irritable, and maybe even delusional. Shikadai had borne witness to more hallucination fits than he would’ve liked. 

Ino would let him stay the night if he asked. He knew that by the way she was staring at him, pretending to lock down the register to finish closing up the shop. He’d done it more than once. 

But… It would make Miss Ayumi happy if I worked on my relationship with him, Shikadai thought with a frown. He couldn’t avoid his father forever, and though there were good days and bad days, things were getting better overall. She would say that it’s important to be there for him in his hard times. He knew that, but still… The idea of going home to his father when he was probably in a near-manic state made him a bit nauseous. 

His eyes wandered around the shop instead, never settling on the colorful blooms Ino so dutifully tended until he spotted one nestled between two large bouquets. He could just barely see it, a hint of bright yellow between deep green. He walked over to the shelf and pushed the larger pots aside to reveal a single potted daffodil. He picked it up, tilting his head as he inspected the strange-looking flower. Despite its funny, trumpet-like appearance, he rather liked it. 

“Ah, found that one, did you?” he heard Ino hum in amusement over his shoulder, and he turned to see her standing beside him, dusting the last bit of soil from her apron before untying it. “A strange one, that little flower. Daffodils normally bloom in autumn, yet there’s this guy, flowering in summer.” 

Shikadai looked back to the daffodil, then smiled. Going against the grain, trying to get a head start on life, huh? he fancied. “Would you like it?” Ino asked him suddenly, and he looked up at her again. “I probably won’t be able to sell it. It’s really quite small, and out of season, at that. You can have it if you want.” 

“I don’t want it, but… Miss Ayumi loves plants. I bet she would like it.” 

“I bet she would,” Ino smiled and patted the top of his head. He hugged the daffodil close to his body and took a deep breath; it felt like the strength of that flower to bloom also gave him the strength to face his father’s undoubtedly bad mood. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Ino pressed when he turned back towards the door, and he shook his head with a grateful smile. 

“No. I know how Dad gets when it storms like this… The least I can do is be there for him.” 

“You’re really growing up,” Ino sighed as if he were her own child. With as much time he’d spent here in the last year, he supposed that it was warranted. She played with his shirt, as if trying to bundle him up against the cold. “Ayumi would be proud to hear you say that.” He swelled with pride at her words, which made Ino’s smile soften. “I’m glad she’s there to support you. She’s a wonderful person.” 

“Yeah, she really is,” he agreed with a look at the daffodil. “She’s helped me a lot… I hope she can help Dad, too.” 

“She will,” she encouraged. “Your father just needs time. With the both of you supporting him, I think Shikamaru will finally be able to heal.” Shikadai sure hoped so because if Ayumi couldn’t fix him, he doubted that anything could. 

Ino sent him off with one of Inojin’s rain jackets, though he insisted he was all right with just his umbrella. He ended up being grateful for it, for the wind whipped the rain up in splattering gales that not even his umbrella could protect him from. He sheltered the daffodil under the rubbery protection of his raincoat while he splashed quickly through the sodden streets, mud spattering up his legs despite his best attempts to avoid the deep puddles. He was a right soaking-wet mess by the time he arrived home, but he was delighted to see that his daffodil had escaped the worst of it, only dusted with a thin layer of dewdrop mist. 

The wind rattled the front door, like an ominous omen that a beast prowled within. Shikadai stared at it for several moments, but when the wind howled furiously behind him, he forced himself to step inside lest he drown in the buckets of rain. Holding the daffodil to his chest like a lifeline, he cautiously edged through the gloom of the house toward the living room. He could hear his father’s feverish footsteps echoing in the shadows. 

Shikadai found his father circling the couch, his face pale and sweaty. Round and round like a feral beast he paced the floor until the thunder rolled overhead, when he stopped and flinched down with a gasp. After a second of trembling and staring at a vision Shikadai couldn’t see, he would resume his endless commute. Mumbles tumbled from his lips, and amidst the inane babble, Shikdai heard his mother’s name more than once. 

“Father?” he called in a gentle voice. He knew better than to startle Shikamaru when he was like this. Once, in his delirium, he’d mistaken his son as an enemy ninja and sprang on him. It took far too long for Shikadai’s screams and sobs to reach his ears. He’d had to wear turtlenecks for a week to hide the finger-shaped bruises on his neck, and even longer for Shikadai not to look at him in fear. 

Shikadai didn’t fear his father anymore. He pitied him, and he missed him, missed the way he used to be and used to smile. 

Shikamaru twitched, an action that made Shikadai reflexively take a few steps back. However, when Shikamaru looked at him, he didn’t see the feral flash of hatred, but the tired gaze of a begrieved man. 

“You’re home,” he croaked, and Shikadai just nodded. “... I”m surprised,” he admitted while casting a gaze to the window, watching the rain beat against the glass. The wind rattled the pane, shaking it in the wall to fill the air with an ominous clattering. 

Shikadai swallowed before replying, “I… I didn’t want you to be alone, Father.” 

Shikamaru cast his gaze to the floor. His shadow was swallowed up by the gloom of the room— that is, until the lightning flashed fiercely outside, throwing light across the room. Shikamaru’s shadow cowered with him, and when the thunder finished rumbling, Shikamaru was pressing the heel of his hand into his eye with a grimace. 

“You’re better off somewhere else, or at least out of my sight,” he grumbled. Shikadai knew that the words came from a place of worry, not of hatred, but he still cringed at them. “It’s not safe… when I’m like this.” As if to prove it, the sky rumbled furiously again; Shikamaru roared and whipped around, flinging a kunai knife through the window. Shikdai screamed as the glass shattered. The wind leaped in through the jagged hole in the glass, bringing the rain with it. They both just stared at the rapidly-growing puddle of water on the wood. 

It was frightening. It always was, seeing his father struggle to hang on to his sanity as the thunderstorm raged overhead. Even so… Shikadai had to support him. That was what family was supposed to do— support one another through their lowest of lows. 

“Father, I don’t want to run away anymore,” Shikadai insisted, squeezing the potted daffodil under his raincoat. “If we’re going to get through this, we have to be there for each other. I know that’s what Miss Ayumi is trying—” 

“Ayumi isn’t a replacement for your mother, Shikadai!” 

Shikamaru suddenly whipped around, and Shikadai’s strength was sucked from his body, bringing him to his knees in an instant. He had never seen such a look of ferocity in his eyes, even in his psychotic fits. Shikadai began to fiercely quake, every inch of his body shaking like he was suffering an awful chill— and he was, the cold pit of dread spreading from his belly to taint every nerve within him. 

He was scared. He was so scared. He didn’t want his father to look like that. He was scared, and he had nobody to hold him, nobody to tell him why his father just wouldn’t listen, nobody to explain that Shikamaru was just as scared as he was.

Somehow, Shikadai managed to whisper, “I didn’t say that she was.” 

Shikamaru blinked, and the fire in his eyes dwindled, settling back to those dead coals of despair. As if released by a spell, Shikadai lurched over, huddling over the daffodil with his belly roiling so much that he gagged a little, on the verge of retching. He managed to swallow the urge, though, and then the tears came. Bitter tears, frustrated tears, angry tears all in rapid succession— they puddled with the rainwater beneath him, swirling together into a salty mess. Just like his family, a mess. 

“I just want you to get better,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He wasn’t even sure if Shikamaru could hear him, but he said it anyway. “I just want… I don’t want to see you suffer anymore.” He was yelling now, whipping up his head to shout through the tears and snot running rivers down his face. “I can’t live like this anymore, Dad! I won’t! I don’t care what it takes! I don’t care how many times you yell at me, or grab me, or shake me, or even choke me! I’m not goin’ anywhere, so stop trying to push me away!” 

Shikamaru stared at him. His eyes were wide onyxes in his pale face, but he didn’t say anything— he just stared. Agonized, Shikadai clenched his fists against the wood. 

“For better or for worse, all we have is each other,” he said, voice cracking with a sob. “That’s all we’ve got, and I’m not letting go of that. So you sit here and sulk all ya want, Dad. I’m going to my room.” He pushed himself to his feet, gathered up the daffodil, and stomped off down the hallway while furiously scrubbing the tears from his face. Yet like the rain outside, they kept pouring.

As soon as Shikadai slammed the door shut behind it, he collapsed back against it, sinking down to a sitting position. He hugged the daffodil to his chest as he cried, and his father’s words echoed in his head. 

“Ayumi isn’t a replacement for your mother, Shikadai!” 

Of course she wasn’t. Nothing could ever replace his bright, beautiful mom. But that didn’t mean that someone couldn’t fill the void, right? Isn’t that what she would want? For someone to take care of them, to love them as she would, to bring happiness and light back into this broken home? 

He wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe so badly that’s what his mother wanted. He wanted to believe that she guided Ayumi to them because she couldn’t bear to see them suffer anymore, couldn’t bear to watch the family she loved so much torn apart by her overwhelming absence. 

Sobs bordering on wails echoed through Shikadai’s room as he howled with the wind, thick globs of tears pouring down his face to splash down onto the daffodil’s yellow petals. And as he cracked his eyes open, looking at the colors of the daffodil kaleidoscoping in his watery vision, he was overwhelmed by a simple desire: Ayumi.

She couldn’t replace his mother, but she could hold him, she could comfort him, she could weather him through this terrible storm. And so he found himself wrenching open his window to climb out onto the muddied yard, mud splashing up his legs as he ran back out onto the street with the daffodil clutched to his chest. He squinted against the sheets of pounding rain and the water pouring down his forehead into his eyes. With the road beginning to flood, forming a swampy network of puddles, he didn’t see the rock sticking up from the muck until it was too late. 

It collided with his toe and he fell right over it, flinging the pot several yards in front of him. He landed on his hands and knees, mud splashing up all over his front and into his face. He spit the disgusting stuff out of his mouth, coughing, and then looked up with a gasp. There in the middle of the street, the pot lay broken in two, and the torrential rain had washed all the soil away. Shikadai scrambled to get up, feet slipping and sliding in the mud for several seconds before the soles of his shoes finally gained traction. He plucked the daffodil just as it started to be swept away into a stream, and he cradled its limp form gently in his hands. 

“No,” he whispered brokenly. Was he destined to be this daffodil, swept away in these never-ending storms of sadness? No, that couldn’t be, he wouldn’t let it be! All he needed was someone to pot him again, to tend to him and give him gentle love and care— and he knew where to find that. Holding the daffodil close, he took off running again. 

The storm had reached its peak by the time Shikadai made it to Ayumi’s house. The sky was drenching the earth with a vendetta; the sheets of rain were so thick that Shikadai could hardly see two feet in front of him, and the howling gales buffeted him at every turn, making him unsteady on his feet. He half-ran, half-slid across Ayumi’s yard to stumble up onto his porch, where he collapsed into a heap, panting heavily. 

The cold rain had drenched him down to his very cells, it felt like. He was shivering again, feeling like frost was growing in his bones. Still, he summoned up the strength to rap his knuckles against the door. Then that strength gave out, and he flopped down on his side. He curled up around the daffodil, sheltering it from the cold rain with his dwindling body heat. He stroked a finger over one of its dewy petals, watching the yellow blur with his fading vision until it was all just gray-white nothingness. 

“I just want us to get better.”

Enjoy this story? Here’s the next chapter! Please consider perusing my Table of Contents.

[imaginaryelle]

Thanks to @morphia-writes​ for beta help, and to @miyuki4s for all the brainstorming help that went into this chapter!

An excerpt:

There are some things Lan Wangji cannot doubt: Wei Ying’s love for his sister, and her children. His affection for Jiang Wanyin, and the Wens. His dedication to ensuring that Lan Wangji himself does not succumb to the curse he carries.

Every evening, he creates a fresh talisman to replaces the one on Lan Wangji’s arm. He brews one of three different medicinal teas from Wen Qing, in sequence, and serves it, sometimes drinking a portion or two himself. He invites Lan Wangji to play Rest as a duet for the suppressed, resentful souls they carry, and then other, less spiritually charged music, and asks after his core, after their evening meditations.

Every morning, Lan Wangji takes longer than he needs to to comb his hair, and tie it up, and dress. Wei Ying looks younger in the diffused dawnlight inside the tent. Softer, sprawled carelessly under blankets with his sleep robe twisted out of place to reveal the hollow of his elbow and the line of his collar bones.

It’s an indulgence Lan Wangji shouldn’t permit himself. A few moments, watching Wei Ying breathe and concentrating on the steady warmth of the soulbond under his own skin.

Read on tumblr under the cut!

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 |

*

It takes more than one day for a sect leader to prepare for the sort of journey they’re planning. Not because of the journey itself, Wei Ying is quick to point out, but because of all the things he has to make sure are done beforehand.

“Wen Qing is locking me in my study today,” he says over breakfast on the first day, “but Sizhui, Xiuying and Weixin are meeting with a tailor for new clothes and you should go.”

As he has been wearing borrowed or stolen clothes for several days now, Lan Wangji cannot bring himself to protest. He has no desire to wear extra infirmary underlayers while traveling, and the plain black outer layer Wen Qionglin had brought to his door was clearly intended to fit as many people as possible. Commissioning something new, or at least something altered to fit properly, is only reasonable.

Wei Ying insists that he’s already paid for the service, which Lan Wangji can only thank him for; he has no funds of his own, or reputation to call on.

“Get something you like,” Wei Ying tells him, even as Wen Qing looms over his shoulder. “Anything you want is fine.”

Lan Wangji assumes this event will take place within Yiling-Wei’s walls, as was generally the case in Cloud Recesses, but instead he finds himself following Wen Sizhui, Zhou Xiuying and Liu Weixin through a town that looks much more prosperous than the Yiling he visited thirteen years ago, and is almost certainly louder and more crowded than he remembers.

That impression may be influenced by his company. Certainly he had felt there were entirely too many people in the street when he was surrounded by onlookers with a toddler clutching at his leg, but if anything their small group draws even more attention now.

Everyone seems to know Wen Sizhui. There are street hawkers and shop owners who greet him by name, and press freshly steamed baozi and sticks of hawthorn candy into his hands, and it is clear from their comments that the townspeople of Yiling are close to their Sect in a way that is certainly not true of Cloud Recesses and Caiyi, or Jinlingtai and Lanling. One merchant is so insistent on thanking them for some past service that all four of them end up holding packages of lotus root, despite the fact that Lan Wangji can have had nothing to do with solving the woman’s problems.

The pattern continues inside the tailor’s shop—the young Wei cultivators are being fitted with new black outer yi and trousers designed to the Jiang Clan’s specifications for the upcoming archery tournament, but they are all clearly well-known to the staff. And Lan Wangji has come with the Sect Leader’s express instructions. And also the offer of his purse.

“Wei-zongzhu said you might prefer these,” one of the tailor’s assistants says, his hands full of fine-woven cream and blue fabrics, “but we do have other colors, of course.”

None of the fabrics on display are the shining, pure white of Gusu-Lan, but there is sun-bleached silk and cloud-white cotton and pale wool woven thinner than paper. It doesn’t seem to matter what he says, or how he responds: he is fussed over, and measured, and prodded. Silk and wool and brocade are draped over his shoulders and held up to his face for comparisons of shade and texture, and he leaves the shop—it is much later in the afternoon than he expected—with the black robe he arrived in newly altered and a sash of summerweight wool dyed the blue of a pale spring morning tied around his waist. Travel clothes, he is assured, will be delivered in the next few days.

He could not bring himself to commission a forehead ribbon, in any color; he is already quite certain these new robes will exceed any budget or social standing Liang Feihong could expect to claim. Wei Ying seems unconcerned.

“It’s a gift,” he insists after dinner. “Besides, you’re still a cultivator, and you’re traveling with a sect leader. It’d be weird if you looked like a fisherman.”

Lan Wangji is certain there are several measures of difference between the dress of a fisherman, a rogue cultivator, and the fabrics that were held before his face today.

“Look at this map with me,” Wei Ying says, the topic apparently closed. “I’m trying to figure out which roads are least likely to be blocked by mudslides. Wen Qing says if I get on a boat during the spring rains she’ll kill me now to save herself the trouble of burying me later.”

Lan Wangji may not have any formal responsibilities at Yiling-Wei, but Wen Qing makes it clear that she expects marked improvement in his spiritual power before he leaves her area of influence. He is given a list of meditation exercises and a schedule of daily training sessions for sword and unarmed work with her apprentices on hand to monitor his condition.

This is not a hardship. He had already planned to dedicate most of his time to this task, and the Wei cultivators have a unique style—not quite Yunmeng-Jiang, but not Qishan-Wen either. Wei Ying, of course, is the most practiced in it, and his version does not even involve a sword; Suibian is distinctly absent from their training sessions, but this does not seem to affect Wei Ying’s efficacy. Twice Lan Wangji is not fast enough to avoid the touch of a talisman to his shoulder, or his core.

He takes no actual damage from them—Wei Ying is careful in his craft, and these were written specifically for this purpose, but the failure drives him to train harder, even against other sparring opponents, until whatever apprentice is observing him steps in and orders a rest.

He spends this enforced downtime reading theory texts from Wen Qing’s library or at his guqin, picking out simple practice scores and more complex Lan melodies in the hope of re-training both his fingers and his core in the delicate language required for performing Inquiry. He works outside, in the scattered gardens, whenever the weather allows. A few hours spent alone in his shuttered room during a sudden storm proves detrimental to his focus, no matter how many handstands he does, or what other meditation techniques he tries. It is better to be out in the open air, where he can breathe more easily.

“Lan Zhan!” On the afternoon of the third day Wei Ying leans around the mulberry tree on the other side of a plot dedicated largely to cooking herbs. He looks around as if he thinks they’re being watched, and then all but runs over to crouch next to Lan Wangji. “I want to show you something,” he whispers. He tugs on Lan Wangji’s sleeve. “Come on, quick!”

“Something” turns out to be the paddock, where a 2-day-old foal is taking in the outside world for the first time under his mother’s watchful eyes. Wei Ying drapes himself over the fence and watches them both with a rapt expression Lan Wangji has never seen him wear before. Zhou Xiuying is also in attendance, alongside her wife—Feng Xinyi—who he learns is the one of the Wei Sect’s grooms.

“Xiaoying and Heitu are just one pasture over, if you wanted to meet them,” she says, which is how Lan Wangji learns that Wei Ying intends to travel by mule.

“Do you know how hard it is to feed a horse?” he says as they walk through tall grass flushed green with the rains. “Have you ever tried to train a horse for night hunting? In a Yunmeng summer? The heat is terrible for them. I think the only reason Jiang Cheng still has horses is his grandmother sent a whole caravan of grooms and breeding stock from Meishan when the war ended.” He produces two apples from his sleeve and holds one out to the nearest mule and the other to Lan Wangji. “Mules are better,” he says, his tone flippant as he pets Xiaoying’s long nose. “And almost as impressive.”

Xiaoying and Heitu are undeniably beautiful animals; good conformation, clearly healthy, and their dark bay coats shine red in the sunlight. And Lan Wangji knows that he will not be able to travel by sword for some time yet. Not alone. He cannot expect Wei Ying to transport them both, and walking will be too slow. Riding makes sense.

“Little Shadow?” he asks, of Wei Ying’s mount. “And … Black Rabbit?” They are hardly the sorts of names he is accustomed to hearing for a cultivator’s steed. There is little sense of speed, or power, or even luck in these names. Wei Ying shrugs.

“Xiaoying used to lie in the grass and pretend to be dead. Sizhui tripped over her all the time, and then she’d follow him for hours. And Heitu likes to jump, she hopped all over the place as a filly--ah! Lan Zhan!” He grins, gleeful, mischief in his face. “Do you remember the rabbits I gave you, all those years ago? And now I can give you another one! A bigger one!” Wei Ying laughs, just as he had laughed in Cloud Recesses, depositing two rabbits on the floor of the library, some sort of gift and joke and torment all in one, Lan Wangji had been sure.

Lan Wangji hadn’t known what to do then, with the boy who refused to leave him alone, who insisted on teasing him at every opportunity. Now, he stares at Wei Ying’s hands, at long sleeves pulled back to reveal his wrists, at his lips, and he knows what he wants to do.

He steps closer to Heitu, offers her his hands in a bowl instead of reaching out beyond her.

“I remember,” he says. It’s possible that his brother allowed his pets to stay, after his death.

Unlikely. But possible.

Heitu snuffles at his hands, all warm breath and soft nose in a way that is, in some small semblance, reminiscent of the soft warmth of his rabbits. She bears nothing like their fragility, but she takes the apple he offers delicately, and he keeps his fingers well clear of her teeth. Wei Ying strokes Xiaoying’s face and talks sweetly at her until she takes his sleeve in her mouth, at which point he switches over to annoyed admonishments. Lan Wangji has just stepped nearer to help him when Wen Qionglin appears at Wei Ying’s shoulder.

“Qing-jie wants to know if you finished that letter to Ouyang-zongzhu yet,” he says.

Wei Ying jerks, and there’s a sound of tearing cloth. He sighs.

“Feng-shimei told you to stop keeping food in your sleeves,” Wen Qionglin notes, even as he distracts Xiaoying with a hand on her neck. She drops Wei Ying’s sleeve and nudges her nose into Wen Qionglin’s chest. Both animals seem accustomed to his presence.

“I took it out as soon as we got here,” Wei Ying grumbles. “I wouldn’t have torn anything if I wasn’t surprised.” He sticks his fingers through the tear in his sleeve and wiggles them. The look on his face can only be described as a pout.

“I can fix it for you—” Wen Qionglin actually looks worried. Wei Ying just sighs and flaps his sleeve.

“I’ll fix it,” he says. “Why should you fix it? It’s fine.” He frowns at Xiaoying for a moment, then leans into Lan Wangji’s shoulder.

“I really can’t recommend becoming a sect leader,” he says, low-voiced, as if this will affect Wen Qionglin’s hearing. “The number of letters you have to respond to is too much work. I don’t think Ouyang-zongzhu even reads them, he just sends some new complaint every few weeks, as if I can control the weather, or the river, or how sleepy his cultivators get when they’re on tower duty.”

Lan Wangji has never heard his brother or his uncle make similar complaints, but they are Lans; they would not say such a thing even if it were true.

“Did you not choose the position?” he asks.

Wei Ying’s face scrunches up with displeasure. He shakes his head, though whether it is denial or dismissal is impossible to determine.

“I better get back to it,” he says instead of answering the question. “Before Wen Qing tells the kitchens to put radish in my food again.”

He sighs, and waves aside Lan Wangji’s bow. “I’ll see you both at dinner,” he says, and Wen Qionglin nods. Lan Wangji watches Wei Ying walk back up the hill towards the main compound until Heitu seems to take offense to his distraction and knocks her head against his shoulder, huffing at him.

“Does Liang-gongzi know how to ride?” Wen Qionglin asks. It’s a fair question: Lan Wangji does not actually know if Liang Feihong was trained in riding. He prevaricates. What is true for him is just as likely to be true for Liang Feihong as not.

“It has been a long time.”

“Would you like to practice?” Wen Qionglin asks, and Lan Wangji agrees without hesitation. Practice, and especially practice in caring for his mount without servants to help, can only improve the upcoming journey.

Wen Qionglin shows him to the tack room, and he manages to brush and saddle Heitu with a minimum of fuss. The main difference between outfitting a horse and a mule, he finds, is that Heitu’s tack includes two belly cinches, there is an extra strap that goes under her tail to stop the saddle moving too far forward, and he has to be especially gentle with her long ears while placing the bridle. Xiaoying is the more mischievous of the pair, Wen Qionglin tells him, and has to be watched carefully so she doesn’t puff out her stomach and make the cinches too loose.

Riding is initially awkward, but after a few slow circuits of the paddock he finds his seat and is able to push Heitu faster without losing his balance too badly. She takes direction well, has a steady, comfortable gait, and doesn’t startle as easily as some horses he’s ridden. He will almost certainly be sore later, especially without a dependable supply of spiritual power to speed healing, but the wind in his face and the simple pleasures of riding are more than worth that discomfort. He turns back toward the stables when they have both worked up a light sweat and sees Feng Xinyi speaking with Wen Qionglin. She smiles as he approaches, but doesn’t stay.

“I should get back to the little one,” she says. “But I’m glad to know Heitu will have a rider who knows what he’s doing.”

Wen Qionglin leads Heitu to a water trough and pets her cheek until Feng Xinyi is out of earshot.

“Wei-zongzhu trusts you,” he says. As if this is a fact.

Lan Wangji stares back at him. Wen Qionglin does not breathe, and he does not blink. He stands perfectly, unnaturally still, and waits. Apparently some response is required.

He settles on, “I trust him, also.”

Wen Qionglin watches him for a moment longer, and then nods. Then he says, “If he truly needs help, I will know. No matter where he is. And I am very fast.”

Oh.

This is probably intended as a threat.

Lan Wangji slides off Heitu’s back, so that they are eye to eye.

“I mean him no harm,” he says. In his current state of spiritual power it’s almost reassuring to know that someone else is concerned for Wei Ying's welfare. It should not be at all surprising, but he finds he is often surprised by Wen Qionglin, who has continued to move and talk and physically reside with his family for over a decade when everything Lan Wangji has been taught says he should not even exist.

Those same teachings would object to his own new existence as well; they are, both of them, supposed to be long dead.

“I will not let him come to harm,” he says, “if I can help it.”

He worries for a moment that this will be too revealing, but Wen Qionglin does not question him further. Perhaps he doesn’t need to. They are both well aware of the loyalty Wei Ying can inspire, under the right circumstances.

“I will show you where to find the saddle bags and travel rations,” Wen Qionglin decides, and he doesn’t speak of anything but Xiaoying and Heitu’s care and habits for the rest of the afternoon.

The evening before their planned departure, Wen Qing summons Lan Wangji once more to her study. Wei Ying arrives partway through her examination of his meridians and, surprisingly, sits quietly beside her desk until she’s finished. When she nods he joins them both behind the privacy screen and produces two cloth-wrapped packages—in one, two coiled lengths of red silk string, and in the other a pale jade carving of an endless panchang knot.

“Our hope is to give your spiritual power a new path through your meridians,” Wen Qing tells him as she inspects the strings. “One that minimizes the curse’s influence.” She blocks the meridians at his shoulder with her needles, and then ties one string to his arm, above the curse mark, and the other below it, each secured with a cloverleaf knot and sealed with a touch of spiritual power.

Wei Ying leans in close and presses two fingers to the talisman over the curse mark, but doesn’t touch either the silk or the jade. He keeps his silence. Lan Wangji watches his face and cannot read his thoughts.

“Just making sure this doesn’t interrupt us,” he says when he sees Lan Wangji watching. He holds up a second talisman in his other hand. “Wouldn’t want to have to start over in the middle.”

It’s a reasonable precaution: Tying the new charm is a long process, a progression of knots that covers most of his forearm. The jade panchang knot is tied in just above the curse mark, and another panchang knot of red silk tied below the wound. Wen Qing and Wei Ying both study it closely, and then she removes her needles and takes his wrist again, walking him through a slow meditation, cycling spiritual power through his body.

The flow of power is smoother, though it does perhaps take a little more time than he expects.

Wei Ying removes his fingers with a nod and a sigh. Wen Qing smiles, satisfied.

“The talisman will still need to be reapplied regularly,” she says, “but these charms together should be enough to minimize the curse’s effect on your meridians, so your core can begin to heal.”

It has already begun. He can feel the difference.

“Thank you.” The words seem inadequate, but he has little else to offer. Even this, she waves aside.

“I’m sure you don’t need my guidance for the proper exercises, but I do have many more theory texts, if you wish to read them.”

“We can bring some along,” Wei Ying promises. “Most of the best ones, we have more than one copy.”

Lan Wangji thinks of the library—of the many books that bear the same hand. Some copied by Wen Qing. Some by Wei Ying. Others in a clear, steady hand he doesn’t recognize. Of the single bound copy of the Lan Clan rules he’d found next to a copy of the Wen principles, and the books that he doubts his brother knows exist, copies of texts that were available to guest disciples studying at Cloud Recesses.

He wonders if his brother knew, when he was rebuilding the Library Pavilion, just how exact Wei Ying’s memory can be.

“Thank you,” he says again.

“Get some sleep,” Wen Qing says. “Both of you.” She stares hard at Wei Ying. “I’m not going to be the one dragging you out of your rooms in the morning. It’s no matter to me if you miss traveling during the coolest part of the day.”

Traveling with Wei Ying, and only with Wei Ying, is different from traveling alone, or with other Lan disciples, and different again from his memories of travel during the Sunshot Campaign. Then, Wei Ying had shifted through moods like ripples in water, sometimes predictable but more often not. A laugh like a clash of swords, a glare that pierced like needles. More than once Lan Wangji had found him alone but for the poor company the dead might provide, brooding under a shadow that seemed to cling to him even on the clearest of days. And then he would turn and ask if Lan Wangji knew this or that song, or if he wanted to spar, or if he’d eaten because surely it must be time for the next meal by now, and Lan Wangji would push aside his concern until hours later, when Wei Ying was just as likely to pull a prank as get in a fight with an ally. A fight with Lan Wangji himself, more often than not.

But that was the war. Decades ago, now, for everyone but Lan Wangji himself.

Now, Wei Ying laughs with more humor, and the cant of his eyes is merely sly rather than cutting. He grumbles through his breakfast and morning tea. He bickers with Xiaoying while saddling her and slouches through the morning hours until some unknown precondition is met, and then he begins talking aloud about whatever is on his mind at the moment: the weather, which continues to be wet, with cool mornings and steamy afternoons, or theories on their two investigations, or tales of past night hunts, which quickly shift into stories of Wen Sizhui, or Jiang Wanyin and Jin Rulan, and from there to the other members of Yiling-Wei, and Yunmeng-Jiang, and Lanling-Jin. Once, when they stop and take shelter under a half-repaired watchtower to wait out a storm, Wei Ying says, “Ah, Lan Zhan, do you remember that week we had rain every day, in Gusu?” and he speaks of Lan Xichen, and the Lan Sect, and what little he knows of its current status.

Cloud Recesses has been rebuilt, reportedly exactly as it was before the Wens attacked. Lan Qiren still teaches, and Lan Wangji feels a swell of relief to know his uncle still breathes. The Sect still hosts a year-long seminar for young disciples of any sect, every few years. Wen Sizhui, Liu Weixin and Zhou Xiuying have attended it, and returned with reports of young Lan cultivators who Wen Sizhui described as friendly, Liu Weixin called unbearably rigid, and Zhou Xiuying pronounced worthy sparring opponents. Lan Xichen has, unsurprisingly, built a widely-spoken reputation for even-mindedness that Lan Wangji knows he himself could never hope to match.

There is no bitterness to any of Wei Ying’s tales. No mention of hardship or enmity, over a span of more than a decade that Lan Wangji knows cannot have been easy, especially near its start. But then, Lan Wangji has long known that Wei Ying lies more easily than he tells the truth, omits more than he ever says openly. Even when he was living among the Mass Graves, quite obviously short on food, the only hardship Wei Ying would admit to was a lack of visitors, and news.

Still, there are some things he cannot doubt: Wei Ying’s love for his sister, and her children. His affection for Jiang Wanyin, and the Wens. His dedication to ensuring that Lan Wangji himself does not succumb to the curse he carries.

Every evening, he creates a fresh talisman to replaces the one on Lan Wangji’s arm. He brews one of three different medicinal teas from Wen Qing, in sequence, and serves it, sometimes drinking a portion or two himself. He invites Lan Wangji to play Rest as a duet for the suppressed, resentful souls they carry, and then other, less spiritually charged music, and asks after his core, after their evening meditations.

Every morning, Lan Wangji takes longer than he needs to to comb his hair, and tie it up, and dress. Wei Ying looks younger in the diffused dawnlight inside the tent. Softer, sprawled carelessly under blankets with his sleep robe twisted out of place to reveal the hollow of his elbow and the line of his collar bones.

It’s an indulgence Lan Wangji shouldn’t permit himself. A few moments, watching Wei Ying breathe and concentrating on the steady warmth of the soulbond under his own skin.

He turns away. Steps outside. Rekindles the fire for breakfast.

During the long afternoon of the fourth day, after they have shared a quick lunch beside a clear-flowing stream and are letting Xiaoying and Heitu forage their own meal, Wei Ying draws out Chenqing and plays songs that seem to be purely for personal entertainment; there is no spiritual power behind them at all. Some, Lan Wangji recognizes as common to drinking houses and inns. Others he doesn’t recognize at all. He is considering unwrapping the guqin when Wei Ying’s somewhat random little melodies turn suddenly familiar.

Not just familiar.

Every note is etched into Lan Wangji’s soul.

Wei Ying catches him staring. He’s not certain what expression his own face is making, but Wei Ying looks suddenly defensive. His hands drop to his lap, wrapping around Chenqing as if Lan Wangji will try to tear the flute away from him.

“What?”

“You remember.” Lan Wangji shouldn’t be surprised—Wei Ying has remembered enough of his brief time at Cloud Recesses to reproduce the Lan Sect’s rules and three different treatises, and that’s only what Lan Wangji found. But it had been only once, in the Xuanwu’s cave. That song has only ever had an audience of one.

Wei Ying frowns at him.

“What ...” his eyebrows rise high on his forehead, his mouth forming a perfect circle. “Lan Zhan.” He leans forward, suddenly eager. “Lan Zhan, you know this song?”

Of course he knows it. How could he not?

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying continues. “No one knows this song. How do you know it? Is it a Lan Clan song? What’s its name?”

Words stick in Lan Wangji’s throat. Wei Ying doesn’t remember. Not really. He looks away. At the play of light on water. The swirl of shadowy fish, underneath.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says again, moving closer. “I can never remember where I heard it, and no one ever recognizes it. How do you know it?”

No one ever recognizes it, he says. Which means Wei Ying has been playing it. For other people. For thirteen years. And he doesn’t know.

Lan Wangji swallows back his foolish hopes. The words he might have said.

“I wrote it,” he admits, to the low rush of the spring and the whisper of reeds in the light breeze.

“What?”

When he risks a glance back, Wei Ying is staring. He looks utterly shocked.

“What do you mean, you wrote it?”

Lan Wangji does not want to have this conversation. Not now. Not if Wei Ying doesn’t remember something so important.

At least, it had been important to Lan Wangji.

“We should keep moving,” he says, and stands. Heitu is drinking from the stream, but she only flicks her ears when he touches her shoulder, and doesn’t offer any more protest than a shift of her weight as he unties her hobble and mounts.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying is frowning at him.

“We are wasting daylight,” Lan Wangji tells him. It’s true enough. This break is no shorter than any other.

Wei Ying grumbles. Retrieves his things.

“What’s its name?” he asks as he settles on Xiaoying.

I have already told you. Lan Wangji locks the words behind his teeth. Wei Ying does not speak of the soul bond, never broaches the topic of their battle with the Xuanwu or anything else from their lives that occurred after he left Cloud Recesses months before any other disciple, does not remember this, despite Lan Wangji telling him, despite his clear memory of the music itself and his perfect recall of texts long burnt to ashes.

“Think about it.” He says instead, and urges Heitu into a quicker pace, too fast for easy conversation.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying calls after him, but Lan Wangji does not look back.

When Wei Ying catches up he speaks of other things, and does not mention the song again.

Notes:        

For the curious, Xiaoying and Heitu are named as references to famous horses from Romance of the Three Kingdoms. 絶影 (sometimes translated as "Suppressing Shadow" or "Shadow Runner") was one of the horses of Cao Cao, head of the state of Wei. He famously kept running despite taking three arrows, and thus saved his rider from enemies. 赤兔 (Red Hare) was described as "the best of horses" and within the tale people considered him to be too good for his original master. After that master died he was given to a new, more virtuous hero (Guan Yu, sometimes described as an ideal incarnation of loyalty and righteousness), who he was extremely loyal to.

(on to part 11)

[noodlecupcakeswritings]

Mad Love - Chapter 26 ( The final Gotham fic)

Wow, I've finally reached the end of this series after four years. It feels weird to finally bring it to a close, Im not sure wether to be happy or sad. But thank you to everyone who stuck with this series and those who left kudos and bookmarks. I hope this ending is satisfying and you all agree that after everything Emerald has been through she more than deserved a happy ending.

After Gotham was cut out off from the mainland, Emerald starts to learn that three’s a crowd and Jeremiah soon shows his true colours. Will she stick around like she did with Jerome or will she finally get some sense to leave and reunite with her true love.

The fourth and final instalment in my Gotham/Emerald series.

Please leave comments, kudos and reblogs if you like it. It really helps me out as a writer.

Warnings: Blood, Guns, Violence, Jeremiah being an ass one final time, Happy ending, Language

Chapter 26

Emerald’s P.O.V

Ten months later

My wedding day had arrived, and Oswald had generously let us use his home for the entire day. He had plenty of space and the building was beautiful, so it was a perfect fit. Besides, it’s not like we were having too many guests. Eddie and I didn’t have any family, they were either dead or the extended side were horrified by our criminal activities that they’d cut ties with us. But today we’d make our own family. Oswald was Eddies best man, of course. Although we’d had a small argument over whether or not Oswald should give me away or be Eddies best man. Zsasz was going to give me away instead. Barbara was maid of honour; she’d kill me if she were anything less.

Oswald’s men technically counted as wedding guests and security. Just in case there were any unwanted visitors. Other than that, there wasn’t really anybody else for us to invite. Our circle of friends and people we could trust was small, but we liked it that way. Oswald had made sure Eddie, and I slept in separate rooms last night, keeping us away from each other to stick with tradition. Oswald had insisted for a lot of the traditional stuff, a real reception followed by a wedding breakfast. He’d even had a three-tier cake made. One thing I agreed with tradition wise was a white dress.

Looking in the floor-length mirror at myself, I concluded there was nothing in this world that could stop me from smiling today. The floor-length gown was less figure hugging than the last, the dress strapless and complete with long white gloves. Barbara helped me with my hair and then worked on the veil. Grabbing my bouquet of pink roses, I took a seat on the couch. There was still fifteen minutes before Victor needed to walk me down the aisle. Barbara left the room to make sure everything was perfect, so I wasn’t at risk of turning into a bridezilla. The window had been opened to let a breeze in so I wouldn’t get too hot and flustered. Nerves and excitement were already filling my stomach.

The more I waited, the more anxious I became and got to my feet, pacing. Looking in the mirror once more, I smoothed out a wrinkle in the skirt and made sure there wasn’t a strand of hair lose. In the mirror’s reflection I saw a very unwanted familiar sight climb through the window. I wasn’t afraid, but I was annoyed. Rolling my eyes, I turned to face Jeremiah. I’d prepared for this moment, knowing he’d have to come back and try to ruin something of mine one last time. His skin was in worse shape than before, if that were even possible. “What kind of armour do you have to survive a chemical burn and a fire?” I asked. Jeremiah laughed at my joke, “better armour than Ecco.”

So she hadn’t survived the fire, but he had. Out of the two, I would have preferred Ecco to have survived. Sure, she would have been pissed and came after me, but she would have eventually seen sense. Eventually she would have moved on with her life like I had. Or was trying to. But this fucking clown wasn’t good at taking hints. “Why are you here? To kill me?” I asked, annoyance in my tone. “No. No, of course not. It’s always been more fun to watch you suffer. I’ll make sure to replace the groom after I give you away,” Jeremiah grinned, moving closer and threatening me with a gun.

As Jeremiah had explained his intentions to me, he had failed to hear Victor enter the room and close the door behind him. “Sorry pal, that roles taken,” Victor spoke. Victor had also prepared for this moment, and we had taken the necessary precautions. Holding my bouquet to my chest, I squeezed the trigger of the tiny revolver hiding amongst the roses. Jeremiah staggered back as the round had gotten him in the chest. He had two options either stay and have me empty the revolver into his body or run and save himself. Finally he got the hint and staggered to the window, leaving the way he’d come in. Good riddance. Breathing a sigh of relief, Victor came over to me to check if I was okay.

Looking me up and down, he made a face, his gaze fixed on my skirt. “Sweetness, you’re not going to like this but promise me you won’t scream...” Victor started, trying to keep me calm. “He’s got blood on my dress, hasn’t he?” Victor nodded, and I couldn’t hold back a scream of frustration. There were ten minutes before I was due to be married and my dress could be ruined. Victor led me to the bathroom and helped me out of the dress to run the skirt under cold water. Whilst that cleared most of the blood, there was still a light pink tinge to the fabric.

Sitting on the side of the bath in my underwear, I massaged my temples to try to stay calm. Barbara came back into the room looking concerned. “What happened? I heard a gunshot and then you screamed?” Barbara asked. “We’ll explain later, I need you to go to the kitchen and find lemon juice. Now.” Victor ordered. Barbara didn’t argue like I had expected and hurried out of the room. Within five minutes she returned with a small bottle of lemon juice. Victor added some to the pink stains and within a few minutes they were gone. However, now Oswald had joined the crowd to see why we were late.

“Why aren’t you in your dress?” He asked me as if it were my fault. “Why is everyone but my future husband seeing me in my wedding lingerie?” I snapped back. Barbara helped me back into the dress before Victor went over the wet patches with a hair dryer. “Ed’s getting worried,” Oswald continued. “I’m working on it as fast as I can, why don’t you go and stall, Oswald,” Victor suggested, irritation obvious in his voice. Oswald huffed but waddled away to distract Eddie and keep him calm. Another five minutes with the hair dryer and my dress was as good as new. Thank god I had the professional assassin here to help me or it would have been a complete disaster.

Victor took my bouquet and untied the thick ribbon keeping the flowers together, removing the revolver whilst Barbara retied the flowers together. One last look over and everything was perfect once more. And I was only twenty minutes late to my wedding. Barbara left the room first whilst Victor offered me his arm. “Ready?” He asked. Linking my arm with his, I smiled softly, “ready.”

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8 months later

Married life to Edward Nygma had its ups and downs, although we had yet to experience many downs. For the duration of my pregnancy and the first nine months of our daughter’s life, we had decided he should take a little break from crime. Just to make sure he didn’t get thrown in Arkham and miss out on anything important. I had decided I was completely retired from crime so that I could raise our daughter when she was born. She was due in a month and Eddie and I were still trying to decide on a name.

Deciding I should probably get up off the couch and stop eating pickles, I went to find Eddie. Heading to his work room first, I was surprised to find it empty. Normally when he wasn’t with me, he was busy planning his ultimate come back heist. Sometimes I wasn’t sure which one of us was more dramatic. Searching the rest of the apartment, I found him in the spare room, what was to be our daughters’ room. Old sheets had been put down on the carpet and were covering any important items of furniture whilst Eddie painted the walls mint green.

Leaning against the door frame, I watched him and rubbed my belly. Eddie turned to me, paint somehow smeared across his cheek and streaked in his hair. I couldn’t help but giggle at the sight. “You weren’t supposed to see this until I was finished,” Eddie spoke. “I needed to stretch my legs. But I thought we decided on a space theme for her room?” “I got some glow in the dark star and moon stickers that can go on the ceiling above her crib. And the mobile has planets on it.” “Mint green fits with the theme, how exactly?” “The blue was too dark; she needs some light in the room.”

I rolled my eyes at him; the green didn’t look bad; it was more how we could never decide on something. Inside my belly, she started kicking, and I made a small sound of discomfort. “Maybe she agrees with me and that’s her way of telling you,” Eddie joked. “Maybe she just needs to quit it. I’ll be glad when she’s out.” Eddie put the paintbrush down and came over to me. He knelt before my belly and rubbed the area, kissing the bump. “Hey, you need to be nice to mommy, you can’t keep kicking her all the time,” Eddie spoke to the bump. A few more kicks and she stopped, seemingly having listened to him. Eddie smiled triumphantly. Smiling softly, I replied, “seems she’s a smart girl. Just like her daddy.”

Taglist: @sweetfictionalworld​

[trollcafe]

Keia

Length: 1812 words TW: None that I know of, ask to tag.  Brief: Rom unearths some old memories.   Credits:  All trolls in this are mine  Here’s the song I listened to while writing this!

There were a lot of boxes in Romune’s hive that he had never bothered to open. Some were in the hall closet, some in his sleeping block. Occasionally, when feeling sentimental, Romune would pick out a random box and open it up. He had discovered a lot of things that sparked various memories from life before the hospital. He found some pictures of what he used to look like once. It was bittersweet to look at the face he used to have. The troll in the picture didn’t even really seem like him. That Romune had a different look in his eyes. That Romune just seemed…..different. He wasn’t empty but there was a hollowness to his stare. But it was sweet to look in the mirror afterwards and see a light in his gaze that wasn’t in the original image. It also sucked because he had been growing a beard out and then, of course, lost his jaw. How typical. 

One of the pictures Romune had found even had a few of his old co-workers. They all wore similar Fleet-issued work uniforms. Specifically jumpsuits. One picture was Romune and a goldblood in workout gear; it looked like a selfie taken at a gym. For as long as he stared at their face….he couldn’t remember their name. Honestly, looking at their smile, their sweet face, their blue and green eyes, their curved horns, and the little scar that ran over their nose… it made his head hurt. It made his heart hurt, too. 

Romune had spent many sleepless days thinking about the incident that led to him losing his limbs. He could never quite shake the unease that the situation gave him. He remembered walking down a specific road. Occasionally he would remember a landmark….a boulder on the side of the road, the boba shop next to the florist that smelled like honeysuckle no matter the time of year. He always wondered if he could find those shops again. 

It wasn’t a particularly sentimental night. To be honest, the phantom pains were killing him. His arm hurt the worst. It was a horrible burning sensation in his arm; it couldn’t be helped with pain killers or going on walks or bundling up under blankets. What he could do, however, was try to ignore it. And Romune chose to ignore it by opening a box from the closet in his block. The box was one he had put off for a long while for one reason or another, he just never felt it to be the right time to open that specific box. Upon opening, the box held….clothes? 

More specifically, there was one of Romune’s old sweatshirts folded neatly on top. Underneath it was a gift wrapped box complete with a crumpled little yellow ribbon. Romune sat back, criss crossing his legs to get more comfortable. His lusus lifted her head slightly as the sound of tearing paper filled the air. Of course the box was taped with duct tape, nothing could ever be EASY. It was no problem, though, the tape had aged enough to peel off without too much of a struggle. It took part of the box with it but this wasn’t exactly a gift-opening contest, was it? Rom hesitated to open the now unwrapped gift. It was as if something inside him knew to wait. Something in him said this wasn’t a good idea. Normally he was one to listen to his gut. It felt almost wrong to open this gift. Had there been a name on it? He gently set the box beside him and dug through the wrapping paper shreds to see if there had been a name other than his own written. But there was no name, no tag.

Reluctantly, Romune picked the gift back up. He set it in his lap and stared down at it with furrowed brows. It took a serious pep talk to finally pull back the top of the box. 

The first thing that Romune noticed was a surprisingly strong smell of cologne. For as old as the gift was, the smell was potent, both in smell and in emotion. It forced a wave of overwhelming nostalgia upon him. Romune sat there, holding the open gift, too stunned from the intense longing to move. He didn’t even know what he was longing for. The cologne started to make his head hurt. He considered setting the gift aside and laying down instead but this whole ordeal had made his phantom pain lessen. So he continued. 

He pulled out a shirt from the box. As he pulled the shirt out, an envelope flopped onto the floor in front of him. Romune nudged the box to the side for a moment and stared at the shirt. It was too big to be his own, and the color of the symbol was too purple. The more he stared at the symbol, the more his head ached. But there was something there. A memory. A troll. Someone stored in the back of his brain, waiting to come forward. 

Romune didn’t know what he was doing. He brought the shirt up to his nose, closed his eyes, and breathed in the scent. The feeling of deja vu came forth, but it didn’t feel wrong. This was genuinely familiar. He just didn’t know why. Romune held the shirt close, willing it to bring forth the memory of the owner. And yet…..nothing. The longing was replaced with a deep-rooted sadness. As if his own heart was upset that he couldn’t remember. 

Romune folded the shirt back up into a neat square, and set it to his side. He let his gaze linger on it for another second, as if that sole second could conjure up the proper memories. When nothing happened, he turned to the letter. His name was hand written on the front of the envelope. It looked hastily done, and punctuated with a little exclamation mark. Romune! That was him alright! Romune. Someone had written a letter for Romune. 

But not this Romune, the Romune with the hollowness in his eyes and the scruffy face; the Romune with the goldblood friend. The Romune who died on the operating table. Not this Romune. 

It almost felt wrong to open the letter. The tear was jagged and uneven, messy at best. He wasn’t sure if it was his hand shaking from nerves or the slight ache that remained. The letter inside was folded haphazardly. It was handwritten as well. But it looked like whoever wrote it had spent actual time on it, unlike the name on the front of the letter. He took his time to read every word, take in everything. 

To say reading the letter was an emotional rollercoaster was an understatement. 

The name at the end of the letter is what caused Romune the greatest amount of grief. He stared at it, begging for something. It was at the tip of his tongue. There was SOMETHING there. He had to work for it, but he could feel the gears turning in his head as he grasped for the straws of a memory.

Magnus. Who was Magnus-? 

It hit Romune hard. The more he stared at the name, the more he could picture a face, until it suddenly became clear as day. Messy hair pulled back in a bun, square jaw, long ears. He had a goatee. There were strands of hair falling down into his face. His eyes weren’t really blue, but they weren’t really purple, either. His horns were curved with spikes. Specifically, Romune remembered him with a hair tie between his teeth. Magnus was grinning, brow cocked, walking backwards. Where was he going? Mentally, Romune reached for him, desperate to pull him close and ask. But as quick as he came, Magnus was gone. 

When Romune returned to Alternia, he realized his cheeks were wet with tears. One of them had splashed down onto the paper and smeared the ink by Magnus’ name. Romune sniffled slightly and brushed away the rest of the teardrop before folding the letter back up. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. 

HyenaMom realized something was wrong, and stood up from her bed in the corner. She gave a big long stretch before making her way to her charge, and laid behind him. She curled up behind Romune’s back and whimpered. He leaned back just slightly, then decided to lay down on the floor instead. He used his lusus as a pillow and stared up at the boring ceiling while his emotions swirled in his chest. And the phantom pain resurfaced. 

He carefully rested his organic hand on his robotic shoulder. The shirt laid, now slightly tousled, within reach of his robotic hand. Romune slowly grabbed it and brought it back to his face. He begged for the smell to bring him the same sense of nostalgia and security. He wanted to feel warm again. He wanted to feel like Magnus was there again. But nothing happened. The smell was so faint, it was practically a memory. 

But what the shirt did bring back, was the faintest memory of a voice. 

“You said no, right?” 

Romune had the feeling he had said yes. What did he say yes to? To working. He agreed to work. To cover someone’s shift at the ship repair sight. It was a different site, not his usual place of business. Who was he covering for? He strained to think of a name. No name popped up, but the smiling goldblood with the blue and green eyes came to mind. Them. He was covering for them. 

Romune had agreed to cover the goldblood’s shift at the ship repair sight. It was starting to come back to him, slowly but surely. Magnus had stopped by unexpectedly. Romune didn’t really remember from where, what Magnus had been doing. What Romune did remember, was opening the door to leave and seeing Magnus standing there. And in his hand was the box. The box that Romune had just opened. 

The box meant for the Romune with the hollow eyes and the scruffy face, who covered a shift for a goldblood and got blown up. Not the Romune with the metal limbs and metal jaw, who doesn’t cover shifts because he’s the only intern. 

If Magnus was alive, Romune was certain he had moved on. Or maybe he died in the explosion. Wherever he was, he was obviously happy. No Magnus had ever stopped by his hive, at least not that Romune could remember. 

Romune found himself hoping Magnus had died. He hid his face in the shirt, silently begging it to bring him anything. Any sense of comfort. Or more memories of Magnus. He wanted so badly to remember more about this mysterious purpleblooded man with the long hair and curved horns. 

( Do you wish to read the contents of the letter? )