#I had to fix so many artefacts and details here | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

meikuree · 3 years

Text

the centre cannot hold

Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Hitch Dreyse & Annie Leonhart Characters: Annie Leonhart, Hitch Dreyse, Armin Arlert (mentioned) Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Mild Psychological Horror

ao3 link

The days blend into a seamless fugue, dreamlike and out of reach.

(Or: a look at Annie's time in the crystal.)

The days blend into a seamless fugue, dreamlike and out of reach.

She can't place what time it is, inside. Time is meaningless. The interrogators who enter complain about the cold drafts puffing through the bricks; she can't feel any of it. Only the blunt sensation of the crystal’s cover, cool as iron is cool, running over her arms and torso and head, her entire body.

Hitch visits, many times. She comes to know her by the telltale skip of her boots on the floor. The way she always leaves the door ajar, as though she hadn’t intended to stay long. Her own eyes are closed now, all the time. It means her other senses become sharper. She hears mutters even through the thick slab of wood that passes for a door, and learns the smell of autumn filtering through the bars of her cell’s sole window, carried into the space in dead leaves stuck to the soles of soldiers' boots.

Those signs are what she begins to rely on to mark the passage of time. In the initial months, it’s an inexact science. Mere guesswork, in which she misestimates, on a few occasions, the correspondence between the oil-stench of polished boots and badges and the exact military festival being celebrated outside.

She listens to the chatter of the scouts who return daily to work out the mysteries surrounding her. How she breathes, what is keeping her alive. She knows the answers herself, of course. In this state she is tapped into the Paths realm; feeding on the otherworldly largesse of Ymir Fritz somehow, her lungs sustained by oxygen piped into her chest by means metaphysical and invisible. How long do you think she’ll last in there, they ask, and she wants to bark a laugh, say: I can stay here for the rest of my life. She starts a betting pool with herself about when they will meander towards or away from the answers, and also memorises some of their names—Anya, Nicolas, Louis—as a matter of personal amusement. Hange is the one who gets closest to piecing together anything about the truth, including the concept of an afterlife and/or higher realm.

Eventually they give up on her. With the Shiganshina basement breached, Hange’s purview as commander shifts to other horizons. The room hollows out as they clear the furniture, the echo that bounces off its walls widening into a sound vast enough to fill graveyards. A looming silence. Still as death. Only Hitch continues to come by, and Annie begins to yearn mentally for the stimulation of her conversations, like a plant straining towards the sun. Towards necessary sustenance.

She reminisces about her history lessons back in the Survey Corps, sometimes. It had been fascinating to see what counted for fact and narrative in a different land. She now wonders if she's become an artefact of history herself. Dead for all intents and purposes, preserved only in textbooks. Pragmatism brings her back to earth, when she remembers that nobody has ever been memorialised for lying in a coma.

Her sensory awareness only extends so far, after all that. It is deep, but not very broad. In the first year she keeps track of worldly happenings by the generosity and latitude of Hitch’s reports. Her passionate spiels, often preceded by a long indrawn breath and groans of despair that could have rivalled Eren’s, span an impressive set of topics ranging from Eren’s whereabouts, the Survey Corps’ movements, and military gossip, to more quotidian ills that ail her: a nail chipped while filing paperwork, her anguish over a sold-out bakery on the way home. The twenty letter-long saga she has going on with a romantic rival-turned-interest-turned-rival-again. Annie becomes the unwitting beneficiary of her ability to transform all ordinary occurrences into effusive theatre.

There are a few signs. The stunning perseverance with which Hitch comes. The verve and enthusiasm Hitch puts on full display before her, as though she is performing—and hoping that somewhere, she might be watching. The fond wonder and melancholy with which she speaks of their short-lived time in the Military Police. Hitch, Annie suspects, comes because she is nursing the remnants of a badly timed crush on her.

In this place, it’s a happy accident. It relieves the slight irritation she feels when Hitch confesses a touch too much detail about the minutiae of her morning routines and new interests. She’s grateful, in some deep unacknowledged part of herself, for the contact with another person from her old life, even if it’s one-sided and not very conversational on her end.

Every now and then she gets glimpses of the activities her erstwhile associates—Eren, Armin, Mikasa—are getting up to, in updates from Hitch spaced months apart. It is amusing, at first, to hear Hitch discuss them with distant respect and reverence as if at a remove, when she has firsthand knowledge of their individual quirks and neuroses, and can fill in the blanks within her iron silence much better than Hitch can. She saw long ago how they were some of the greatest breathing idiots to walk the earth; she briefly wishes she could tell it to Hitch too, puncture the aura of myth that has surrounded them like a bubble.

Eventually enough time passes that she has to recontextualise what she knows of them against the secondhand knowledge Hitch relays to her each time, adjusting her mental picture of who they are, the distance between memory and fact asserting itself. It grows apparent in those moments that they are becoming foreign to her too, changing while she remains fixed here, with outdated fragments of people, an insect trapped in scintillating amber.

Armin drops in to see her about four times in the first year. When he speaks he reaches a hand out to touch her crystal, and probably gazes at her the whole time; she can tell by the soft thud of his fingers upon her looking-glass cage. He tells her about Paradis’s defenselessness, their discoveries over the ocean. Pleads with her for a sign, any sign, that she is listening, and then sits with his knees drawn up, the stone floor vibrating imperceptibly with his motion. After his second call he begins to express his sympathy for her. The belief that he now understands why she had to betray them.

She wonders, idly, if he’s kept his nervous habit of biting at his cuticles. He has a grim edge to his voice now, a flute and gravel ruthlessness she hadn't recalled belonging to him before. Unlike Hitch, he doesn't say much. With him, she gets treated to dense silences interspersed with outbursts of conviction, or emotion. As though he speaks only when he has no choice, no other outlet.

She supposes his approach is one of delicacy, in opposition to Hitch’s: there is no evidence she is conscious, although she is alive, so talking is more or less a fanciful gamble; there’s no guarantee his words will reach a living being. She can’t fault him, on a technicality. She only laments that his idealism has given way to unimaginative realism too. Officially, he is devising a plan to establish contact with underground allies in Marley; unofficially, she wants to ask him if reaching the sea had truly made him happy, or only brought a new wave of troubles.

But her opportunities to have anything to think all these against are privileged and few. The visits are sparse, on the whole, so that she learns to conserve her responses and, most importantly, ration her thoughts—like a precious, corked wine, fit to be let through into her conscious refrain only in drips, a resource not to be exhausted too quickly. She has to remain here until there is certain guarantee she can complete her mission. In layman terms: she has to last through years of boredom.

She repeats it to herself, like an idle song or a blinkered reminder: she can endure it. She has to endure it.

After that she slows down her pace of thinking by necessity. Draws every internal argument that would have taken minutes out over the span of weeks. This dissolution makes her feel not so much like a primordial titan, moving according to vast, immense timespans, but a piece of rubber stretched to its limits, shrivelled and ready to burst.

Dreaming is the most direct analogue for her existence in this crystal shell. But it’s an incomplete description. It’s not like being asleep. She hasn’t relinquished consciousness, simply adopted a fickle and yet compulsory relationship with it. Some days, her mind is sharp and lucid like clear water. Others, she wakes up sluggish and nauseated, with the slow pressure of an anvil headache at her temples, a feverish chill bathing her bones. Like she’s slept far, far too much. Like she hasn’t woken up at all, but passed into a worse, second slumber. The effect is that of being drugged, of being sunk into an unnatural fatigue.

In these moments her choices are confined to the binary of staying awake and suffering, or returning to sleep and worsening it. Her muscles ache and scream for movement or stimulation; but she cannot move, and so has no recourse to relief. Only the sickening ache, the awareness of the uncomfortable fog, her arms trapped by her sides, always, like dumb logs.

Consciousness becomes the centrepoint her life revolves around. Sometimes, its presence is like a bullet aimed at her that she can’t catch: fleeting, painful, inescapable.

Back in the trainee bunkers she’d moved slowly. Pulled off the act of a sullen, indolent girl, better inclined towards a long nap than proper sparring. It’d shocked people that she was in fact a first-class prodigy in hand-to-hand combat. More than once she’d heard herself described by her peers as a concealed knife: inconspicuous at first, lethal once unleashed and in motion.

Those days are behind her now. A trite touch of fate, perhaps, that her languorousness now looks like it had been a rehearsal for this longer, extended sojourn in stillness. She can no longer summon movement; she has no defense against any assumptions people might concoct about her. She can only hope that people will remember the shadow her outsized figure cast as the Female Titan, even in the absence of continued proof.

As it turns out, what is most difficult is not the boredom, or time, or the trappings of her mind. Solitude suits her. She is not afraid of her thoughts. The symptoms of wakefulness frustrate her, but her mind has long been a well-controlled thing, smooth and cunning. She’d perfected the skill of disciplining it through the gruelling, unending hours of training with her father in her youth. Learning great focus, concentrating on the exercises that determined if she got to sleep, or eat, or drink. Disregarding all other excess, like the russet burn of sunset or sundown behind her in the courtyards. Your mind could not be suggestible, in this situation. Not even as an eight-year old.

No; what truly grates is the loss of sensation. Her capacity to interact with the world. Heading inside has severed her from her repertoire of fighting stances, uppercuts, movements. No longer can she understand her environment by the rhythms of her body attuned to it: the sunspots in her vision, the wind whipping her shins, the recoil of her fists against an enemy. She once knew the world by the blows and kicks it directed back at her; they were signals, an entire language of their own. She's been reduced to a lonely speck, disconnected from her single means of communication, her vernacular for parsing the world around her. The lonely, obsessive cycle of thoughts she can stand—but this? The dark, empty corridor of her body where she once had access to momentum, eruption, injury and the lightning burst of revelation in knowing her enemies by their punches, the scrapes and bruises left on them? It’s unbearable.

She resigns herself, but never quite crosses the hurdle. Many times she registers the itch of her limbs desiring to move, a furious bristle skittering upon her skin or on the edge of her brain. There is no outlet for them. Even the smallest movements are off-limits to her. She can’t flex her fingers, or tense her toes. The boundaries of her prison are absolute. These impulses, blossoming and then dead-ended, coil up and accumulate inside her like poison. Like a stricken scream with no release.

After a period of time she tentatively defines as three years, she hears Hitch entering and turning the key in the lock in her usual smooth motion. The tiny clink a struck bell in the gloom of mental oblivion. She perks up. Prepares to listen for any news.

“I know it’s been a while,” Hitch starts, “but we’ve been busy preparing for the Queen’s inauguration— like, god, how many ceremonies do these nobles need?— and I was detained by gift duty, can you believe, which meant I had to shop for the second-tier nincompoops over at the chambers—“

Annie’s blood, a gentle throbbing before, suddenly runs cold. Inauguration? But surely— Historia’s coronation, according to the silver measure of her careful timeline, had passed a long time ago. They should have moved far beyond by now.

“Anyway,” she hears Hitch saying now, a little morosely, “hard to believe it’ll be one-and-a-half years soon with you here. That you’re still in there.“

Annie chokes, a gutted sound in her head. She must have lost touch with her sense of time in the previous few weeks. It’s the one possible explanation.

If it’s only been one and a half years, she can only imagine what the next two, or three, or five, or seven years until her death will be like.

She feels the rug being pulled out beneath her feet. There’s panic now, a stab in her throat, the realisation she has to move back to the drawing board. Reassess everything she knows. She’d kept track well enough in the later half of the first year—what had changed?

Hitch leaves. She doesn’t register it.

Her sanity has so far hinged upon the single, fantastic, incredulous constant of Hitch’s visits to her. It’s a fragile coincidence—Hitch might one day get tired of her, reality outpacing her idealisation of her, and stop coming, too. She is beginning to feel the hours and days like an acrid trap, her thoughts a rapid torrent that her body—inverted in frozen stasis—will never keep up with. Suddenly every second is too slow, too long.

She wants to yell. Wants to rattle the bars of her mind-cage. But the only thing that answers her is drifting somnolence, like a hand passing sluggishly over her head, and then disappearing. The same smiling silence of her unresponsive body, indifferent to her will.

What life will this be, she thinks, what life will I be left with, and tries to plan, to consider the contingencies—but just as suddenly, nothing comes to mind, except the hollow echo of her voice referring across her insensate headscape, the strain of her thoughts thinned into pieces from disuse.

#i'm rusty with writing but! here's a thing #this is mostly about the horror of being stuck in a crystal for four years with your thoughts as your (almost) sole company #featuring very light and one-sided hitchani #i actually love the ship; annie just can't reciprocate because she's. y'know #snk #annie leonhart #hitch dreyse #hitchani #hitchannie #annie leonhardt #my fic #aot #armin arlert

26 notes · View notes

waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 4 years

Text

Fortune’s Rule, Part 3

Ok, I thought this was going to be a 3-parter but, once again... it got away from me. So this is the third part and I’m almost entirely sure it’s the second last part.

Part One Part Two

Pairing: Damian Priest x OFC

Word Count: 3,902

Content advisory: The smut has arrived!

Indeed, for the rest of the night, you’re lost in your thoughts. ‘Damian’ you repeat in your head, thinking of how well the name seems to suit him but not knowing why. Damian with his long dark hair and tattoos, and that knowing, sinful smile. You haven’t been attracted to anyone since Johnnie and even that had more or less fizzled out by… you try not to think about it but the images come to you anyway.

It’s the same sort of thing that you dream about, the sensation of being back in the woods, cold and desperate, clinging to the bag of money that still sustains you, shivering at the thought that your boyfriend and best friend might be dying in the water or that they might survive and know that you abandoned them. It’s like you can almost hear them dragging themselves towards you, broken steps from broken bodies.

“Excuse me?” a sharp voice snaps you back to reality.

“Yes,” you stammer, “I’m sorry.”

“Two PBR,” the young man says, his voice making it clear that he’s repeating this.

You nod and turn around to get the chilled bottles out of the fridge but when you stand again, your body freezes and one of the bottles slips right out of your hand and shatters on the floor. For a second, you see Cynthia in the alley across the street, next to Damian’s store, slowly advancing from the shadows in the same terrible state she is in your dreams.

But then a man emerges from the alley, adjusting his belt to make it clear what he was just doing. He sports a vest covered with badges and short, crimson hair but he is nothing like Cynthia. He jogs to catch up with a small group of punks and they all take off together, which leaves you in shock, standing in a rapidly expanding puddle of beer laced with broken glass.

You sheepishly take a third beer from the fridge and hand them to the customer, not even bothering to count the money he drops on the bar before grabbing a couple of towels to soak up the mess. It takes that plus an entire roll of paper towels and a thorough mopping to clean up the mess and even then, you’re not certain you got all of it. The scent of cheap beer is in your nostrils for the rest of the night.

Of course, this would be the night that you have customers lingering until nearly two, stretching out the time before you can take Damian up on his offer. But the sign in his shop stays lit, like a beacon letting you know you can find your way there no matter how late you come. So you let the customers stay and serve them as long as they ask. And when they’re gone you make yourself go through the closing rituals to the last detail.

When you go to shut down the lights, you feel yourself shiver a little and you could swear that you see a shadow moving somewhere in the back but you turn and rush out of the place, locking the doors and closing the security gate before rushing to find out what your dark stranger has to tell you.

You’re frightened by the screech of tires, a car Plotinus down the road well above the speed limit, loaded with kids blasting some sort of trap beats and hollering at you for interrupting their ride. You could swear that you looked down the street when you started to cross and saw nothing. Shaken, you instinctively grip your bag to your side and scurry the rest of the way to the shop door, ringing the bell as a handwritten sign instructs.

There’s a loud buzz and you push open the door, much heavier than it looks, to find yourself in a dimly lit cavern of strange and slightly ominous artefacts, jars of leaves and roots, rough crystals and many, many books in a wide range of languages you’ve never seen before.

“So you decided to come,” the familiar voice greets you from behind the cash. He’s bent over, arms folded on the counter, sharp eyes fixed on you with that same, inscrutable smile that seems his natural state.

“I guess I was curious.”

You shuffle forward slowly, surprised that even stooped the way he is, he’s still taller than you. It’s like he’s a human projected on a screen, huge and frightening.

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” he soothes. “Or what I have to offer.”

Your first instinct is to insist that you’re not scared but you know damn well it’s obvious you are. You give him a weak smile.

“I don’t know if I believe in any of this,” you mumble.

“It doesn’t need you to believe in it.” He rises and pulls aside a sheer curtain that leads to a back room glowing with crimson light. “Follow me.”

A street-smart person, the sort of person you’d like to think you are, would tell him to go fuck himself and head for the door. Who knows what he’s got waiting back there? Certainly not you, who couldn’t put up a fight against him under any circumstances, with every dollar to your name slung over your shoulder. He could skin you alive and it’s doubtful no one would ever hear your screams.

Damian raises his eyebrow a little and steps back to allow you to pass. And you do, entering the room so that your back is to him, so that you wouldn’t even see an attack coming.

He circles around you, eyes fixed on your body the entire time. You grip the strap of your bag involuntarily. If he’s a charlatan peddling hoodoo, there’s no reason to think he would have a problem with direct theft.

“I’m not going to steal your money,” he tells you. “I told you, this is on the house.”

He takes a seat at a round table at the center of the room and motions for you to take the chair opposite him. You follow his direction as he picks up a deck of cards, running them thoughtfully through his large but surprisingly graceful hands.

“Take these,” he says, placing the cards in front of you. “I want you to shuffle them and when you’re done, I want you to cut them into three piles from right to left.”

The cards are awkward in your hands, larger than a playing deck, and you feel clumsy as you move them around, trying desperately not to drop any.

“How long do I shuffle them for?”

“Until it feels like you should stop.”

You’re tempted to roll your eyes at this but you keep shuffling, pleased as you get the hang of it and then, suddenly, your mind just tells you to stop. It’s like you hear a literal voice and your hands stop moving without you even having to think about it. You lay the deck out in thirds and he nods to show you that you’re doing it right before picking them up.

He pauses, running his palm over the cards before laying them out in an odd pattern. He stops and starts several times, reacting like he’s reading a book, except that the book is you and you can’t tell if he likes what he sees.

“So I was right about the accident,” he says quietly, his eyes still studying the strange images in front of him. “That’s a bad injury you’re carrying.”

“It hurts sometimes. It’s not so bad.”

He shakes his head and locks his eyes on yours. “You don’t believe that.”

He runs his fingers over one particular triad of cards, nodding as he does.

“But you did get some money from it.”

“Insurance,” you croak.

He shakes his head more emphatically. “No, you’re not telling the truth. This didn’t come from any legal means. You did something bad to get it. Maybe that’s why that bag always feels so heavy.”

“It feels heavy because I have everything that’s mine in it.”

“You live alone like a hermit. You work at a job that pays you under the table, I think. You’re cut off from everyone and everything. And what you have you carry with you everywhere.”

“I told you that last part. And the rest is stuff you could have guessed just from watching me.”

“You think I’ve been watching you?”

You stiffen because the truth is that you’ve been watching him, wondering about him, wanting to speak to him with something like the casual confidence he has speaking to you.

“Well I have,” he adds with a quick wink.

You feel your whole body flush and look down to hide the excitement that you know is in your eyes.

“When I say you’re carrying everything with you, I’m not just talking about a bag of money.”

“Are you trying to psychoanalyze me now? Or question me?”

“Psychoanalysis never gets a person as far as I can get. And I don’t have to question you because everything is right here.” He waves his hand over the table. “I just have to put the pieces together. I told you, it’s a gift.”

You purse your lips and he looks down at the cards again. Occasionally, he’ll draw a new one and place it over top of others.

“If you’re going to get where you need to go, you have to let go of all this.” He looks at your tense face and clarifies, “And, no, I don’t mean your money. The money doesn’t really mean anything.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never been without it.”

“Fair enough. I’ve always been able to get what I need. But you can’t. No matter how careful you are with that bag of loot, you’re not going anywhere until you confront what’s really weighing you down.”

This time, you do roll your eyes because it’s starting to sound like he’s recruiting you to a cult.

“Those nightmares are going to continue and they’re going to get worse, you know.”

For the first time, you sit bolt upright and let out a little gasp.

“The cards aren’t telling me what it is, not yet. Which means it’s pretty dark.”

“So how do I deal with it.”

Damian reaches across the table and takes one of your hands in his, turning it upward so that he can see your palm. You assume he’s reading it but instead he strokes along your fingers and between them, his touch like a moth’s wings. He hisses as he feels you tremble at the stimulation. It’s like he’s opening something up in you, delicately brushing aside the stitches that hold you together. He works his fingers up from your hand, over your wrist, never exerting any greater pressure, exhaling in a long, soft sigh as he trails his fingertips up the inside of your arm, coming to rest in the hollow of your elbow. Lifting his hand away, he stares deep into you, and it’s like he’s pushing and pulling the breath into and out of you with his own, at the same languid pace.

Placing your arm back on the table, he cuts a glance to the side of the room. Following his gaze, you’re surprised to see a couple of sinks with chairs in front of them, hairdressers’ stations.

He smiles when he sees your confusion. “The place was a hair salon before I bought it.”

“And you decided to leave those here in case the fortune telling business got slow?”

“Maybe,” he laughs. “Actually, I like them. They help.”

“They help you see the future?”

He turns back to you, his expression dead serious. “They help me help others.”

He stands and takes both your hands, guiding you back to your feet.

“In order for people to overcome their obstacles, they need to cleanse themselves and release what’s inside them, or else they’ll never be able to understand what it is.”

“Is that what you think I need?”

He steps close to you so that you can smell his skin, musky with layers of herbs like the ones he sells, wicked, magical scents that make your skin prickle. He doesn’t speak, but touches your head, running his fingers through your head and over your scalp, pressing slightly on certain points as he strokes all the way down to the base of your neck. He repeats the action and as he does, you swear you can feel the circulation increasing. Your forehead throbs but it’s not like before; it’s like there’s something leaking out of you.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let it out.”

Your head falls back but he cradles it there, his free hand continuing to trace patterns on your skin. At first, it’s like he’s putting you to sleep but then it starts to feel like he’s waking you up, that you’re becoming more alert than you have been in a long time. The scent of him seems to thicken and grow earthier, greener, wetter, but you realize it’s not him at all. It’s the forest and the river and once again you’re cold and alone. Tears leak from your eyes. All you want is the power to say that one word: Help.

And then you’re back in the red-lit room. Damian is standing flush against you, cupping your face in his hands and regarding you with a knowing expression.

“Come,” he whispers and leads you to one of the hairdressers’ stations.

He eases your aching body into one of the chairs and adjusts it so that you’re reclined with your head tipped back into the sink. You feel the water on your skin but it’s the strangest sensation, like it’s the exact same temperature, so perfect and comfortable you feel like you could enjoy it forever.

Damian runs his hands gently through your hair, separating it and working through the tangles with the precision of a surgeon. He moves your head from side to side, manipulating the knots in your neck and smoothing everything up and out into the water.

Then you feel something thick and balmy, something that smells like rosemary and lavender and sage, things you remember from your grandmother’s garden, lifetimes ago. He works the substance through your hair, into your scalp, the pressure of his touch slightly heavier now, like he’s coaxing something to the surface.

He rinses you clean and presses your hair into a towel and finally you open your eyes, only to have him run his hand over your face.

“No, just relax. Let yourself enjoy it.”

In your whole life, you’ve never had a man wash your hair before. But no man has ever made you feel the things you’re feeling now before. So you close your eyes again as he moves away.

For a few seconds, you don’t know where he’s gone, but then you feel his hands on your thighs, just above your knees, the heat from them radiating upward. You immediately tense but he presses his hands down a little more firmly.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Let me help you”

His hands slide up, lifting your shirt so that your stomach is exposed. You flinch again and then you feel his breath against your abdomen, the light touch of his lips trailing over the skin while he wraps his hands around the small of your back and lifts a little. With his tongue, he draws a line from just below your breastbone all the way down to the low-slung waist of your denim shorts, pausing slightly to press a soft kiss on the edge of your navel that makes you shiver.

He unbuttons your shorts, kissing the hollow between your hips and flicking his tongue over it. You glance down and his eyes are fixed on yours. He stops moving.

“Put your head back. Let yourself go.”

You want to tell him that you’d like to be an active part of what’s happening but the look in his eyes makes you think that he has something in mind and you want to know what it is. So you let your head rest and close your eyes, focusing only on the feeling of the man between your legs.

He slides your shorts and panties down in one smooth movement and runs his palms up your thighs. Then he leans in again, his breath hot against your pussy, and even that has you releasing a few needy sounds and lifting your hips, trying to get him to dive in.

Instead, he lowers his head a little and kisses all along the folds of flesh, exploring them with his lips and tongue, humming in satisfaction when he feels your body react, or when another sound escapes you. He presses his tongue at the very back of your opening and slowly draws it along, all the way up to your swollen clit, which he captures between his lips and sucks gently for a second before releasing it again.

It’s like the rest of your body isn’t even there and that the only part of you that’s real is your starving core. Every sensation you can feel is coming from his attention and the rest of you is floating in some sort of suspended animation. He rests his hands on your hips, pressing his thumbs into the depressions next to the bone and even that seems to build your excitement. Then he starts to push his tongue inside you, pressing against every nerve at your entrance firmly and with unerring precision.

As he does this, you feel like part of you has escaped. It’s like you’re standing over your own body, looking down at the still figure of a woman, throat flushed, gasping for air, crying out feebly for something.

Damian flattens his tongue and works it around your clit again, soft strokes at first, then swirling it in tight circles and then flicking the engorged bead enough to make you feel like you’re about to explode before he returns hungrily to your dripping folds, massaging the fleshy mound just above your clit with those long fingers.

He rocks back and forth, shifting between your pulsing labia and clit until your whole body is trembling, something you seem able to see from your vantage point hovering overhead. You’re clutching at the arms of the chair, at the edge of the sink, at anything. Your cries are getting shorter and sharper as the tension increases.

This time, he doesn’t shift positions. He works on you determinedly until your orgasm erupts and as it does, it’s like the whole of your body opens and some sort of energy flows out, something hot and light and wonderful that continues for ages. And it’s not like you haven’t had lots of orgasms but this is something completely different. It’s like your body has melted against this man’s mouth, like the orgasm isn’t going to stop although, finally, it subsides and your body closes itself up again.

You’re so weak you can’t even move. When he appears next to you, offering a bottle of water, he has to help you sit up before he tilts the bottle so that you can drink from it.

“Take it easy,” he murmurs, wrapping one massive arm around your shoulders to keep you steady. “You’ll be ok in a couple of minutes.”

Your head hurts but it’s a different pain, softer and more diffused, like something you could forget once you had something else to focus on. Damian, meanwhile, has pulled up a chair and is watching you, arms resting on his knees. And still there’s that coy smile.

“I don’t know what to say. I wasn’t expecting…” you stutter. “Thank you?”

His smile broadens and he runs his hand lightly down the side of your neck. “I told you, you need to relax a bit so that whatever you’ve got inside there can escape.”

You shudder. “I’m not sure I want it escaping.”

“I’ll tell you again: it’s the only way you can deal with it.”

“Does that mean you want me to tell you all my dark secrets?”

“Maybe I know them already.”

You straighten up, a little of your wits returning to you. “I don’t know if you’re that good at reading minds.”

He stands and helps you up, resting his hands on your shoulders. As you get back on your feet, you notice an impressive erection in his pants. You step so that you’re pressed against him and run your hands up his chest, sighing in appreciation when he cups your head in his hands, gently removing the towel and allowing his fingers to weave themselves in your still damp hair.

You mirror the gesture, gripping his dark locks and pulling him down into a kiss. You have to stand on your toes even with him lowering his head, but he steadies you with a hand on your back and gladly returns the kiss, grunting a little when you grind your hips against the bulge in his pants. The intensity builds so that it almost feels like he’s fucking you with his tongue again, like he could make you come like this if he really wanted to, even though it’s physically impossible.

Finally, you pull away, dizzy again, and grip the waistband of his jeans.

“Why don’t I help you with that?” You pant.

He shakes his head and it seems so contradictory to what just happened that it takes you a moment to register that he’s saying no. You dive in for another kiss, which he enthusiastically returns, making you bold enough to rub your hand insistently over his bulge.

He pulls back, shaking his head once again and lifting your hands off him.

“I don’t do that on a first date,” he tells you.

“Are you serious?” He can’t be. You can still taste your pussy on his breath.His hard-on is straining against his pants.

“Yeah I’m serious. I’ll do what I just did for you but for the other… It’s a rule I have.”

“Do you have a rule against me getting on my knees for you?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “actually I do.”

You roll your eyes and let out an exasperated sigh.

“Some women would think that’s a pretty good arrangement.”

“Well this woman is wondering if she gets a second ‘date.’”

He grins. “You know where to find me sweetheart.”

“Does that mean you want to see me again?”

“I’d love to see you again. But you know that.”

The truth is that you feel like you don’t know anything about this man who seems to know everything about you. He walks you out to the front of the store and bids you goodbye letting his lips trail down your neck and along your collarbone, finishing with a soft, slow kiss to the hollow of your throat.

“Catch you later,” he whispers.

The door closes behind you and you make your way down the stairs, once again feeling unsteady. As you reach the sidewalk, the neon sign shuts off. Whatever business he’d planned on doing tonight ended with you. You linger a few moments, hoping that the door will open and he’ll either tell you to come back or walk down to meet you and take you somewhere that he can work more of his witchcraft on you.

Nothing happens. It stays dark and quiet.

#nxt imagine #nxt fanfiction #wwe fanfiction #wwe imagine #damian priest fanfic #damian priest imagine #wayward wrestle writing #wrestling fanfiction #wrestling imagine

24 notes · View notes

yespolkadotkitty · 4 years

Text

Fighting Blind, pt 6

Thanking my beta, @rzrcrst !

Story masterlist here

Tovar rode ahead, the by now rather fetid, Tao Tei arm hanging off one side of his saddle. I could see from the set of his shoulders that he was in a mood. What else was new?

“Must you bait each other?” William sighed.

I rode on his horse today, sitting in front of him. His body was just as hard from years of battle and training, but it had not escaped my notice that his pleasant Irish lilt combined with his physique did absolutely nothing for my hormones. He was nice. That was it.

“He always starts it,” I grumbled, playing with the saddle pommel and realising that I sounded about six years old with my whining. “But, you’re right.”

William huffed out a laugh. “Ah, but that never gets old, hearing a woman say I’ve the right of it.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He laughed again. “Are you going to tell us where you’re really from, then?”

I stared straight ahead. In the distance, a huge stone wall loomed, flags flying. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me,” he countered, but there was no judgement in his tone, just curiosity.

I eyed Tovar’s back; the unrelenting set of his shoulders under the cape of chain mail. I thought about the dream again; his scarred hands dark on my pale skin, the feel of his teeth on my pulse point, the press of his cock on my belly.

Not that I had to imagine the feel of his cock.

Not anymore.

“I’m from the future.”

The words weighed heavily on my tongue as I spoke them.

William said nothing for a long moment. “Right you are,” he replied eventually.

You scoffed. “You think I have gone quite mad.”

He shrugged; I heard the leather in his armour creak as he did so. “I’ve seen many things during my life. This beast I killed is just the latest of occurrences I can’t truly explain. Who am I to judge your tale, miss?”

I picked through his words for sarcasm, but found none.

"About Tovar," he began, as the rocking of the horse started to make me feel a little sleepy. "It's likely he saved your life by doing what he did. You might have perished from the cold."

I opened my mouth to reply with a sarcastic retort, but thought better of it. “He probably did,” I muttered, sour.

“And it’s only natural that you’d seek each other out…. In the way that you did.”

I glanced up at his face, amused. William was a skilled fighter and I had zero doubt that he could kill me with a flick of his wrist, should he want to. But in speaking about…. That, he was embarrassed?

William looked down at me, a smile tugging at his lips. “What? I’m not used to discussing such matters with a woman.”

Tovar chose that moment to turn back to look at us. I could only imagine what he saw. William and I only two breaths apart, smiling at each other. I met his brown gaze, watched the scowl twist his mouth, before he rode on ahead again, his back more ramrod straight than ever.

“Oh, sure and he likes you,” William muttered.

I scoffed. “And here I thought you were the smart one.”

****

Two days after the axe arrived, our social media team decided to make up a post for our Facebook page. I was always amazed and grateful that in 2019, so many people still had a thirst for history, to find out about their ancestors and how people had lived before they themselves came into being.

Emma fluffed up my hair (very difficult for Asian hair, I can tell you, it is almost always poker straight no matter what potions I use or blood sacrifices I make) and fixed my make-up as I prepared to record a little Facebook live video for the post.

When Mike, our tech intern, mouthed “go,” I spoke for three minutes about how excited we were to have received the axe. I didn’t mention that we had no idea who had sent it, of course - I didn’t want to discourage further anonymous artefact donations. When Mike clicked the camera off with a thumbs up, Emma, he and I all watched the cellphone me before he posted with a sketch of the axe and a bit of text. Within an hour, it had seventy likes and twice that many shares.

A few hours later, when I next sat down at my computer to troll through my e-mails, one about the Facebook post caught my eye.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: spanish (?) axe

Dear Ms Yuan

I was wondering if you’re planning on releasing any more details about the axe on your Facebook page. I’m very interested in military history and something about it is really familiar to me. Do you have any more pictures?

I scrolled down to read the next paragraph but before I could, Emma appeared at my desk. “Sorry. The school visit’s just arrived in the foyer. They’re a half hour early. Shall I tell them to wait?”

I closed the browser. “No, it’s fine, I’ll go down now.”

I snagged my pass and keys and looped the lanyard over my neck, the e-mail forgotten.

***

“We are heading for the wall, yes?” Tovar asked when we’d stopped under some patchy trees to rest the horses and to eat some very dry crackers that William shared out.

“Hard to avoid it,” William replied genially. His mood was usually good, and I wondered how he’d ended up with misery guts here. “Perhaps the black powder is behind it. Makes sense that they’d want to protect what’s theirs.”

Tovar ate the crackers in silence, sitting with his back to us on a large fallen log. The heat of the day made sweat trickle down my back. I must have made some noise of disquiet, because the grumpy Spaniard turned.

“What?”

My hackles immediately raised. “Oh, I’m sorry, must I be totally silent?”

“You know, it’s at times like these that I long for wine,” William muttered, leaning against a tree with a sigh, and munching on his snack.

“I was merely asking what you needed,” Tovar snapped back. “Perhaps my amigo here can help you, as you’ve become so close, no?”

I stared at him. He’s jealous. I could hardly believe it. “Don’t drag William into this.”

“First name terms,” he sneered.

Enough of this nonsense. I stomped over to him, looming over him as he sat on the log, legs spread for balance. I tried, and failed, not to notice the shape of his thighs under his tunic, the broadness of his chest, the way his hair licked up at the back. “If your first name isn’t Tovar, you should have enlightened me,” I snapped, five hundred percent done with this infuriating man, “I can’t read minds.”

“And thank God for that,” I thought I heard him mutter, but before I could replay his bitten-off words in my head, William put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, making Tovar and I turn around.

“Stop bickering. Looks like we’ve got company.”

Tagging: @badassbaker @songsformonkeys @agirllovespasta @a-seeker-of-imagination @keeper0fthestars @agentpike @littlemissthistle @alldatalost @ly--canthrope @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @starlight-starwrites @stylelovechild @maryan028 @seawhisperer @restingnurseface @emesispo @pedropascalito @holographic-carmen @hdlynn @havenforafrazzledmind @thewaythisis @mstgsmy @jaime1110 @10-96dispatcher @talesfromtheguild @kindablackenedsuperhero @marydjarin @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @buckstaposition @phoenixhalliwell @irishleesh93 @voteforpedropascal @mrsparknuts @pinkzsugar @emmy-dandiliom918 @chews-erotically @lackofhonor @dornish-queen

#pero tovar x ofc #pero tovar fic #the great wall fic

128 notes · View notes

nevernotwriting · 4 years

Text

You, Me, and Yancy | Chapter 9: Escape

Read me on AO3!

Previous chapter

You woke up with the very firm knowledge that today was your last day in prison. This was the day Yancy was going to help you escape. You felt nervous with excitement and anticipation, but a small part of your heart wrenched when you met with Yancy and his gang after lunch.

Yancy was hunched over staring at the table when you joined him, lost in thought. It took Hank nudging him to bring his attention to your arrival. He blinked and sat up, barely shooting you a smile before launching into the plan.

The plan was simple. When you were getting dinner, Tiny was going to push you into Yancy. Yancy would take a swing at you, and the rest of the gang would declare a fight to alert The Warden.

“And what happens after that?” You asked.

“Ah don’t worry, I got a few tricks up my sleeve,” Yancy replied. He smiled at you with a wink, but his smile still didn’t reach his eyes.

You wanted to spend some more time with Yancy before your departure, but he whisked himself away from the table shortly after, claiming he had some business to take care of before your escape could commence. You sighed as the rest of the gang departed, leaving you alone.

The evening rolled round all too quickly, and you were back in the canteen once more. You joined the queue for food, Tiny slipping in front of you. She nodded to you, and you nodded back. Yancy was stood behind you, the first time you had seen him in many hours. His hands were clasped in front of him, a tight smile on his face before he cast his eyes back down to the floor once again. You looked around at the other prisoners, all of whom were eating their food and shooting occasional glances your way. The guards milled around the edges of the room, utterly clueless to what was brewing in front of them.

A couple of minutes passed as you shuffled forward in the queue. You were about to turn to Yancy and ask him when this would be happening when Tiny stopped in her tracks. You bumped into her with a huff. She didn’t miss a beat, whipping round and shoving you backwards into Yancy.

“Hey!” Yancy snapped, pushing you away from him. A look of venom was plastered onto his face, but you saw it crack for a split second before chaos ensued.

Despite her nickname, Tiny had one hell of a pair of lungs on her.

“Fight!”

Every prisoner scrambled to their feet and surrounded you, holding back the guards like a human barricade as Yancy raised his fists. He took a purposefully slow swing in your direction and you ducked, keeping your eyes trained on him as shouts and screams rang in your ears. You were anxious at the prospect of having to hit him again when the lights turned red and alarms blared once more, indicating that The Warden was on his way. You gulped and glanced at Yancy, who gave you a reassuring wink. You didn’t miss his hands clenching into fists as he curled in on himself.

The circle parted to reveal The Warden, who marched forward and grabbed Yancy’s arm. You winced, scowling as he pointed a finger at Yancy’s face.

“Yancy!” He barked, flecks of spit flying out of his mouth in every direction. “What did I tell you about startin’ fights?”

Yancy gulped, shaking his head from side to side. “B-b-but-”

“You have given me no other choice!”

A guard stepped forward and The Warden tossed Yancy towards him.

“Put him in solitary!”

Your heart started pounding in your chest. Either the plan hadn’t worked, or it was one hell of a strange plan. By the time the lights returned to normal and the alarm died out, you were a quivering mess. The Warden rounded in on you.

“And you,” he spat. “Get back to your cell.”

A harsh grip landed on your shoulder and escorted you out of the canteen. You were pushed down the hallway and into your cell, the guard closing the bars behind you with a loud clang.

You sighed and scratched the back of your neck, unsure of what to do next. You looked towards your bed; maybe this plan of Yancy’s wouldn’t occur for a few more hours, so getting some rest didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Not like you had anything else to do.

You climbed under your covers, looking up at the bottom of the bed above you. What you saw made you shoot out from under the sheets faster than a bullet from a gun.

“Hey buddy. How ya doin’?”

“Yancy!” You hissed, trying not to yell. “What are you doing here? How did you get out of solitary?”

“Told ya, I got a few tricks up my sleeve,” he replied with a smirk, pulling a piece of black material from his pocket. “Looks like, uh… looks like it might be time to break outta here, but before we do, I need ya to put this on.”

Yancy held the material out to you. You frowned at him in confusion.

“Awh listen, it ain’t nothin’ personal. I just don’t want word gettin’ out about my escape routes, ya hear? Cause if you know, then yous gonna tell others, and then theys gonna tell others, and then suddenly, everyone’s breakin’ out, when no one-”

You put a finger to his lips, shocking him out of his irritated spiel. He went cross-eyed looking at your finger, but he didn’t seem to mind. You smiled and rolled your eyes at him, taking the material and tying it around your eyes.

“Yeah. I get it.”

“Good move. Now let’s get goin’. But, uh, watch ya head.”

With your makeshift blindfold securely in place, Yancy took your hand and led you to your escape.

A few hop, skips, and jumps later, you were on solid ground once more, and a light breeze indicated that you were outside. Yancy’s hand let go of yours, and you took off your blindfold.

“And there you have it!” He declared.

You looked around, taking in your surroundings. You relished in the sky above you, having only seen a concrete ceiling for most of the last few days. The grass you were standing on was slightly overgrown, and it tickled your ankles. You didn’t want to take these small details for granted ever again.

“Oh and, uh…” Yancy caught your attention again, producing two items.

“I think these are youses?” He asked, holding them out to you. It was your cell phone – unmistakably yours by its unique casing – and the artefact.

You gasped, taking the objects from him. “Yancy, thank you! How did you-”

Yancy shrugged his shoulders and scratched the back of his neck, looking down at the ground. “It’s no big deal. I just… I slipped by the Warden’s office to have a little chat on the way over here. I saw that thing,” he pointed to the box, “that yous walked in with, so uh… I dunno. I thought you’d want it.”

A smile broke out onto your face, your heart melting. It soon froze again as Yancy casually grasped two of the bars on the gate.

He was still on the other side.

“Yancy…” You cleared your throat. “Do you… why don’t you…”

You couldn’t get the words out, too afraid of rejection. You gestured instead, beckoning him to come with you.

Yancy blinked in surprise. “Me? Out there? With you?”

He smiled, but you could see the torment in his eyes. He glanced at the ground again, shuffling his hands on the bars.

“Nah, I uh… I done a lot of bad things, and uh… this is home! For now, anyway.” He gestured to the prison behind him.

The breeze seemed to pick up and chill you to your very core as his words sunk in. You took a step closer.

“Yancy, you told me yourself that you didn’t kill your parents. Why do time for something you didn’t do?”

Yancy shuffled his hands again and hung his head with a sigh.

“Look, Zero… I appreciate what yous sayin’, but I still done a few bad things. I ain’t perfect.” He attempted a smile, but it fell flat when he looked at your sombre expression.

“Neither am I, but you still helped me. Is what you did really bad enough to stay in here for… for what, forever?”

Your voice was growing hoarse with emotion, not wanting to let go of his kindness and charm so soon. You had only known each other for a few days, but the pounding of your heart told you more than your brain could ever rationalise. You placed a hand over his. His gaze fixed on your hand, and he flexed his fingers. You hoped he would intertwine his hand with yours, but he merely drew his hand back and returned it to rub the side of his neck. He let out another deep sigh, meeting your eyes once more.

“Maybe next time parole comes up, I’ll… give it a shot.” The last four words were barely above a whisper, and you felt your heart clench yet again. You wanted to pull him towards you, hug him tight and never let go, but you couldn’t.

“Anyway,” Yancy snapped himself out of his guilt-ridden expression. “I better get back to it. You take care now, ya hear?”

You swallowed, barely managing a smile. “You too.”

Yancy returned his hand to yours, giving it one final squeeze before he began to pace away from the gate.

“Visitation, every third Sunday!” He shouted.

The two of you kept your eyes locked for as long as possible. When you finally did look away to turn on your phone, Yancy was gone.

A lump formed in your throat. You paced away from the gate, turning around to see only the side of the prison building and a desolate road.

You were alone again.

You leaned against a nearby tree, taking a deep breath in and out. You were out of prison, you were liberated, yet somehow you felt emptier than you had in the past couple of days you’d spent behind bars.

Your phone vibrated, startling you out of your worried mind. It was fully operational, with half the battery still left. A stream of missed calls and messages from friends and family trickled in, many of them asking where the hell you were and why you weren’t replying. Guilt flooded your body, and you made a mental note to reply to them as soon as you were safe and apologise for leaving them hanging. You tapped through your contacts, looking for a getaway, though in the back of your mind you already knew the best person to call.

Mark’s face and number appeared on your screen. He had a big cheesy grin on his face, hair splaying around. It must have been windy when he took that picture. Your stomach lurched as your thumb hovered over the call button, taking one final look around you for any passing cars you could hitch a ride from, but the road was empty.

“Son of a bitch,” you cursed to yourself, locking your phone. Seeing his face again sent your blood boiling after what you’d witnessed the night before on the security cameras, but your stomach still fluttered with all the fond memories you’d had with him. You curled up at the base of the tree, tears springing to your eyes as you hugged your knees.

Just when you were about to give in, you thought of one other solution.

You looked at the artefact, still clutched in your other hand. Shark said it contained something, right?

“Please, please be something good,” you prayed, prying off the lid and tipping the contents into your lap.

Whatever fell out wasn’t heavy. You picked it up. It was a key, and around it was a small piece of rolled-up paper. You unravelled it, revealing a message.

This universal skeleton key can unlock ANY lock ever made.

You read the message again, huffing a breath of disbelief. The key looked old but mostly unimposing. To think it held such power took your breath away.

You glanced at the prison gate. Your heart started racing again, thinking of Yancy on the other side, alone in his cell. You glanced to the road. You thought of Mark getting an earful from Shark for failing the heist. Maybe he even missed you.

“Why can’t everything be easy?” You questioned, looking down at the phone and the key in your hands. One of them led to a life you wanted, but figuring out exactly which was which was a whole other puzzle. Your heart was being pulled in two directions, one by a man you barely knew, and the other by a man you weren’t sure you could trust anymore.

Finally, your brain kicked into action.

What was that Yancy said earlier?

You heard his words in your mind, clear as day in his accent.

“Visitation, every third Sunday.”

Everything clicked into place as you hatched a plan. You stood up with a new sense of purpose, key tightly in your grasp.

You unlocked your phone and called Mark.

Next chapter

#a heist with markiplier #ahwm #heist mark #heist mark x reader #heist! mark x reader #yancy x reader #ahwm yancy x reader #ahwm yancy #my writing #nevernotwriting

13 notes · View notes

harry5232860 · 4 years

Text

Week 8

Andrew Simpson Video -

The model making process is shown in the video as an invaluable way to explore multiple different avenues of product development. Andrew mentions how different ways of modelling can be used to test different factors, for example 3d printed models may show size, scale and the feel in hand in regard to shape but are not accurate for weight and grip. 3d models are however very easy to do as they just require the 3d computer model. This means that model making allows for such an array of different testing when done thoroughly through different methods.

The mention of low fidelity vs high fidelity is the difference between investment into the model. For general shape a quick model from foam may be able to be used as weight and texture may not matter, making it low fidelity. This would be good for quick checks of ideas and drawings. A high fidelity model would be far more developed and usually later on in the design process, it requires more investment but would give more detailed feedback for things such as grip, weight and true hand feel in regard to the razor handle.

Image 0.5

I was lucky to have a symmetrical (in most senses) and square bottle. This meant to take the photos I used my cutting mat and lined up the bottle along the lines and used a grid on the camera up which I then also lined up with the cutting mat grid, the bottle sat at the centre point.

For a more complex design a jig likely would have suited best.

Image 0.75 + 1

Although the method of tracing shown in the video seemed to work quite well for that style of bottle, I decided instead to use the canvas as a reference for how to chamfer my corners. All of my chamfers I wanted to be matching around the bulk of the bottle so I only had to use the top view and ended up with a 10mm fillet which I then extruded up to match the full height.

I then filleted the remaining edges and used the second canvas I had as a check. Being symmetrical I realised the third view would have done the same job as this one.

I enjoyed this process of matching the design to the canvas in a 3d program as you can both tweak it in a reductive way as well as a constructive way, something that is much harder in the physical realm of model making.

Image 2

I created my cut-out for the bottle by making it as a separate piece and putting it in place and used the combine tool to cut it out of the body of the bottle. The canvases again came in helpful here as a reference however I used the measurements off my physical model also. Its helpful having different references to use as the static canvases are quick and easy to either show, hide and trace but the physical model allows for measurements to be taken and plotted straight into fusion.

I also added a slight chamfer to an edge which I had in my initial drawings but was too fine to do well on the foam model.

Image 3

I added an extruded circle to create a cylindrical neck and followed the instructions plus some extra googling on forums to create a thread, a task that would be very time consuming for a physical model.

Image 4

The lid I created did not match the week 5 lid as I wanted to take measurements from my foam model and create a lid with some subtle chamfers to make it slightly more separated from the bottle. I used the hole tool and thread tool to create a matching female thread. Whilst research further on creating matching threads I came across many mentions of providing tolerances also, something that many videos didn’t elaborate on but something id like to further explore.

Image 5 + 6 + 7

The final model im quite happy with. After I shelled the model (near impossible to do with a foam model), I rendered it in a translucent brown plastic with a clear window as I had more envisioned it originally. I also included a version in solid white plastic both with and without the lid as well as a section view to show it off in different ways.

I enjoyed this 3d modelling process as it allows for flexibility. Being able to try something out and simply go back or delete a part if it doesn’t turn out is something that I find relaxing in comparison to physical reduction methods. Having the physical model on hand however was extremely helpful as a reference as well as of course having it in the program as a canvas. It did have frustrating moments but the overall process was somewhat of a relaxing puzzle.

There were two main negatives I had with this process. The first being that the program can only be as good as I am at using it. As im quite new to 3d modelling and to this program it meant my speed at it was slowed and my ability to even search or ask questions is limited by the knowledge I have and by my ability to describe an issue. The other thing I found which will likely not be an issue as I progress is that when I created the clear window for the render it left some clear artefacts showing through from certain angles. The only way I could find to fix this was really to start the model again and create the window as a separate component. Something which is possible but quite time consuming. It also only became an issue in the final stages and so it made me realise that for this process we are at the mercy of the technologies capabilities also, some of these limits are hard to notice until too late in the process.

Overall im looking forward to progressing my skills at 3d modelling both the physical forms and digital.

**forgot 2 screenshots hence 0.5 and 0.75**

8 notes · View notes

rallamajoop · 5 years

Text

Inception: A Fannish Retrospective

For a while now I’ve found myself craving a fic of a particular hard-to-define quality – something with a bit of grit and maturity – not graphic or grim, but perhaps the kind of seedy underworld setting you might find in the better parts of Tarantino or Guy Richie’s oeuvre. The kind of fic that lets me believe that if the author toned down the slash and published it as a mainstream crime or espionage thriller, I’d still be enthused about reading it. Cord Smithee’s work is a particularly good example, for the UNCLE fans out there, but you can only reread those fics so many times, and fic of that quality has been especially sparse in the last few fandoms I’ve drifted through, and so the craving lingered.

Then it hit me: hey, you know what fandom used to be really good for that kind of fic? Inception.

And after all this time in Venom fandom, it was hardly a big jump to more Tom Hardy, so.

Maybe the bigger wonder is that nearly ten years on, most of the fic is still just as good as I remember it being. Mirabella’s Towards Zero remains one of the most satisfying things I’ve ever read in any fandom, and delires’ chav!Eames AU is better than any idea that cracked has any goddamn right to be, and (at least as long as you’re into the juggernaut ship that is Arthur/Eames) you are spoilt for choice for more.

But revisiting a fandom this much later and binging this much fic, you notice things. We’ll start with…

The Film

Still holds up on rewatching today. It will never be nearly as smart a film as I’ve seen some claim: totems, for one, make no fucking sense (they’re objects with details known only to you, but if Cobb can unintentionally bring a carbon copy of his wife into a dream, why not a top that falls over when spun? And why does it keep spinning indefinitely in dreams, anyway?), and for all the exposition on ‘kicks’, why the kicks need to be synchronised to work under sedation is woefully under-explained, to the point I’m always by distracted trying to make sense of it in the middle of the third act. (Do not even get me started on the ‘it’s actually about filmmaking!’ theory – the mental gymnastics required to explain how Yusuf or Mal fits in or why we’re so fixated on the importance of the set designer, of all roles, is laughable. Some of the parallels are moderately entertaining, but don’t try to tell me you’ve unlocked the secret meaning of the film – Inception is not a movie that makes you work that hard to find its main themes.)

But the film works despite its plotholes because it’s not, ultimately, a story driven by its mechanics: the endlessly spinning top may make no sense, but film is a visual medium, and it’s such a good visual gimmick it’s gets a pass. The practical stunts are still as impressive ever, but what really lifts Inception so far beyond your typical action/heist film – for me, at least – are the characters, and the huge emotional payoffs at the end. Fischer’s reconciliation with his father is no less moving for its falseness, “We did grow old together” has gotten a sniffle out of me time and again, and the final “We’ll be young men together” scene is wonderful in so many ways I could only dream there was the Cobb/Saito fic to live up to. It’s not for nothing I’ve got Inception mentally filed in my very short list of humanist action movies along with Mad Max: Fury Road, Terminator II, and precious few others.

And then there’s…

The Fandom

Film fandoms are always an interesting beast, peaking as they do when the film is still in theatres, when most folks writing fic are working off imperfect memories of having seen an hour or two’s worth of canon maybe once or twice at most. Fanon can go feral in far less conducive environments, is my point here – inevitably, there’ll be the details that get analysed to death or flanderised to the point of parody, and the details that get altogether forgotten. Here’s just one example that hit me on a rewatch: I have lately read god knows how many different theories on just what it means that Arthur knew Eames was in Mombasa – none of them the least bothered by how everything in Cobb’s behaviour in that scene suggests he already knows exactly where he’s going, and may even be right now leaving to catch his flight. We could talk about the artefacts of clunky exposition being shoehorned into the dialogue, or the actual intent of that exchange, but shipper-goggles give you some powerful tunnel-vision (and I say this as someone who ships it like burning).

Binge as much fic as fast as I have in the last few months, and you begin to notice trends. Common themes and popular fanon that have ascended to gospel, and facets of the original film I’d love to see explored that fandom seems to have collectively missed altogether (and the sad lack of decent Cobb/Saito is only one). Below, in no particular order, are some of those observations.

Since most of these come across as critical, I want to emphasise that I have had a ball revisiting the fic in this fandom, and there are probably multiple fics guilty of everything I touch on below which I have loved to bits. It’s only the repetition that really starts to make you sit up and notice.

1. The Cobb-bashing, oh my god the Cobb-bashing! I had forgotten just how much this fandom hates Cobb. In the film, Cobb’s plan is the only reason Arthur and Eames ever end up in the same room at all – yet in fanfic, Cobb has been recast as the only thing keeping them apart. I’m not kidding there – fic with that exact premise is almost its own genre. In Inception fanon, Cobb is crazy and cares only about himself, and Arthur has wasted years of misplaced loyalty keeping him alive. Fanon!Eames hates Cobb for monopolising Arthur’s attention (in the film, Eames seems underwhelmed to learn Cobb is still working with Arthur at all). Fanon!Eames only works with Cobb at all because it’s an excuse to work with Arthur (in the film, they’re barely capable of having a civil conversation). Fanon!Eames never forgives Cobb for concealing the level of sedation they were under Inception job, and nor does Arthur (in the film, no-one even mentions Cobb’s deception after they leave the first level, and Eames’ main disappointment at the end is that he won’t get to see the Fischers’ big reconciliation, but why let that douse a good hateboner?) Meanwhile, Yusuf’s corresponding betrayal and Arthur’s equally-disastrous research-fail are rarely referenced. It’s not every fic, but the base level of Cobb-hate around these parts is pretty astounding. There’s nothing new about fans bashing the main character for having the gall to take screentime away from their OTP, and I’d be the last to play down Cobb’s real failings. But when one finds oneself tempted to leave enthusiastic comments on decade-old fic, praising the author for giving Cobb a minor scene or two where he gets to be a total bro to Arthur for a change… I promise you, it’s not me, it’s this fandom.

2. For all that Eames is basically the single biggest reason I’m reading in this fandom, his fanon characterisation leaves something to be desired. I do get the appeal of flirty!Eames or pining!Eames – it’s just that once in a while, you find yourself longing for fic about the guy who was actually in the movie – y’know, the one who’s first response to Arthur’s name was, “Arthur? Are you still working with that stick-in-the-mud?” I am totally down with the idea he was feigning indifference– maybe for Cobb’s benefit, maybe he’s actively in denial himself, whatevs. But fanon!Eames characterisation typically ranges from “hopelessly in love with Arthur from the moment they met” to “a walking sexual harassment lawsuit in action,” and neither of those guys could convincingly feign indifference to save their lives. It’s also a shame we don’t see more of the side of Eames that got so genuinely, unashamedly invested in what they were doing for Fischer – quite beyond the money and the prestige, Eames loves that they get to fix Fischer’s relationship with his father and reveal Browning as the rat that he is, and it’s a wonderfully humanising side to such a shady character. There should be so much scope in there to cast Eames was a guy with a real idealistic streak, or more conscience than he’d usually admit to, or just an abiding love for melodrama – the possibilities go on and on (and if you can’t think of a dozen ways to tie any of those in as fuel for his rivalry with Arthur for bonus shippy fodder, you aren’t even trying). But that part of Eames never does seem to have found a place in the fandom’s collective headcanon, because hell if I can find any exploration of it in fic, le sigh. (Cynically, I have to wonder if it’s because it clashes with the fanon where Eames spent the Inception job furiously hating Cobb and focused on Arthur, but even that seems somewhat lacking as an answer. Who even knows?)

3. As a corollary to the above, remarkably few fics make any attempt to deal with the fact that Arthur and Eames a) basically hate each other, b) for reasons that do not entirely revolve around how Arthur won’t put out. Obviously, this is a ‘hate’ that covers a much deeper well of underlying respect, but these are two guys who only stop taking potshots at each other when they’re being shot at for real, and to me that is 95% of the fun of the pairing – why does no-one even seem to try to recreate that dynamic in fic? Even 99% of Eames’ infamous ‘flirting’ would be better described as him pulling Arthur’s pigtails. Yet virtually no-one seems to want to tackle their antipathy head-on – even fic that acknowledges it as a past phase of their relationship isn’t set during that phase. I’m all for seeing them eventually end up friendlier, but you’ve got to show me how they get there first – that’s the good bit! Why does everyone skip over it? :((((

4. This fandom has SUCH a thing for underage!Arthur. Fics will go on and on about how young he looks, or theorise that he was actually underaged when he first got into dreamshare, or at least looked it. Seriously, the idea of Eames having mistaken Arthur for a teen when they first met is, like, the accepted pan-fandom headcanon as to why they don’t get on (unless we’re in military-backstory land, in which case it’s that Arthur had to deal with Eames hitting on him during the time of DADT). Then there are the many (MANY) AUs where Arthur really is a teen, hitting on the much-older Eames – there’s that one semi-parody where even twenty-something!Arthur gets cockblocked by his own looks, and there’s even at least one that flips things so that Eames the one who was underage when they met, just for variety.

It’s a real Thing, and I only wish I understood where it comes from, since (to me) Arthur has always looked like the 29yo man JGL legitimately was back when Inception hit screens – I don’t think he’d even passed as a Hollywood!teen for a solid half a decade at that point. So… are there really that many people who thought JGL looked that young when the film came out, or is this just one of those fannish meme things? I may never know.

5. No-one (by which I mean almost no-one) gets how limbo works. Fic after fic treats it as basically just a garden-variety coma, and colleagues can spend days or months moving the victim, gathering a team and planning a complex rescue. Rarely is it ever remembered the whole point of limbo is that you can age and die trapped in your own mind in no more than hours in the real world. When Eames talks about being ‘trapped in limbo until our brains turn to scrambled egg’, I think it’s safe to assume he’s being pretty literal. Basically, if you’re not treating limbo as the temporal equivalent of the Total Perspective Vortex, you’re probably doing it wrong.

6. No-one does anything interesting with Ariadne. This, I have some sympathy for: it’s hard to know where to go with someone who ends the film where she does – her push-pull relationship with the world of illegal dreamshare is not a contradiction that can be easily resolved in a subplot, if at all. But the Ariadne who so quickly had Cobb picked as a loose canon never seems to appear in fic either, and nor does the Ariadne with the guts to sneak into his dream to find answers, or the prodigy whose last-minute moment of inspiration saved the whole job. No, Inception fic is more likely to give you an Ariadne who giggles and drags her teammates out partying than any of that, which is absurd to the point of being genuinely offensive. Seriously, that is some A-grade “all we remembered about her is that she’s female”-bullshit. Even when she’s not saddled with OOC giggle fits, fic!Ariadne also remains frustrating static: years after the film, she’ll still be doing extractions with the Inception team, despite seeming no more at home in their world. Where’s the Ariadne who embraces the underworld wholeheartedly and reaches Arthur or Cobb levels of badassery? The Ariadne whose natural gifts and overconfidence get her into Cobb-levels of trouble? Who takes the Inception job as inspiration to go into therapeutic uses of dreams? Who finds legitimate dream-related work through Miles or Saito, but still lets the old team drag her back into extractions every once in a while (because she’s easily one of the most reliable architects in the whole shady business, and there’s a part of her that still kind of loves it)? WHERE?

The obvious rejoinder to all this is that it’s hardly surprising Ariadne doesn’t get much play when you’re mostly reading Arthur/Eames fic. So (because the land of fic is still terrible at cataloguing character-specific gen) I had a dig through some Arthur/Ariadne fic for comparison – only to run into much the same frustrations all over again. No-one takes her character anywhere very interesting.

So you can imagine my surprised delight when I tried a couple of Arthur/Ariadne/Eames fics on a whim, and almost immediately found not one but two different stories willing to dive headfirst into the questions surrounding Ariadne’s future in the world of illegal dreamshare (plus multiple stories which made a very convincing case that Ariadne should absolutely celebrate their successful Inception by having a threesome with her colleagues, I mean, damn).

I have absolutely no idea what it says about fandom that I had to go looking at threesome fic to find real character development, but at this point, I’ll take it.

7. So, I get why everyone reads Eames as queer (duh), but having discovered two quite excellent straight!Eames fic (which is to say, fic which utterly sells the idea that Eames considers himself straight or had no experience with men until long after meeting Arthur), the fact no equivalent seems to exist for Arthur baffles me. Sure, there’s one or two stories where one smile from Eames is about all it takes to make him change his mind, and one great kink meme fill that might have been just what I was looking for if it had ever been finished. But otherwise, the idea that Arthur (a guy who snogs Ariadne and is given no other obvious sexuality) -- the same Arthur whom every other fic portrays as seriously emotionally repressed – the idea this guy might not be experienced and comfortable dating men just… doesn’t seem to have occurred to anyone. Which is so weird.

Is there not enough RL evidence that Tom Hardy can and does make straight guys reconsider their preferences? Is the idea of an Arthur who’s repressed that side of his own sexuality not a juicy enough explanation for the tension between them? How on earth did we wind up with a fandom where Eames is more likely to be the designated “straight” one at the start of the story than Arthur? The mind boggles.

Holy shit, you’re still reading? Damn! Have some more recs as thanks for listening to me ramble at so much length.

Recs!

Here’s those two from the top again, because I really do love them that much

We Can Do This Until We Pass Out by delires Disturbing London, baby, we about to branch out. (The one where Eames is a chav)

Towards Zero by Mirabella Five levels down, and five to dig yourself back out. Arthur met Eames' projection long before he met Eames.

Where the Dead Live also by Mirabella There's a monster in Arthur's basement. Maybe he shouldn't have invited it in. It’s the vampire!Apocalypse, and this one is intense. Utterly brilliant, but equally unapologetic about the implications of its premise. So, for a somewhat-lighter take on monster!Eames, I will also throw in:

Cthonical’s demon!Eames verse Unfinished -- arguably never even properly started, just a series of ficlets from a ‘verse that never quite got written, but they are scorching hot and still well worth a look.

That’s a lot of darker fic though, probably time to lighten the mood a little.

Anal [Inception] aka Not Now Cobb We're Doing BGs also by cthonical Arthur and Eames both play WoW. They kick ass at Warsong Gulch, and when they team up they’re nigh on unstoppable.They don’t know they’re playing with each other.

Champion Sound by pyrimidine Prompt: Arthur is a DJ, Eames is a bartender.

London Bridge by sorrynotsorry Arthur loves whiskey, and maybe strippers.

My two favourite Arthur/Eames/Ariadne fics

How to Cure Insomnia by wonderfulwrites When she called Arthur for advice on how to deal with the unexpected insomnia - okay, fine, on the pretense of asking for advice – she hadn’t expected to have to wade through a sea of bodies to see him. But then, she also hadn’t expected Eames’s cheerful but surprising, Just come, Ariadne. You can sleep when you’re dead. Or Eames, at all, really. The Wind on the Mountain by Starlingthefool Something in her rebels against this casual, passive seduction. God knows why, but she’s sitting up in the water, taking her foot back from Eames and dislodging Arthur’s hands from her back. She stands, wet underwear clinging ridiculously to her, and says to Arthur, “All right. Your turn.”

Aaand let’s have a few more straight Arthur/Eames to round it out.

Untitled and Untitled, redux by Helenish -- two variants on a theme, and do not let the lack of proper titles put you off, they’re both great.

Unexpected Plot Twist by ethrosdemon Post-Inception -- long and (as promised) twisty, and a very solid read.

Four Corners by Mithrigil In Eames’ line of work, a first impression means nearly everything. It’s always a pity when he doesn’t get off on the right foot.

Kiss With A Fist by cmonkatiekatie Because apparently, to find real Arthur/Eames antagonism, I have to go looking for hate sex. (Not complaining, this is some amazing hate sex.)

And also basically Everything by Wiltling There’s a darker vibe to their work, but it rarely gets oppressive -- just generally a lot of great fic.

#Inception #meta #fic recs

29 notes · View notes

idratherstayslytherin · 6 years

Text

Re-writing the story I once wrote, but not really

Some of you may remember my fic “The Feelings We Can’t Let Go”.

It began as a head canon, then the lovely person on tumblr wrote the more put together version of it. We decided to write the fic together. It was going well until university and UK fucked me over. During this whole madness my co-writer disappeared from tumblr and I can’t contact her. I have tried it many times. She didn’t reply. I started writing the fic myself determined to finish it, but my life is hell rn and I don’t have the time to write the two last chapters. I do have the outline and hopefully after i start earning money and start actually getting better mentally and studying and money wise, I’ll finish it. For now I went back to the first version of the headcanon I made with my co-writer and noticed A LOT OF GRAMMAR mistakes as well as some things that weren’t making sense. I wanted to re write this kind of first chapter, so I did. I added a lot of new text, fixed all the mistakes that I could see and ta da! There you have it. You have to be happy with just this until I have the time to finish this damn fic. I want it to be enjoyable, but also make sense, maybe even help people with their own problems, I want it to seem real and I want it to be a lovely love story. I’m a romantic shoot me. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy it! Let me know what you think of it <3 I love reading your comments. Also if any artist wants to idk make a fanart of my work now or after I finish this damn fic and have a beta read it , then feel free to do so. Okay, I’m talking way too much, just STFU Ola, no one wants to listen to you rumble :D

//////////////

Harry felt like he should have wanted to go back to Hogwarts. Even worse, he knew he should go back there. But he just couldn’t convince himself, not even with Hermione and Ginny returning. Then again, Ron wasn’t going back either, and he didn’t even feel guilty about it, not even after Hermione talked to him about the importance of learning and getting the best possible results in their NEWTs. He got a bit of yelling too, but Hermione directed most of it at Ron, leaving Harry to deal with an angry and sad Ginny, who wanted him to go back.

But there they were on the first of September at King’s Cross station saying their goodbyes and waving after the Hogwarts Express before apparating back to Grimmauld Place. Ron had no intentions of spending the year at the Burrow, it was too far away from London, and he wanted to help George out at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes in Diagon Alley. He also admitted that he couldn’t really deal with his parents’ grief, and Harry was more than happy to offer him accommodation, not only because Ron was his best mate, but he really needed the company. Grimmauld Place might have looked a lot less gloomy since they renovated it, spending all June and most of July sorting and chucking out old furniture and artefacts, knocking down some of the walls (this being the only way of getting rid of the horrible yelling portrait of Sirius’ mother), and painting the rest in brighter shades, the house was still way too big for one person.

Soon, having turned Hogwarts down, Harry found himself obliged to decide on what he wanted to do with his life or at least the foreseeable future. Of course everyone expected him to become an auror, it seemed like the most obvious choice, but despite admittedly being interested in the job back in their fifth year, he wasn’t sure anymore if he wanted to go along with it. He might have defeated Voldemort, but was that really what he was destined to do all his life? Hunt down dark wizards?

He decided on meeting with Kingsley to discuss further possibilities. After getting detailed information about all of jobs he recommended to Harry, and spending three days straight going through the descriptions, forms and books he got, he was sure he would either want to become an Unspeakable or a Curse-breaker. He would have been happy to dive back into his books and papers to choose one of the two jobs. However Ron was already complaining about the whole house being littered with the papers; how Harry did nothing except sit on the couch, read and compare and read and compare; so Harry decided to give himself some time to consider his choice, meanwhile enjoying his freedom.

Do you seriously want to be an Unspeakable?" Ron asked, his mouth full. This was the only part of the last few days he was enjoying, the takeaway they had every evening. "You can never shut up about what you are doing. Do you really think you could go without telling anyone anything about your job?"

"Probably not." Harry shrugged, picking up another slice of pizza. "Though I guess I’ll have to, and it will be worth it.

"C’mon, Curse-breaking seems much more interesting. I’d go with that without hesitation."

"Well then why don’t you? And let me become who I want to be?" Harry snapped. He ate the last bit of pizza, and wiped his hands. " Sorry I didn’t mean that, I’m tired. " He apologised as soon as he realised Ron said nothing that should have angered him. He rubbed his eyes.

"Hardly surprising, you barley slept these past few days, mate, seriously. Just forget about this job thing for a while, it isn’t going to do you any good. Besides, it’s not like you have to start work instantly, you have enough money to live happily for the rest of your life."

"I did sleep last night." Harry protested, deciding not to comment on the money part, as what Ron said was true, he did have a vault full of money. His friend didn’t, and even though he offered to help them, they never accepted it. What he also didn’t mention was that even though he did get a bit of sleep, he kept waking up from nightmares, and if it hadn’t been for the coffee he had every two hours, he would have nodded off halfway through the day. The nightmares, and pretty much everything else connected to the war were one of those topics they avoided. It sometimes resulted in uncomfortable silences, Harry agreed that it was better this way.

"I wonder who else from our year is going back to school." Ron said, changing the topic. "I know Neville decided to do the auror training. And Seamus isn’t going back either, he said something about opening some pub in Diagon."

"I think I heard Dean was going back."

"Oh yeah I heard that too. And Padma and Parvati. I don’t know about anyone else though."

"Me neither. I only know that most of the Slytherins aren’t returning, a lot of them got house arrests with their parents and stuff like that."

"Malfoy?"

"House arrest, in France. But I think he will be taking NEWTs."

"He deserves to rot in Azkaban with his father" Ron scowled.

"He isn’t that bad. I mean he did save my life once" Harry said, though he didn’t sound too sure about it. He might not have despised him as much as he did before, but it was still Malfoy.

"Yeah, and then you saved his, so don’t get any funny ideas of owing him or anything" Ron told him, making Harry grin, Ron knew him more than anyone else. He did feel like he owed Malfoy, a bit at least, but he guessed that speaking in his favour at the trials made them equal.

"Alright" Harry laughed. He vanished the empty pizza boxes, and stood up, yawning. "I’m tired, let’s pack it in for the day."

"I second that" Ron stood up as well, and the two friends made their way upstairs to their bedrooms, Ron in one of the guest ones, Harry sleeping in Sirius’s old room.

Days passed, Harry visited Kingsley once again, then spent another day reading before eventually deciding on Curse-breaking, which seemed ideal for him except for one small thing: he needed an Exceeds Expectations in Potions. Which was impossible to say the least with his skill and knowledge. So he went to the Ministry again, and consulted with several people before agreeing to let them find him a tutor.

He ended up spending a week doing whatever he wanted, before he got any news on the matter. He visited Ron and George; he went to Muggle London; he started repainting Sirius’s old motorbike that Arthur fixed for him, leaving the finishing touches for Harry. He also sat around at home, waiting for Ginny’s face to appear in the fireplace, so she could tell him about school, and he could tell her how much he missed her. He also thought about who will be chosen as his tutor. Was it going to be some weird old Potions master like Slughorn or someone distant and cold, but really talented and intelligent like Snape, or maybe just someone of his age, who was better at the subject than him? The Ministry owl arrived on Friday, with the name and address of his tutor. But something was wrong, the address was somewhere in France. And the name was Draco Lucius Malfoy.

"Are you kidding me? Malfoy?" Ron asked horrified, when he read through the letter Harry shoved into his face as soon as he got home that evening. "Don’t tell me there isn’t anyone else in the whole wizarding world who could help you in Potions. Why did they have to choose that git?"

"I have no idea" Harry sighed. "But it’s not just that. Why France? Why can’t it be someone here in London? I don’t speak French, I don’t know anyone there, it just doesn’t make any sense."

"Can’t you ask the Ministry to find you someone else?"

"Already tried. But apparently Malfoy is the best solution, as we know each other, and we would both benefit from it."

"Both benefit from it?! How would you both benefit from it? What would Malfoy benefit from it? You are lucky to actually learn something if you don’t get killed, but how can he benefit from it?"

"Search me" Harry rolled his eyes.

"When are you leaving?"

"I have a Portkey for next Wednesday."

"Wednesday? But that’s less than a week!"

"I know, but I guess I’ll just have to do it, no matter what."

"This sucks, mate."

"I know. If I don’t get an O after this, I swear I’ll be using some Unforgivables on some people."

The next few days passed quickly, way too quickly in Harry’s opinion, and soon he found himself at the Ministry, looking at the corkscrew on the table, his belongings in his pocket, all shrunken.

"Here goes nothing" he muttered, before taking hold of the charmed corkscrew, and letting it transport him in only a few seconds to his destination: a little French town.

From what he saw on his walk to the Malfoys’ place (Kingsley thought it would be safer for him to arrive outside the town for whatever reason), he thought it could have been England, the small cottages were no different from those they had back there. The one Malfoy and Narcissa were living in was just like the others, a simple Muggle house. The Ministry told him that he would be staying there in a spare bedroom made for him with the help of the expansion charm, until he mastered the needed level of potionmaking, practising in Malfoy's lab. Apart from this, all he knew was that Narcissa had a Muggle job helping out at a clothes shop in the town, and Draco also worked a bit from home, neither of them allowed to leave the boundaries the Ministry had set, and neither of them possessing a wand.

Narcissa greeted him when he arrived, looking as pale and tired as ever, and much to Harry’s surprise wearing a simple blouse and jeans, something he never thought he’d see her in. She showed him around the house before retreating to the living room where she was sorting through some papers, telling him that Malfoy was in his room, and that he should make himself comfortable in the his bedroom. Harry thanked her, and did as she suggested, unpacking, and quickly Flooing Ron and Ginny before lying down, hoping for a decent night’s sleep, not only so he would have all the energy he needed for next day to face Malfoy, but because he would have felt extremely embarrassed if he had woken up screaming from his nightmares like he did sometimes. Then again, a simple muffliato charm should do for the latter.

Next day he woke up feeling surprisingly fresh and well-rested, that didn't mean he was ready to study Potions. With Malfoy. In France. When he could have been at home, spending time with his friends, or just enjoying his freedom.

But then he reminded himself he needed this to get the job he wanted, so gritting his teeth, he headed downstairs to where Narcissa said the lab was, where his old nemesis was already waiting for him.

"Malfoy" he greeted him, sitting down at the table looking around. The walls were filled with shelves of books and tiny bottles, each of them full of liquids of different colours, labelled neatly. The work space however, was empty except for two cauldrons and a copy of a simple Potions schoolbook. Harry's eyes shifted towards Malfoy, who looked pretty much the same as he did the last time Harry saw him, apart from his white-blonde hair being longer, the strands escaping his elegant hair. He also seemed much thinner, Harry noticed, he must have lost at least 20 pounds, it made the boy's features much sharper and angled than they were before.

"Potter." he nodded, restraining himself from scowling, sitting down opposite to Harry. "So, I’ve heard the Chosen One may not be as perfect as everyone thought so. Problems with Potions? Seriously?"

"Shut up Malfoy!" Harry snapped. He wasn’t expecting any different, but it still angered him that the other boy was already getting under his skin.

"Whatever, Potter." Malfoy shrugged. "But then don’t expect to get anything better than a D." He smirked.

"Fine." Harry said angrily. "Just shut up about other things and let’s get on with it. I get it, I won’t pass the stupid exam without the help of perfect Draco Malfoy, who is the best Ministry-recommended tutor in the whole Wizarding world, but we’d make better progress if you actually started explaining things" he snarled.

For a moment Harry thought this would be the end, and Malfoy would stalk out, but after glaring at each other, the blonde broke the eye contact and opened the course book without any further ado, and started explaining everything, starting from the very basics. Harry soon found, that even though he would never admit it to anyone else, Malfoy was a good teacher. He cleared up some things Harry previously didn't understand; and apart from the snarky comments, he was almost patient. Well he did snap and start shouting and swearing when Harry messed up a potion even after trying several times, but still. He was way better than what Harry had expected.

Soon they developed a daily routine which consisted of going down to have breakfast on their own, avoiding each other; having a short, theoretical lesson in the morning; having lunch on their own; a longer practical lesson in the afternoon; spending time on their own; then having dinner on their own, except for when Narcissa insisted that they should sit together, which usually resulted in glares and uncomfortable silences.

But Harry was definitely improving at potions, and after all, that was what mattered. As two weeks passed, and October was drawing nearer, Harry found himself tired of arguing with Malfoy, and the other boy must have felt the same way, because all of a sudden the nasty remarks were gone, and they were actually capable of spending time in one room without wanting to kill one another. This definitely was an improvement. Malfoy would actually compliment him if he did something right, and Harry would smile at him. They didn’t try so hard to avoid each other in the time between the lessons, but actually greeted each other, and sometimes even stopped to have short conversations. Nothing too serious or deep, only little things, but this was already much better, Harry realised that Malfoy’s company was actually quite alright sometimes, now that they weren’t constantly arguing.

Weeks passed, and Harry was getting used to living there, and as now he felt more comfortable around the Malfoys, he decided it was time to change some things. He started going for walks around the town and the countryside. He spent a bit more time with Malfoy, they stayed in the lab every so often after the lessons and just talked. One evening Harry even asked Narcissa if he could cook something. They have been eating takeaway pretty much everyday, and Harry didn’t mind it, but after over a month, he had to admit it, it was getting a little repeatable, and he was craving a home-made meal.

Narcissa was surprised, but happy to let Harry work in the kitchen, so after making a quick supply run to the shop around the corner to get all the ingredients he needed for the curry, his favourite dish, he occupied the kitchen.

As he started heating the oil and chopping up the onions, the unmistakable smell of cooking filled his nose, he realised how much he missed it. Cooking was one of those things the Dursleys made him do, but he didn’t really mind it when he was making food for himself or his friends, and after seven years at Hogwarts without cooking, he enjoyed experimenting with all kinds of recipes that he learned from Muggle cook books.

He had started dicing the meat when he grew aware of someone watching him. As he looked up, he saw Malfoy standing in the doorway, watching him.

"You know, it’s not too polite to stare" he said, smirking at the boy. "And do try to be more secretive if you want to look at me." He added, grinning as he saw Malfoy blush, which was definitely something he hadn’t expected to see. Ever. But now that he did, he couldn't stop laughing, making the blonde boy blush even harder, his normally pale face was a deep shade of red. "You should see your face now!" he choked out, holding onto the counter as he tried to calm down, suppressing the laughter that was bubbling in his stomach. Malfoy just stood by the door, glaring at him, his face still flushed. "I’m just messing with you, no need to plan my death" he said with a shy grin as he finally stopped laughing, and went back to chopping the meat, but still keeping one eye on the other boy.

"I wasn’t. I never did. Plan your death, I mean." Malfoy said quietly. Harry looked up and saw that the boy's face was serious. Harry swallowed thickly and nodded, not knowing what to say, so he just kept staring at him, green eyes locked onto the pair of grey ones.

"So, do you want me to show you how to cook?" Harry broke the silence, moving to one side so Malfoy had his space at the counter, offering the boy a little smile. The blonde boy hesitated, running one hand through his hair, and chewing on his bottom lip, which caught Harry’s attention for some reason, he couldn’t explain, he looked away embarrassed, afraid of being caught staring. Malfoy made his way over to the counter. Harry carried on cutting up the meat, giving the other boy smaller tasks, explaining why he did things the way he did, and within half an hour the spicy scent of the simmering curry was filling the room. After tidying up, Harry sat down on one of the chairs, fanning himself with a piece of newspaper that was laying on the dining table, his gaze fluttering to the other boy, who was pouring himself a glass of water, before leaning back onto the counter, flushed, but this time from the heat of the cooking, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, his hair messy and curly from the vapour, making the lines of his face look softer. Harry didn't even know why he thought of that, shaking his head, he stood up, and started setting the table.

"So where did you learn how to cook?" Malfoy asked him, his tone genuinely curious, something Harry still wasn’t completely used to.

"The Dursleys, you know, my foster parents made me cook for them, so I had to, but I actually always enjoyed it a bit." He shrugged.

"They made you cook for them?" Malfoy asked, sounding horrified.

"That wasn’t the worst part. I had to do all the cleaning too, I could never go anywhere. I had to pretend that I didn’t exist whenever they had guests over, and I lived in the broom closet until I was eleven."

"You lived in the broom closet?!" The blonde boy echoed, his voice raised. Harry nodded. "That’s even worse than how we used to treat our house-elves. At least they had proper bedrooms."

Harry just shrugged again, and went to serve the dinner without a word, he didn’t understand why Malfoy was so shocked by how the Dursleys have treated him, or why he cared at all. Dinner passed quietly, apart from Narcissa complimenting Harry on the curry, but otherwise they ate in a silence. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, it was just strange. He noticed Malfoy looking at him few times, but he always looked away when Harry caught him staring. When they finished eating, Harry did the washing up by magic, not wanting to spend the rest of the evening scrubbing pans, something Draco watched almost in awe, telling Harry his wand was taken by the Ministry, and how he missed using magic, how strange doing everything manually was.

They carried on talking, and walked up the stairs together, but when they stopped on the landing, instead of parting ways, Malfoy asked Harry whether he could explain Muggle technology to him, and Harry was happy to do that, so he followed the other boy into his bedroom. He was surprised to see that the room wasn’t much different from the one he was staying in, except for having more books and other bits of things. But the walls were plain white, the bed wasn’t the posh four-poster he was expecting, and wasn’t covered in Slytherin green sheets with silver lining. It was just a simple bedroom.

"What were you expecting, Potter?" Draco smirked, and Harry realised he must have been staring in shock. "This isn’t Malfoy Manor."

"I don’t know. I just thought it would be more like you."

"More like me? And what’s that like?"

"Well definitely not this" Harry said, gesturing around the room.

"Oh and you know me so well that you are positive that I loved Malfoy Manor and now couldn’t stand living somewhere that wasn’t green and grey and silver and black and full of snake-patterns" Draco snorted.

"That’s not what I… oh never mind" Harry rolled his eyes, already feeling irritated with Malfoy, but also himself for thinking that they could actually spend time together properly, without things like this. He was on the verge of walking back to his own bedroom, when he noticed that Malfoy wasn’t glaring at him, he was smirking. Harry sighed, and flopped down onto the bed next to the boy, and started telling him how toasters and TVs and computers worked. He actually enjoyed it more than he thought he would, and he was surprised to see that Malfoy wasn’t being difficult, but genuinely curious and interested, and would listen to Harry’s explanations without interrupting, only showering him with questions afterwards, a fascinated smile spreading over his face, Harry thought that Malfoy was much nicer this way, smiling, friendly, patient and interested in almost a childlike way.

They made this a regular thing, often making breakfast or dinner together, and spending hours before going to sleep talking about Muggle things, and sometimes bringing up other topics as well, and Harry realised he was starting to enjoy Malfoy’s company.

Harry was also improving in Potions, he was now able to make quite a lot of decent ones, and Malfoy was almost proud of him. However then he accidentally burned the cauldron down, causing the blonde boy to give him silent treatment and avoid him after yelling at him about being irresponsible and hopeless.

But after a day of ignoring each other they called truce, and went back to doing things together. This was when Harry realised actually how much time they spent together, and how he talked to Ron or Hermione and Ginny less and less, calling the girls late that evening, feeling guilty. Hermione told him about the lessons, and asked him questions about potions, she was happy with his progress, reminding him again how important it was, and that he needed to carry on. She then left Harry to talk to Ginny privately. They talked about school mostly, and how they missed each other, and how Harry had to go home for Christmas, because Ginny couldn’t go any longer without talking to him properly, face to face, or kissing him, or touching him, and before saying goodbye, Ginny pulled her shirt up, teasing Harry, saying all kinds of dirty words she could think of, leaving the boy with a hard-on. He was too embarrassed to wank, being separated from Malfoy by only one thin wall.

He kept thinking about Ginny, even though he didn’t call her for some time, thinking how things would be when they both got back home. Will they get married straight away? Will they have kids? And if yes, how many? He missed her, a lot, but he had to admit, these thoughts were scaring him slightly. He knew Ron and Hermione were planning on getting married and moving in together when Hermione graduated, but Harry wasn’t sure if he could imagine himself settling down already and becoming a father.

In the end he found himself in the lab, as he did quite often for some time now, deciding it was the best time to practice, trying to make some dreamless sleep for himself, but failing, which meant he could only hope for a decent night’s sleep without nightmares, even though he knew it was unlikely.

He did seem to have less nightmares than before, but now when he did, they were the worst ever, and he would wake up screaming, and couldn’t go back to sleep properly afterwards, and would be stressed and irritable all day. He just really hoped Malfoy never heard him screaming, embarrassed even by the thought of it. One night he felt two unfamiliar firm hands shaking him awake, and a voice, unsure yet steady telling him to breathe, and how it only had been a dream, and finally when Harry was calm enough, handing him a vial of dreamless sleep, he thought he never could have been more thankful, even though he was indeed extremely embarrassed.

Malfoy gave him dreamless sleep and that was all that mattered, because he slept until 1 PM next day, and when he woke up, he feels much better than other mornings, except for the sadness and anger that lingered from the nightmare, but he was used to that. He didn’t even want to get up from bed, he wanted to just stay there and disappear, somehow slip into nonexistence. It was mostly on the days after his nightmares, but sometimes even on just ordinary days, that he thought of what it would have been like to stay dead. He knew some people would have missed him, but with the Horcrux in him destroyed, the world didn’t need him anymore. And it wasn’t bad, it didn’t hurt at all, Sirius had been right, he didn’t feel anything. It didn’t really feel like being dead. It didn’t feel like anything to be honest. But he came back, even though he wasn’t sure he should have.

He decided to go and tell Malfoy that he wasn’t in the mood to study, but he didn’t find the boy in his bedroom or the lab or anywhere else. Or at least anywhere he was expecting to find him, he realised why as he entered the kitchen, there stood Malfoy he was cooking something by the stove, it smelt amazing. The smell of cinnamon mixed with apples and something sweet filled Harry's nose.

"Hi." he said quietly, stopping in the doorway.

"Hey," Malfoy looked up to greet him. "You look like shit" he informed him. Harry snorted. He didn’t need Malfoy to tell him that. He felt like shit. "I’m making you food. Sit."

"What? Harry looked up at him, shocked, unsure if he heard him right. Malfoy was making him breakfast. Malfoy. For him. How did this even happen? And why?

"Can’t you ever do just one thing you’re asked for?" The blonde boy asked, rolling his eyes. "Are you really that much of a rebel?" He asked, as he watched Harry sit down, still dazed, he smiled. His voice was softer than the usual, and Harry couldn't understand why. He continued to stare at the blonde boy in complete shock, until the latter lets out a soft chuckle, and told him to stop staring at him with his mouth open. Harry felt his cheeks grow warm in embarrassment, and he mumbled something Malfoy couldn't quite make sense of. Harry dropped his gaze to the table, and toyed with the spoon. He runhis hand through his hair which was messier than usual, he didn’t even try to comb it as he was planning to go back to bed. He felt Malfoy's eyes on him. Harry turned his head to meet the blonde boy's gaze just as Malfoy turned away.

Malfoy sat down opposite to Harry, handing him his breakfast and a cup of coffee, he himself only drinking tea.

They sat in silence, the blonde watching Harry eat.

"We don’t have to study today" he said, breaking the silence. Harry just nodded, still confused by the boy’s kindness, and carried on eating. As he finished, he watched Malfoy sipping his tea, gazing out of the window. He looked different, Harry thought, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on the difference, the only thing he noticed was that his hair was messier than usual. That couldn’t have made such a big difference, it was more than that. It was something about his whole face, all of his features. But mostly his eyes. His eyes were definitely different, no longer cold and distant, but almost soft. Harry watched his eyes fixed on the garden outside, the shape of the window reflected in the sliver greyness. The practically white eyelashes around his eyes. His pale, porcelain-like skin. The pointiness of his nose. The pinkness of his lips, that for once weren’t frowning. His perfect jawline. The way his shoulder length hair fell onto his shoulders. Harry thought he was beautiful. He felt weird had just thought that, but as he continued to look at the boy, he couldn’t help but admit it. He also couldn't help but notice how his heart was hammering in his chest. He tore his gaze away from the boy and looked back down at the table. What was wrong with him? Why was he finding Malfoy attractive? He swallowed hard, allowing himself another glance at the boy. He noticed the longing in his eyes, the sadness on his face, and he realised, Malfoy must be missing being outdoors. Of course he must miss being outside! He had been in the house arrest for over a year.

Harry couldn't stop thinking how terrible it must be, not being able to go out, and within a minute the idea pops in his mind. He stood up abruptly and told Malfoy he’d be back in a sec. He rushed up to the bedroom and called Kingsley on the Floo, begging him to allow Malfoy leave the house with him, explaining what a great teacher he was, and telling the Minister that he trusted him. He didn’t actually realise all of this before he said it out loud, but it was true. He trusted Malfoy, especially after he gave Harry dreamless sleep and made him breakfast. He deserved something good. Harry was really pleased with himself when Kingsley permitted him to open the doors and go somewhere with Malfoy. He had to make him a promise that he’d look out for the blonde and would be careful, which Harry promised he would. He quickly packed few things and rushed back down to the kitchen.

Malfoy looked up startled as Harry re-entered the kitchen, his expression soon turning to shock, as Harry told him to get up because they were going out.

"What do you mean ‘out’?" He asked, looking at Harry in confusion.

"I talked to Kingsley" Harry shrugged, as if it was nothing, already making his way to the door, unlocking it, and casting several counter spells that would let Draco out as well. The blonde boy followed him, still shocked and surprised, but as he stepped outside and inhaled the fresh air and felt the breeze tug at his hair, he just closed his eyes and let a smile spread across his face. Gosh, how he had missed this. Harry stood looking at him, smiling, thinking how gorgeous Malfoy looked with the strands of blonde hair flowing around his face. No. He wasn’t gorgeous, Harry thought, feeling angry with himself, feeling like his thoughts were betraying him.

"There’s a beach a few miles from here" Draco spoke up.

"Are you suggesting we go there?" Harry asked, snapping out of his thoughts.

"thought that was obvious" Draco smirked, and Harry grinned at him as they set off. They walked in silence, until Draco spoke again. "Thanks. For taking me out." He said quietly. Harry looked up at him. "And everything" the boy carried on. "Testifying for my mother. Saving my life in that room."

Harry didn’t say anything for a few moments. The situation was so strange, Malfoy sounded so honest and so vulnerable, and he just didn’t quite know what to say.

"I did what I thought had to be done." He said in the end. "And… I never thought you deserved Azkaban." He added after a pause, avoiding Malfoy’s eyes. "You saved me too, at the Manor."

"I should have done more" the blonde boy whispered. "I was a coward. I still am. I should have helped." The words spilled out of Draco, no louder than the wind whistling in their ears, and if Harry hadn’t seen his lips moving, he wouldn’t have believed that he heard what he heard. He watched the boy’s face, noticing the way his eyes were shining, tears flooding them. "I deserved all they planned for me at the trial. You should have left me there, but I guess you can’t stop yourself from saving people’s lives, even if you hate them." He said, a sad smile on his face, Harry found it heart wrenching. He swallowed thickly, once again lost for words. He wanted to tell him that it wasn’t true, that he didn’t deserve to be punished, that he didn’t hate him. He wanted to squeeze his hand and tell him it was okay. But he didn’t, instead he kept quiet, and carried on walking.

Neither of them said anything on the rest of the way to the beach. It was quite a long walk, they both stopped to catch their breaths as they arrived at the end of the cliff from where the carved steps led down to the beach. Harry had been going out for strolls around the area, but he felt a little exhausted after the walk, and Draco, who had been indoors for ages was clutching his side, but it was definitely worth it.

The view was beautiful, the sun was just starting to set, tainting the sky pink and orange, the warm light reflecting on the surface of the water, the white cliffs and the pale sand on the shore making the picture perfect. It was breezy, but not too much, just enough to ripple the surface of the ocean and to catch in their hair.

They made their way down to the beach, Harry spread out the blankets he brought with him, before sitting down, Malfoy following him, they sat down, watching the sky together.

"I miss Sirius." Harry suddenly blurted out, not even knowing why he said it, regretting it immediately.

"Your godfather?" Malfoy asked, not looking at him, messing around with a stick he found in the sand. Harry nodded, and lied back on the blanket.

"He and Remus were the only people who made me feel like-" He took sharp intake of breath. "-like I still had a piece of my parents with me" he sighed. He didn’t know why he was telling Malfoy this, but he couldn't stop himself. As the blonde boy seemed genuinely curious, Harry carried on talking, telling him about third year, how he met Sirius, and about Peter Pettigrew, and the Marauders Map, and about the Order of the Phoenix, and everything Sirius told him about his parents. Malfoy listened intensely, asking questions every so often, being very careful not to cross the boundaries.

"I’m sorry they aren’t around anymore." Malfoy simply said when Harry stopped talking. He tilted his head to the side, looking at Malfoy’s face, studying his expression, but he couldn't see anything except for honesty and sadness, and something slightly even like an affection. He felt like crying, but he didn't want to cry in front of the other boy. He knew he should feel angry, after all if Malfoy hadn’t let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, if his father hadn’t been there at the Department of Mysteries, Sirius and Remus could still be have been alive, but that’s too many ‘if’s. Harry thought of asking Malfoy what his intentions actually were, or something, but he chose to keep silent.

"I’m going swimming" he announced after laying around for a while, he stood up, already taking his shirt off.

"Are you crazy? It must be minus twenty down there°C!" Draco exclaimed, sitting up.

"Yeah, sure, minus two hundred." Harry chuckled. "Chill Malfoy ." Harry rolled his eyes, shucking his jeans as well, making his way to the water, ignoring the feeling of the other boy’s eyes on him.

"Come back here you prat, I don't fancy being framed for your death. It’s dark and it’s cold and you will drown. We can come back here tomorrow and then you can do whatever you want." Malfoy called after him, making Harry laugh.

"If you are so worried about me, come with me" he snorted, stepping into the water, leaning down and splashing it over his body, before carrying on walking deeper into the water. He was in knee-deep when Malfoy caught up with him, stopping at the side of the water. Harry went in even deeper, looking back and shooting a grin at Malfoy. "You better take that shirt off if you want to rescue me when I drown."

The blonde boy just stood there shaking his head as Harry carried on, the water was now up to his shoulders. He couldn't help but laugh as he looked at the fully clothed Malfoy standing on the beach, and suddenly an idea crossed his mind. What if he faked drowning? Would Malfoy really rush to rescue him? He grinned in anticipation, before going in a bit deeper, and pretending to drown, yelling for help, and sure enough, the blonde was there beside him within seconds, his hands around Harry’s waist.

"You idiot" Malfoy said angrily, letting go of Harry when the brunette burst out laughing.

"And you said I’m the one with a saving people's lives-problem." Harry choked out, still shaking from laughter, clutching his stomach with his arms.

"You’re such an imbecile! We could have both lost our footing! I thought you were really drowning." he sneered, and splashed Harry with water. The other boy splashed him back immediately, still laughing, and soon enough Draco was laughing too. They were splashing each other madly, trying to get away from one another, making their way to the beach.

"Scared?" Harry asked with a raised eyebrow as they reached the dry land, still breathless from laughing, clutching each other.

"You wish." Draco smirked, and chased Harry back to the blankets, ending up on top of Harry, kneeling between the boy’s legs, holding his hands down above his head. "Feeling defeated, Potter? Did I just defeat the Great Harry Potter?

"As if I’d let you." Harry said, wrapping his legs around Malfoy's waist. He knocked the boy over, straddling him, with a triumphant grin, which died down as soon as their eyes met. Until now, Harry didn’t quite realise how close they were, only a few inches between their faces. He was starting to feel uncomfortable, and dropped his gaze, but if anything, this made things worse, as he found himself staring at Malfoy’s chest, his white shirt sticking to his body, the wetness making it almost see-through, the boy’s lean muscles and his hardened nipples visible to Harry, making him blush. What was wrong with him? It was the third time that day that he found the boy extremely attractive.

"Potter…" Malfoy spoke up, sounding a little embarrassed, as he shifted underneath him. Harry didn't get it for a moment, but then he realises he had an unmistakable hardness in his pants, and it was pressing right into the blonde boy’s thigh.

"Shit, I’m sorry, I just…" he stammered, as he stood up as fast as he could.

"Stop, it’s okay. It’s a normal reaction, I guess, I mean you’ve been away from your girlfriend, and…" Malfoy trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished, avoiding looking at Harry, who was also avoiding looking anywhere near the other boy. "Let’s go home. Or do you want me to go and you can just stay here, think of your lovely girlfriend, jerk off, and meet me back at the house" Draco said, picking their stuff up, his words making Harry blush even harder.

"I’m… I’ll be alright" Harry managed to say. Malfoy snorts.

"For Merlin’s sake, just stay here, and follow me back when you-" "fuck, just take care of yourself, Potter!" With that said, Malfoy was already turning his back to Harry.

"You are wet. You’ll catch a cold." Harry said desperately, not wanting to make this situation any awkward, which he probably was doing anyway.

"Well then cast a drying charm on me, will you?!" Malfoy looked angry. Why was he like that? He was sneering at Harry, Harry felt like they were back at Hogwarts and Malfoy was about to make one of his snarky comments that always boiled Harry's blood. "You are the one with a wand, you arse!" He rolled his eyes and let out an annoyed huff. "if you are so concerned about my health then do it." he snapped, and Harry obeyed. As soon as he did, the blonde haired boy turned around and left in a rush without saying another word. What was wrong with him? Why did he get so pricky about all of this?!

He left Harry there on the beach. On his own. With a bulge in his pants. Still painfully pressing to his trousers.

He tried to think of Ginny, he really did, but he couldn’t help it, his thoughts drifted back to earlier that day, Malfoy’s hair flowing in the breeze, and Harry remembered how much he wanted to run his hands through it. The closeness of the boy made his body shiver, his angular face, his soft silver eyes, his flat yet arousing chest… oh Merlin, he felt like he could melt away just thinking of him, however weird it is, and however guilty he felt about not thinking of Ginny. What the fresh hell?! Malfoy was a boy! Harry wasn't gay for crying out loud! How the hell was he getting of to the thoughts of Malfoy?

The next few days passed in their usual routine, making breakfast together, Potions theory, having lunch together, brewing, making dinner together, and talking about Muggle things until it’s time for bed. Neither of them mentioned the day at the beach, and Harry was thankful for that, but he couldn’t stop thinking back to that very day, and what it felt like to be that close to Malfoy. He kept thinking back, and would often get distracted from doing whatever he was just by looking at Malfoy, or listening the way he talked about Potions, with such enthusiasm, or the excitement on his face when he showed Harry a book on Muggle things and told him how he finally understood how something worked, and it dawned on him, that he was growing more and more attracted to him.

It wasn’t just his looks that made Harry want to press the other boy to the wall and snog him senseless, though he didn’t even try to deny how his soft platinum hair and silver eyes drove him crazy, but it was his whole personality. The way he was nice to Harry now, always, but still kept teasing him, and Harry would tease back, and sometimes it occurred him that it felt almost like they were flirting or something. Or how patient and serious he could be as a teacher. Or how clever and intelligent he was, almost like Hermione, but in a different way. Or how he enjoyed just small things, like walking out into the garden when the sun was shining, or finding a new book among his mother’s belongings that he could read, or a nice meal they made together. How honest he could be sometimes. How passionate he would get if he was talking about something that was important to him. How similar his sense of humour was to Harry’s. He felt like they could be friends, like actual friends, who would stay in contact and have fun together even when they weren’t locked up in a small cottage in France together to study Potions. But real friends. And maybe even more, because Harry wanted to touch him again, to feel his soft skin, or his silky looking hair. Malfoy was driving Harry crazy, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

After another week or so Draco told him that he was doing well enough to pass his NEWTs easily, and they decided to go down to the beach once again, before Christmas. They spent the whole day there, taking a basket of food, they swam, but only a bit because the water was much colder by now, they talked and laughed and talked even more, about school, about their childhoods, about Quidditch, anything they thought of. Harry couldn't imagine his life without the blonde boy by now. He thought of how hard it will be for him to leave this bastard. How hard will it be to say goodbye to all their memories. Forget about all that they have accomplished and of course, about the whole attraction thing. Harry didn't even know if maybe he allowed himself do what his mind, and other parts of his body, told him to do, then would he discover something about himself. He found his mind drifting off to this idea while he stared at the blonde looking up to the sky.

As the sky grew darker, covered in thousands of sparkling spots, bright and shining like diamonds, scattered all over the sheet of the night, they lay back on their blankets, and Malfoy started to point the constellations out to Harry, saving his favourite one, his own one, the dragon for last. His voice proud as he told the boy next to him which one it was, which Harry found adorable, and returned the boy’s smirk with a grin of his own. Their eyes met for longer than they have ever held each other's gaze. It was like looking at the other's soul through them, finally seeing the real version of the person they never got the chance to get to know better. Harry wanted to kiss Malfoy. He wanted to throw his arms around the boy and press their lips together. He didn't. Whether it was because he was scared of what would happen if he did or he was scared of what he would become if he made this move. Harry turned his face towards the ground. The moment was ruined.

Sometime after staying quiet for a while, they started to talk about more serious things, and Malfoy told Harry how he didn’t want to kill Dumbledore, and how he only realised then that his parents were wrong, and how all he wanted before was to make his father proud. How he did everything afterwards just so Voldemort wouldn’t kill his parents. How terrible it was to let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, but how he had no other choice if he wanted his parents to live. What it was like to live at Malfoy Manor with the Dark Lord. How he wanted to just apparate somewhere where no one knew him and there were no expectations he had to live up to, no war, no pain, no suffering. How he felt like a coward but still didn’t do anything.

Harry saw the tears shining on Malfoy's cheeks, in the moonlight, as he got to the end of his story, and without thinking, he wrapped his arm around the boy, pulling him close to himself. Malfoy instantly pulled back as if Harry's touch burned him. He mumbled something about not wanting to be pitied and knowing that he was a coward and a bad person but he wanted to change, and Harry didn’t know what to say, so he just sat there beside him.

Later they lay down on their blankets, and fell asleep next to each other under the starry sky.

When Harry woke up, to the first rays of sunshine stroking his skin, he found himself wrapped around Malfoy's arms, their bodies pressed together. He stayed in those arms for a while, enjoying the warmth that came from Draco's, not Malfoy's, body. Oh how much he wanted to stay here forever and just breath this air, go for long walks, talk to Draco, discover himself, get away from all the stress that England and people there caused him. But he couldn't do it. He felt too obligated to be the man everyone expected him to be. He couldn't just disappear and stay here with the blonde. It would be mad. Besides, he had his friends in England, his girlfriend, probably soon to be wife. He wanted to have a family and a job that he enjoyed, the job that would make him feel more human than just the Savour of Wizarding World. He had to go back home, no matter how much his heart was begging him to stay here and try losing himself in the unknown, something that didn't feel quite possible and normal, in something that was as exciting as scary. Just trying to be happy without all the shit that was going to await for him in London. Harry got up from under the blanket and Draco's arms carefully, making sure he wouldn’t wake the other boy up. He conjured a piece of parchment and a quill, with a deep sigh he started writing a letter. He knew he wasn’t the best with words, especially when they were goodbyes, and writing it all down helped, he could say all the things he could never say face to face. He could thank Draco and promise him he’d talk to Kingsley and find a way for him to come back to England. At least that's what Harry wanted. If he couldn't stay here he wanted to hold on to this unexpected friendship in any way he could. He wrote how he’d wait for Draco, and would want to see him, when he did come back to WIzarding World where Harry would be. Harry realised how much he's going to miss Draco, his smile, his snaky comments, the lessons with him, their midnight or morning walks to the beach, their inside jokes, their conversations, Draco's eyes that at some point became everything Harry could think of, just Draco Malfoy in general, still the same git, but trying to become better.

Harry rolled up his blanket and put it back into the basket along with all of the other scattered bits, and put the letter on top. He looked down at the boy below him, and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss onto his cheek, feeling the soft skin underneath his lips and smelling the scent he will never be able to get out of his mind, he didn't realise when a warm tear run down his cheek. He shook himself from the trans he was in. Before he got up to his feet and head back to Malfoy's house and then the town to take his Portkey back to London, he took one last look at Draco sleeping peacefully on the beach, Harry once again couldn't breath. If he never again got the chance to see this idiot, he didn't know if he would ever feel understood and complete as much as he did in Draco's presence. He could only hope for the best.

////////////////

Read Chapter Two HERE

#drarry #drarry fic #drarry head canon #head canon #my fic #first chapter #re writting stuf #wip #fic #ao3 #feelings we can't let go #drarry squad #harry potter #draco malfoy

57 notes · View notes

starfaring-princelotor · 6 years

Text

The Escape

She tried to remember everything Slav had told her. For days Moonseeker had been rehearsing the right movements in the simulator to create the benevolent circumstances for this one chance they had. It had been hard. Slav calculating probabilities and she with her space-time bending abilities clashing over which reality would most probably happen. And the Olkari shapeshifting suit she was wearing was very constricting and hardly left her air to breathe. But here she was. Disguised as a Dayak, humming the Marseillaise, carrying a basket of juniper berries in the residential wing of the imperial palace of Daibazaal. It was not the first time that she had infiltrated an alien race. She was a timebender after all which required her to take on different roles to solve different problems. Being a Dayak required many skills in languages and Galran customs. Slav had been a great resource to outfit her with a credible biography, so that she - aided with her timebending skills and the Olkari shapeshifting suit - got a position as an Assistant to the Head Dayak.

She tried to remember every detail Slav had told her. Everything she needed to rescue a small boy whose fate would decide the future of the whole universe. This evening had been a horrible one for small Lotor. He had spoken up against his father Emperor Zarkon and although he was just a five year old boy the Head Dayak had sought a hard punishment for him. He was belted and then was supposed to face his biggest fears locked up in a dark chamber without food or water for a whole night and day. Yet something unexpected had happened. He had cried at first, shaking from fear and pain, but then he heard how someone passed the cell and opened the door, just slightly to let a sliver of light in. They did not enter. They just left the door open. Lotor was afraid, he was wet from crying and he was too scared to move in the dark. But here was a sliver of light coming from the door. He feared it was a trap. The Dayak would be waiting behind the door to find out about his deviance, his non-acceptance of the punishment and punish him even harder for that. His body was full of painful sores. A thousand thoughts raced through Lotors mind. He had courage. He was a Prince, a fighter. Lotor dried his tears. He tried not to sniffle. He was all stiff in fear, yet his tiny feet moved towards the light. His hands were sticky from snot and tears. The Dayak would not object to him to go to the door, though, would she? He heard music coming from outside. Music! Someone…humming? He needed to look. He would be allowed to peek through even. As long as his feet stayed indoors, he would not disobey her. Lotor moved slowly to the slit and peeked out. The hallway was empty. Where were the guards? Moonseeker walked around the corner, humming. It was the change of guards and they noticed her and saluted. Being a Dayak of the imperial family came with perks. “The Prince Regent is not allowed to eat anything today!”, said one of the guards. Her charming ways opened doors quickly and she used all her charms on the guards. She beamed from ear to ear. “Oh, what a shame. I have these wonderful juniper berries. They’ll all go to waste… Would you like to have them. They spoil so quickly…the Head Dayak doesn’t like them anyway.” The word about the juniper berries got around quickly. Soon most of the had passed by taking a handfull to munch, all hoping that Zarkon would still be held up at his counsel meeting long enough not to spot them eating on duty. Getting them from a Dayak meant that it was acceptable within Galra protocol and maybe there was even some ancient ritual they were honoring with it? The guards returned to their posts and started dreaming of junipers and flower fields. Moonseeker had drenched the berries in a mind-altering drug, which would make the guards appear normal, whilst catching them in a dreamlike state lasting several hours. Not all of the guards had taken them but enough to open one pathway out of the palace where they would not be detected. Moonseeker passed the guards towards Lotors cell humming the Marseillaise. Slav had told her, that humming this melody was crucial for the success of the mission. She had to hum loud enough to get Lotor to exit the cell by his own will and run down the hallway towards her. Every second was crucial and there was just ONE chance they had. She saw little fingers peek out of the dark room. Now she had to remember every step Slav had told her. She shifted into her human form. She had just mere moments to convince him to come with her. Lotor’s head peeked out of the room. His big blue eyes were swollen from crying. He mustered all his courage and stepped into the hallway. He would run away or die trying. There was a woman with a basket standing at the end of the hallway. She looked nice, she had a warm smile and she was not a Dayak. What was she doing here? She was humming a song and waving to him to approach and to close the door behind him. The guards did not seem to notice her or mind her being around. His mind raced. He was afraid of being punished again. But in his young life he had learnt that there probably would be even harder punishments awaiting him in the future and maybe he would not survive them. He was the crown Prince, but he had neither a mother nor a father who cared. And the Dayaks changed frequently. He realized that this might be his once chance to get away. He ignored his pain and started to run as fast as he could towards the woman at the end of the hallway. When he reached her, she smiled and she took his hands looking into his eyes. Her hand caressed his hair, it was all wet, also the peculiar strand protruding out like an antenna and his eyes were swollen from crying. “Hello, Prince Lotor. I am Mya. You are safe now. We will leave this place. But you need to do as I say, is that ok?” - “Who are you?” - “I am a timebender. I travel through time and space to fix things. I will change my shape now to lead you out of the palace. You need to follow me. I will turn into a guard, then into a Dayak, then into myself again. Let me show you…” Moonseeker remembered the right sequence. She shifted into a guard, then into her junior Dayak shape which seemed to terrify Lotor, but then swiftly back into her human form. She hoped that the Dayak version had not intimidated Lotor too much. She took his hands and looked into his terrified blue eyes. “Everything will be better, I promise.” She waited for him to give her the signal to go. She heard footsteps approaching. Their window of opportunity was closing. Lotor nodded. They were good to go. “Now run!”, Moonseker said and shifted into her guard form. They raced through several hallways guarded by dreaming guards who did not notice them. Now if everything was according to plan they’d need to wait a few moments in a robot hold in the hallway. “Where are we going?”, Lotor asked. “To a house in the woods and to my own boy. He is just as old as you and you both will get along very well.”. They squeezed into the robot hold and Mya shifted into the form of the Junior Dayak. She held Lotor close to her and whispered: “Now we need to act. You must act very sad. And I will play a very strict Dayak, ok? But it will just be make-believe.” They emerged in the right moment when some priests of Haggar had passed the robot hold. They walked towards the exit of the residential wing. The guards on the other side of the gate had not tasted any juniper berries, yet they also did not know about Lotors punishment. The stern looking Dayak walked out of the gate. Her strong hands were pushing the crying boy forward. The Guards felt uncomfortable. The Galra in general loved wild children and they did object how the imperial family handled their weakling child. But nobody dared say anything against Emperor Zarkon. Galra children would fight in the mud, climb trees and compete against each other to show who was the wildest one in the bunch. This boy was different. He seemed meek. The Dayak took the boy to a small distance vessel. It was not uncommon for a Dayak to do field trips with children to teach them about Daibazaal wildlife or artefacts. But now it was almost night. Yet questioning a Dayak meant questioning the choices of the Imperial family. The vessel sought permission to take off, then was airborne and swiftly left the perimeter of the Daibazaal palace. Now came the tricky part of the plan. Mya disabled all automatic systems in the ship and started to fly manually. This would make tracking them more difficult. “Please don’t push any buttons, Lotor, ok?” Mya looked at the boy, who now seemed more relaxed. He was sitting on the chair munching dried Munga seeds. He seemed to do better. Eating, drinking and putting on dry clothes had helped a lot to raise his general wellbeing. But healing would require much more work. “Are we there yet?”, Lotor asked and Mya giggled nervously. She was insecure of how much of her plan she should share with Lotor, but he seemed a very smart little boy and she knew not to underestimate children. She told him about her plan. His curiosity was evident through the fear and the pain and she smiled. Her plan was to access the area where the Kral Zera was held. Only the archivist would be present at such a day. Yet she was not interested in the arena of the Kral Zera, but the plateau on top of one of the hills. During the last Kral Zera, one of the contestants had died and his ship was still standing there, unguarded and forgotten. The ship itself was of minor interest, but it had smuggled a Balmeran crystal which Mya needed to transform the imperial short range vessel into a long distance spaceship. Only then would she be able to pierce Daibazaals gas clouds and exit to open space where Slav and her crew were awaiting them hiding in an asteroid belt. Where was the Balmeran crystal? Lotor approached her and touched the ship. His Altean marks started to glow. He smiled. “It’s here!” Mya produced her laser sword and cut a hole into the hull of the vessel. There was a secret compartment underneath the aft. The crystal was as big as herself. They pulled it out of the ship and shoved it into the passenger deck of their small distance transporter where Mya hooked it up to her engine. She had spent weeks adapting the vessel to accomodate a Balmeran crystal as energy source. Now she would see if the work had been successful. “When I say now, you push slide this lever up slowly, ok?”, Lotor was concentrating with his tiny hand on the lever. It was hard to move! And his arms were still sore. “Now!”, he pushed the lever up, with all his force yet slowly and the Balmeran crystal started to glow. They just needed enough thrust and energy to create a protective shield. It worked. Mya started the engine and they were airborne, swiftly approaching the first layer of the Daibazaal atmosphere. They had put on their helmets and were breathing the purified air. The air pressure dropped in the vessel, they felt how the force pushed them back into their seats. Mya knew that by now the Head Dayak would soon go to the cell to check on Lotor. Once she would find the chamber empty she’d assume that he had gone into his room. They would not alert Zarkon immediately, but search the whole palace inside out before admitting their failure. This would give them ample time to flee. The shields held and after a steep ascent they were ejected into open space. Mya activated the additional thrusters and positioned herself in a trajectory towards the asteroid belt. Now came the difficult part. First they both had to put on their space suits. Thankfully the ship had suits for all shapes and sizes as the Galra were very diverse. Lotor was afraid, but she was able to calm him down. They held each others hands and stepped out of the ship, breathing and counting to ten. Then a long wormlike creature appeared and they held on to it, leaving the imperial vessel behind. Mya held on to Lotor, trying to calm him down by cracking jokes and sound confident. The worm moved through space slowly, but at this time Slav was supposed to emit light from his ship and as worms do this one would wiggle towards it transporting them safely and laregly undetectable to Mya’s ship. She saw the ship and a small glider which approached to pick them up. A short while later Mya and Lotor stepped through the gates of her spaceship. “Welcome back, Commander!”, her first officer said, beaming at Lotor. “We are ready to do a time jump. The Galra have noticed Lotors disappearance and soon the whole perimeter will be full of Galra vessels.” Mya went to a window and pointed out at their imperial vessel in the distance which by now had reached the asteroid belt and collided with the first Asteroid. Within minutes the whole ship exploded, shards of it and the balmeran crystal floating into space. “Lotor, in this reality, you were abducted today and as your vessel exploded everyone will conclude you died trying to flee Daibazaal. But now you are free now. One day you will return as a the rightful heir to the Galra throne, but in the meantime you will live a life in safety, without violence and among friends. We will do a timejump now to access another time and dimension. My ship here will create a wormhole only instants later and flee to another quadrant. These people who hurt you will never find you unless you want to return by your own volition.” Lotor followed Mya who went into a room with a big round gate. She held onto the frame and asked Lotor to do the same. His Altean markings were glowing and she took his tiny hand into hers. “Close your eyes, count to three and then start walking, ok?” When Lotor closed his eyes Mya stepped behind him, putting her hands on his shoulders. She started to glow. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. The gate opened and they walked through. A piercing light jolted into Lotor’s consciousness and propelled him to drop to his knees. What had happened? He was in a forest, surrounded by tall trees. The air was crisp and he spotted a house at the edge of a hill. Far away the snow of a mountain range reflected the light of the sun. Below the hill stretched a big city, but here on the hill everything was quiet. He heard the laughter of children coming from the garden. “Shall we go and see?”, Mya asked. Lotor nodded. Mya took his hand and they approached the house.

#lotor x reader #submission

31 notes · View notes

earthpodd · 6 years

Text

Chapter 2 – Ea, the Sword of Rupture

Read the prologue here.

Read chapter one here.

Read on AO3.

@bl-gifs , @andwebegin there you are.

“Detective Lun?” Shen Wei asked as soon as he heard Kun Lun’s tired ‘hello’. Despite knowing it was definitely the detective on the other side of the line, he still had to make sure. “Xiao Wei, as much as I love to hear your voice, isn’t it a bit late for a social call? I know you must have missed me greatly, but–.” The archaeologist didn’t waste time and cut the other man off right away. “I might have a lead for you.” He started, so Kun Lun would know that he meant business, and that it was the only reason why Shen Wei was even calling him. “Someone called the museum today. They were trying to sell an artefact to be added to our collection. They didn’t say what it was, but claimed the item to be very valuable and ancient.” He took a deep breath after that, trying to recall as many details as he could. “There’s a chance it could be Ea.” When he finished retelling the information, he gave the detective some time to process his words, and then continued. “I scheduled a meeting with them tomorrow to inspect the artefact and begin negotiation. Would you like to join me?” For his part, Kun Lun was pretty impressed at how fate worked things out. He had been thinking about the case and then boom, the archaeologist called him with a new lead. It could have been any of the other people he had investigated, but it was Shen Wei who came to him with the information. It made him wonder if there was more to it than just what was related to the case. He was not one to entertain such ideas, but he was still irked by the connection he felt to this man.

Noticing how the other male had gone radio silent, Shen Wei cleared his throat lowly to catch his attention. “Detective Lun? Are you there?” The response to his question came in the form of an obviously forced laugh that was meant to pass the impression that everything was fine. He could guess the expression on Kun Lun’s face, a sheepish grin, eyes crinkling and a hand raised, waving his extended forefinger as if to accuse someone of calling him out without actually saying the words. “Is Shen Wei worried about little old me?” The archaeologist could hear the amusement in the other’s voice and it made him narrow his eyes, trying to make sense of the other man. “Are you going to be joining me tomorrow to investigate?” He pressed the issue to stir conversation away from the flirty banter Kun Lun always seemed to bring up whenever they had a conversation. The detective sighed, bobbing his head in a nod. His expression grew even more tired. “When are we going?” He asked, so he could prepare himself and come up with a plan for when they met with the suspect. “Late afternoon. We are coming to their house. Come by the museum around four and wear a suit.” What the detective didn’t know was that Shen Wei had already orchestrated a plan for them to catch the suspect if they turned out to be the culprit. “Xiao Wei…” Kun Lun dragged out his name, lowering his voice in the process. “Do you have a thing for men in suits?” In his office, the archaeologist lowered his gaze, eyes closing as he shook his head. The nerve of this man. He ended up sighing out loud, even if he would have preferred to remain silent. “You’ll pretend to work for the museum like me. I told him we would be sending two people to inspect the item.” He explained, brushing off the detective’s flirting yet once again and quickly added. “I’ll hang up now. I will see you tomorrow, Detective Lun. Sorry for disturbing you so late.” Kun Lun was surprised by the apology and chuckled lightly. “Goodnight, Xiao Wei. Dress nicely tomorrow, you’ll look even more handsome with me.” Shen Wei didn’t there respond to the second part of the other’s words, instead, he just muttered a ‘goodnight’ and hung up the call. He was feeling rather aggravated now.

Sighing, the archaeologist stood up from where he was seated behind his desk and adjusted his glasses against his face. He was pretty tired as well and this conversation with Kun Lun had left in him a strange mix of emotions. To some extent, he was excited to be helping with the case somehow, even if the item turned out not to be the Sword of Rupture, but he was also feeling other things, mostly regarding the detective. He felt a strange sense of longing when speaking to Kun Lun on the phone, as if he would have preferred to be face-to-face with the other man. The detective’s constant flirting made him wonder if the man was like that towards everyone, if this was just with him, or even if he was serious with it. He also felt a little bothered by how much Kun Lun had managed to affect him in the span of twenty-four hours. It had never happened before.

Shaking his head to get rid of those thoughts, he parted his lips to exhale a deep breath. The clock marked half past eleven in the evening. He was supposed to have left three hours ago. Gathering his things, he locked his office, said goodbye to the security guards and left to go home. He would need all the rest he could get in order to face the day ahead of him.

⥲⍟⥳

“Is this your house?” Chu asked, glancing at the mansion they had stopped in front of. At first glance, he wouldn’t have expected Guo to be one of those spoiled rich kids with way too much money to spare and no regards for other people’s efforts and struggles. His expression soured up almost immediately. The writer just nodded, turning his head to look at the boxer. He had no idea of what was going on in the older male’s mind. Despite the fact that their car ride had been mostly a silent one, nothing seemed to be wrong between them, which was why he was surprised by the anger in Shu Zhi’s voice when he talked to him again. “You can get out now.” Changcheng was hit by a sudden wave of sadness. He didn’t expect that kind of behaviour from Chu. He was about to ask the boxer what was wrong when someone knocked on the car’s window. Rolling it down, Guo noticed that it was his uncle on the other side of the glass, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “Why didn’t you pick up your phone? I have been calling you for hours. I was about to send a search party after you.” He scolded, tempted to grab his nephew by the ear. Then, all of sudden his expression and tone both changed. He lowered his head and looked at the man driving the car. “Who is that? Your boyfriend? You could have told me you were seeing someone. I wouldn’t be so worried if you had told me. Come outside and get him in, let me meet him.” Before either of them could say anything, the writer’s uncle walked back into the house, forcing him to quickly get out of the car and move to the door of the driver’s side. He didn’t expect Chu to be opening it without needing any coaxing from Guo to join him inside. “M-My uncle is a bit protective.” He explained, looking up at the boxer apologetically. He was met with no response.

The only reason why Shu Zhi was agreeing to this whole thing without an argument was to see whether the assumptions he had made about Changcheng were correct. He had a bit of a habit of jumping into conclusions when dealing with new people and not giving them a chance to show themselves for who they were. Waiting for Guo to lead the way, he followed from close behind, keeping himself quiet until they reached the entrance room, which was already bigger than his entire house and decorated like the bedroom of a King in movies. He sat by the writer’s side, but left a little distance between them. The boxer could feel the other’s uncle observing him in scrutiny, probably because of the scrapes on his face. “Where did you two meet?” The silence was broken by the eldest one’s question. “Honestly I never thought Changcheng would find someone so soon. He has never seemed in anything other than books, I was starting to think he was a monk.” Chu wondered if Guo was going, to tell the truth to his uncle, or if he would just go along and pretend that they were actually dating. Usually, Shu Zhi would refute right away, but he wanted to know how the writer would proceed. As in on cue, Changcheng stood up, moving to stand by his uncle’s side. His hands were shaking avidly, and it was clear from his face that he was embarrassed by something, either his father figure’s words or the whole misunderstanding. “Uncle, he is not my boyfriend.” The youngest out of them started, lowering his gaze to the ground shyly. “I have just been trying to get him to help me with my book and he gave me a ride home because it was late.” The second part of his speech came rushedly, as if he was afraid of something. Guo’s uncle fixed him with a look that looked suspiciously like disappointment, as if he was staring at a delusional kid chasing hopeless dreams. The boxer didn’t really like that look. “He has some good ideas.” He spoke up, at last, bringing all of the attention to himself. “I think his book will be a bestseller when he is finished.” Honestly, Chu had no idea if Changcheng’s writing was even good, but from the little time he had spent with the boy, he could tell that his social skills were not the best, that he preferred to observe rather than talk and that he was passionate about this. Writing sounded like Guo’s last hope, and Shu Zhi didn’t like the idea of someone looking down on the writer for that.

“Does that mean you are going to be my muse?” Changcheng asked, voice slightly louder and full of surprise, breaking up the trance they had all been in since Chu’s little speech. The boxer resisted the urge to roll his eyes and sigh, and merely nodded at the boy, though his gaze was more focused on the writer’s uncle, waiting to see what his reaction would be. Unexpectedly, the man broke into a huge smile and stood up as well, patting Guo on the back before pointing in the direction of Shu Zhi. “Nephew, you should keep this one.” And then he chuckled, as if everything made complete sense and ruffled the writer’s hair. “I’m going to bed now.” He started and then his gaze fell on Chu. “You should join us tomorrow for dinner. Auntie has already gone to bed, so she couldn’t meet you, but I’m sure she will like you.” The uncle then moved towards the stairs and looked at his nephew once again. “Help him clean those cuts and don’t stay up too late.” There was genuine affection in the man’s words now, a stark contrast from the look he had given Changcheng when he explained the misunderstanding. The boy, for his part, just nodded, and moved back closer to Shu Zhi. He shyly tugged on the boxer’s sleeve as his uncle left the room to urge the man to follow him.

⥲⍟⥳

The following day, Shen Wei was on edge the whole day, something that was odd given his personality and steely determination. Everyone at the museum noticed that, and even the students as he explained some of the histories of the objects they had on display for them. It was like his head was somewhere else, which was not far from the truth, but rather than thinking about the meeting with the person trying to sell the artefact, he was thinking about the man that would be accompanying him, Kun Lun. Time seemed to drag on and on, and he was tired of urging the clock to hit the scheduled time of their meeting.

As the clock finally struck twenty to four in the afternoon, the archaeologist excused himself from his duties and proceeded to the staff room to get changed. He had actually bought a new suit before coming in to work and he wanted to try it on before the detective arrived, so he could make sure it looked good on him. The task didn’t take much of his time, and soon enough he was standing in front of the mirror. The man was now dressed in a midnight blue suit piece with thin white stripes, a grain pattern white and dark blue shirt underneath coupled with a midnight blue tie and trousers in the same colour. Even his black shoes were new and shining. “You look handsome, Xiao Wei!” The voice caused the man to quickly spin on his heels to look at the intruder. There, leaning against a wall was Kun Lun, looking stunning in a cream coloured smoking with midnight blue details on top of a white shirt and midnight blue trousers. The sight gave Shen Wei a fuzzy feeling inside his stomach, and he noticed that their outfits matched. It was not always that he was caught /this/ out of guard, but the detective had successfully rendered him speechless.

Once some time had passed and he managed to compose himself, Shen Wei adjusted his glasses, just so he would have something to do before looking at Kun Lun again. There was a blush threatening to spread across his cheeks, but the male fought it as much as he could. “You look good as well, Detective.” He finally said, tugging at the bottom of his suit and walking towards the exit of the staff room. His words earned him a cocky smile from Kun Lun. “Shall we go?” He gestured outside of the room, trying to keep the conversation in the line of work, so he wouldn’t be caught in yet another session of getting flustered over the detective’s incessant flirting. Kun Lun laughed in amusement and then gestured outside as well, eyes locked with the archaeologist’s own. “Lead the way, Xiao Wei.”

⥲⍟⥳

Guo took Chu by the hand to lead him to the bathroom, where he made the boxer sit down, so he could rummage around and get the medical kit. Using a piece of cotton soaked in disinfectant, he gently cleaned Shu Zhi wounds, blowing the skin afterwards, so it wouldn’t sting. Thankfully, they were not very big and just scrapes, so he wouldn’t have to give the older man any stitches or anything. After cleaning, he applied some medicinal ointment to speed up the healing process and put a light blue Dragon Ball Z Band-Aid on a particularly bigger scrape on Chu’s jaw. After he was finished, Changcheng smiled boyishly down at Shu Zhi, both hands hidden behind his back as he bowed slightly forward. “It’s done.” It made for an adorable and endearing sight, but the boxer only ruffed in response.

After that, the writer took them to the kitchen, where he grabbed two bowls of fruit salad and poured some yoghurt on top of the cut fruit pieces. He figured that Chu might be hungry after being at the academy for so long and then bringing him home. “Don’t you have adult food?” The boxer asked with that same usual sourness to his voice, which made the boy frown a little sadly, but when he went to get something else for the man to eat, Shu Zhi grabbed his wrist to stop him and just started eating the fruit salad. Guo smiled brightly, as if such a small thing had made him the happiest person in the world. It was rather strange, but Chu found it fitting to the other male’s personality. “What happened to your parents?” The boxer asked after a little while. The question had been nagging at the back of his mind for a little while now. He knew that it could come across as rude and insensible, but he just had to ask. “They died in a car accident.” Changcheng responded in a feeble voice. “My uncle and aunt took me in after they passed and have cared for me since I was little, even though I never did much for them in return.” The writer smiled a bit sadly, but quickly tried to cheer himself up. “But I know they love me very much.” Shu Zhi didn’t respond immediately, he just stared at the other male with an unreadable face and nodded, taking the time to process the information. “I lost my family, too.” He admitted, but didn’t elaborate nor offer any more information, but it seemed like Guo understood, because the writer just pressed a hand to his shoulder and smiled, though Chu could see tears brimming in the corners of his eyes.

“I’m leaving now.” The boxer stated, getting up and moving to exit the kitchen with the other male followed him. The writer took him all the way to his car and when Shu Zhi got in, Guo smiled at him through the window and waved goodbye, though before Chu could leave he hurriedly shouted. “Don’t forget to come tomorrow or my uncle will be upset.” The boxer grunted in response and revved the engine to leave, but he had no intention to bail on them. He threw one last glance at Changcheng and then sped out, driving away from the writer’s home and towards his own.

⥲⍟⥳

The address given by the suspect was not very far from the museum and led them to a huge house. Gathered by the door, Shen Wei knocked twice politely and waited for someone to answer them. A maid around their age was the one sent to pick them up and lead them to the vendor’s office. She knocked on the door once to announce her presence and then opened it, scouting both males inside. “Your guests are here, sir.” She bowed forward in respect and then moved to stand by the door. The suspect, Huang Jin greeted them with a warm smile, standing up to shake both males’ hands. “Hello, hello! You’re Mr Shen from the museum, right?” He asked, looking at the archaeologist, whom just smiled politely and nodded before turning towards the detective in disguise. “This is Kun Lun. He is our new recruit at the museum, though he usually works in the field.” As if on cue, Kun Lun raised a hand and waved at Huang Jin, he already had a lollipop in his mouth. The vendor smiled again and then gestured towards the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, sit down. Would you like some water, tea or anything?” Both males shook their heads while following the command and lowering themselves into the designed seats. The maid slipped outside of the office and closed the door behind her to give them some privacy.

Sitting behind the desk once again, Huang Jin propped his elbows onto the wooden surface and intertwined his fingers, leaning forward to look at the duo. His smile was rather forced, as if he thought that looking amicable would make them more likely to buy whatever goods he was selling. “So…” He cleared his throat, even though both Shen Wei and Kun Lun already had their attention on him. “I have some paintings from the Zhou Dynasty, a vase from the Han Dynasty…” The detective cut him off abruptly, leaning forward as well to look straight into Huang Jin’s eyes. “We are not interested in any of that. Where is that valuable and ancient artefact you spoke of on the phone?” The question was delivered in a rather sharp and brusque manner, which earned Kun Lun a subtle elbow to the side that had him retracting as Shen Wei smiled at the vendor apologetically. “My apologies, Mr Huang. Kun Lun here has been curious about this item since we spoke yesterday, so he is a bit eager.” The archaeologist patted his company on the shoulder trying to seem reassuring. The suspect apparently bought that, because he released a boisterous laugh and stood up. “Let me get it for you.” He started, walking towards a corner of the office that was behind a tall shelf. “I actually bought this recently from a Western man, but such an item belongs in the museum…” Both men ignored the rest of Huang Jin’s sentence as they exchanged looks due to the new information. It seemed like Huang Jin was not the culprit, but rather the person he bought it from.

Returning to where he had left them, the vendor settled a large box on the desk and opened its lid. Inside of it, there was an exquisite sword. It had the form of a lance, but without the elongated cable. Its handle was made of pure gold and the blade itself was black with intricate red lines adorning its extension. The crimson colour seemed to vibrate as if it were alive. Shen Wei was stunned at the sight. It was obviously Ea in front of them, but the lingering question was, who was this man that sold it to Huang Jin? The passionate archaeologist inside of him was excited to be seeing such illustrious relic. As Kun Lun questioned the vendor subtly to help with the investigation, Shen Wei reached to touch the sword, but as soon as it made contact with his skin the male jumped back in shock, drawing the attention of the other two men in the room. “Are you alright, Xiao Wei?” The detective asked, hurriedly moving close to his partner in this case and placing a palm upon his shoulder. “What happened?” The archaeologist looked at him, but didn’t say anything right away. His expression was still pretty visibly shocked. “I…”

#镇魂 | GUARDIAN #镇魂 #镇魂 guardian #guardian #Zhen Hun #Zhao Yun Lan #Kun Lun #Shen Wei #Guo Changcheng #Chu Shu Zhi #zhao yun lan x shen wei #guo x chu #fanfiction #my work #fanfic #chapter two #au #canon divergence #reincarnation

54 notes · View notes

xsparklingravenx · 7 years

Text

The Dragon’s Curse

Title: The Dragon’s Curse

Fandom: Tales of Berseria

Characters: Eizen, Edna, Magilou, Zaveid, Velvet, Rokurou, Eleanor, Laphicet

Rating: T

Word Count: 8,764

Summary: Legends say that the Rayfalke Spiritcrest is a ghost ship that sails the seas in search of the man who would one day call himself its captain. Eizen and Edna know better. Running from a past he left behind as he hurtles towards a fate he knows he will never escape, Eizen throws himself into a life on the sea, dogged constantly by the curse that brings misfortune to him and those around him

.A chance encounter with a travelling menagerie however changes Eizen and Edna's course. With the promise of a charm that might just fix Eizen's curse, all they want in return is a trip to Port Zekson. But it's Port Zekson that Eizen is running from, and a return trip might be all that is needed to bring him on a collision course with someone he left behind...

Part 1 / AO3

Legends said that the Rayfalke Spiritcrest was a ghost ship that sailed the seas in search of the man who would one day call himself its captain. It was a story that passed through the lips of many a sailor that came for a pint to drink in weary taverns, one that Eizen heard being discussed as he leant against the wall of a pub tucked away in Port Reneed. Tonight’s variation included a wildly imaginative addition as to how the original crew must have met their ends, and as Eizen listened in, he wondered how many drinks the storyteller must have had.

“Right now it’s anchored near here, you know.” another man said, his cheeks coloured pink by alcohol. “Saw it myself I did. Wouldn’t know it was no ghost ship by how well maintained it looks, only reason I knew it was the Spiritcrest was ‘cause of the fancy dragon emblem on it.”

“I thought I heard whispers.” a woman said, her face lit up with excitement. “Said it just drifted by and came to a stop, has anyone had a look around it yet?”

“Are you joking?” the storyteller said, horrified. “Ain’t you heard a word I said? The Reaper’s Curse came down and lead its last crew to their watery grave! Anyone who takes one step on that ship is a fool.”

They began to squabble, arguing over how no one could know if they were the ship’s destined captain if they never got a good look at it. Eizen scoffed and pulled a coin from his pocket, flipping it over and catching it again. When he looked down, the head of the demon lord Dhaos stared back up at him. Tails again, as it would always be.

If only they knew. He pushed himself from the wall to make his leave and walked out of pub like a ghost, not one person so much as giving him a second glance. It was for the best, he knew, but he couldn’t help but wish that he could sit down with the impressionable lot and tell them all about the Spiritcrest, how she creaked affectionately as she turned on the sea, how the sails rippled like oceans themselves when the wind hit them in the right way, just how sturdy and strong she was. There was nothing to be done, though. Not a thing in the world would make them see him, let alone hear what he had to say.

Port Reneed was alive at night, people buzzing around the market as though it was the middle of the day. Eizen made his way through, his attention mostly on dodging the people who tried to walk straight into him, but stopped when a stall caught his eye. Plush toys shaped like various animals hung from it like fair ground prizes, the fancies of children no doubt.

There was one shaped like a squirrel, its tail long and fluffy. He took off one of his gloves and reached for it to test how soft it was, and once satisfied with the feel, pulled it down. The stall owner didn’t look twice, but Eizen judged the price and then scattered some coins in front of him. He wouldn’t notice them until Eizen had already made his way out of the area, but it didn’t matter. The toy was paid for, and his conscience clear as a result.

With his purchase safely in hand, Eizen melded back into the crowd. Nearby, a man in the middle of a business deal burst into a coughing fit that nearly choked him, bringing his important conversation to a grinding halt. Elsewhere, a woman putting away stock for the next day found the majority of her foodstuffs to be spoiled. A townsperson bumped into a child, only to realise that the boy had robbed him. All that and more, just because Eizen had decided to walk among them.

He went back to the port. It was busy there, drunken sailors returning to their ships, some with women, some with alcohol, some just to rest their heads. They could be fascinating when he took the time to pay attention to them, but someone else had caught it instead. His gaze found the girl sat upon a cargo crate, her body turned away from him so she could face the sea. Propped open on her shoulder was a peach coloured umbrella that hid most of her from view.

Ordinarily, someone would have told her off by now, snapped at her to get off of precious cargo, but no one batted an eyelid because she was just as invisible as he was. He approached her with gentle footfalls even though he knew she was hardly the type to startle easy anyway.

“Nice view?” he asked.

The girl turned to face him. She looked near identical to him, the two of them sharing the same golden hair, the same stern curve of their mouths, their eyes the same shade of blue. She blinked once, slowly, like a cat, and sighed. “Could be better. Finally back from moron-watching?”

“Yeah. Listened in on some interesting stuff too.” Eizen paused for a second, crossing his arms against his chest. “Did you know the Rayfalke Spiritcrest is nearby?”

His sister smiled, a wry thing that looked more cruel than sweet. Though she was named for a flower, Edna was anything but delicate. She had learned the smile from him, but she’d honed it far more carefully. “You don’t say? I hear that ship is spooked by ghosts and rats and all other things gross.”

“Oh yeah? Well get this. I heard that there’s a curse on that ship, and the previous crew all threw themselves overboard when it took hold. Stories say that they preferred an icy death in the seas to the calamity that would no doubt await them if they lived.”

“I hear there’s an idiot human out there that the ship is waiting for.” Edna continued. “Apparently it’s so desperate for a taste of what a real captain could do.”

“Well, I hear that maybe, just maybe,” Eizen said, nudging her umbrella away to swing an arm around her shoulders, “that it might be a pair of malakhim that haunt the ship’s cabins.”

She made a noise of annoyance as she was forced to put her umbrella down. She was a scrawny thing, his sister, but appearances meant nothing when her tongue was sharper than a blade. “Nope. I’m pretty sure it’s definitely sailing around for a human captain. The ship’s probably sick of all your boring chatter and weird lectures. No one cares about detailed explanations of your plans to tunnel under the entire world.”

Eizen huffed, his pride somewhat stung. “It’d be viable, and a useful way to get around. But, I guess if you really think that way, I won’t give you this.”

He revealed the plush squirrel just long enough for her to catch a glimpse of it before hiding it away in the folds of his jacket. She tried to look unimpressed, but Eizen knew her well enough for her to see the way her eyes widened in longing. “What was that?” she asked, even though he knew that she knew. “It looked stupid.”

“Yeah, real stupid. Ugly too, who’d want something like this?” he pulled the toy out again and held it up to the nearest streetlamp. He scrunched up his face in mock disgust. “The fur isn’t even quality grade. What trash.”

Edna reached for it with her free hand, only able to get near it because of the added height of the crate. Still it remained out of her reach. “Eizen,” she whined. “Let me see it. Closer.”

“Wait, you actually want it?”

“Nope.” Edna said, but she was twisting the handle of her closed umbrella in an agitated manner. The mascot that already hung from it – the Normin she carried so faithfully with her – bobbed as she did so. “Where did you get it?”

“The market.” Eizen replied, finally giving it up to let her examine it more closely. She rubbed the squirrel’s tail against her cheek, her face set in a frown. “They had others, but they were even worse than this one.”

“And this one’s pretty bad, if you ask me. It’s got a tear in its back.” Edna said. She was still rubbing the tail against her cheek.

Of course it had a tear in it. He could have sworn it was perfect when he picked it up, but nothing was ever sacred when he was concerned. “I could take it back.”

“What’s the point? We’ve got it now, and you paid for it, right? May as well keep it.”

She must really have loved it to be saying that. “If you say so,” he said, feigning defeat. “So, you heard anything while you’ve been sat here?”

Edna shrugged. “Not a ton. There was some chatter about a menagerie or something, but as far as I could gather, it’s about stupid humans doing stupid things, so really it’s just gonna be a whole bunch of stupid.”

“A show?” Eizen considered the concept. He knew of circuses, of theatre shows and stand up comedies, but a menagerie was something he hadn’t encountered before. A collection of exotic animals, rarities in the modern world or just uncommon; it could have been a point of interest. “When?”

Edna shrugged, hopping off the crate and closing her umbrella up. “Tomorrow, I think. Why? Don’t tell me you actually want to go.”

“So what if I do?” Edna peered up at him with eyes that were evidently judging him. “Look, it’s no exhibition on priceless artefacts, but I’ll take entertainment when I can find it. We should go before we leave the port.”

“Entertainment?” she laughed, her ponytail bobbing at the side of her head. “That’s a strong word. You’re so lame, Eizen.”

“Bold words for someone who can’t let go of a plush toy.” Eizen said.

She punched him in the arm and hugged the squirrel to her chest. “The toy sucks and we’re going to your stupid menagerie. Now let’s go home, we’ve got to row our little boat all the way back.”

“You mean I’ve got to row all the way back.”

“Exactly. I’m tired.” She paused, turning half way. “By the way. Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re welcome, I guess.” Eizen said. He saw the side of her mouth quirk up in her favourite sardonic grin before she turned completely and walked away. He followed, the two of them picking their way through the people, two earth malaks amongst an entire town of humans.

He thought of the drunkards in the pub, dreaming of plundering the Rayfalke Spiritcrest, and wondered what they would think if they knew the truth. The curse was real, bringing bad luck and hardship to anyone around him, human or malak alike. Not even his own sister was safe from it, and every day he questioned himself. Why had he let her come along as he sailed the seas? Why had he dragged her along when he’d decided to run from every problem he had been the source of?

If he was truthful with himself, though, he knew why. The answer was found in the malevolence that he harboured deep inside, hidden away from his sister, or in the dragon emblem that decorated the Rayfalke Spiritcrest. A reminder. Fate was inescapable, and he wasn’t going to stand scared of it. Edna was all he had, his only family, and though he had thought about abandoning her for her own safety, in the end he hadn’t been able to do it. If he went, she was coming with him. He wanted to show her the world before he eventually succumbed, and aboard their ship, they were making a good job of it.

He’d leave her before he ever became a dragon. He’d seen the destruction they wrought, the way they damaged the malakhim they left behind, the ones who had loved them so deeply before they had become twisted. Putting his sister through that fate was unimaginable.

---

Eizen quickly realised that, much to his disappointment, menagerie didn’t mean the same thing to the people running it as it did to him. Magilou’s Menagerie was less a collection of exotic animals and much more a collection of exotic people, and as he stood watching the titular Magilou force her suffering companion to “Act! Like! A! Dove!” he found his interest sorely waning.

The show had barely begun, and already Edna looked like she wanted to gouge her own eyes out. They were stood off to the side even though most of the hall’s seats were empty; Eizen didn’t want to get into the problem of taking a seat only for someone else to think that it was free. He’d offered to let Edna sit on his shoulders, but she’d heartily refused. He had a feeling she’d declined more because she literally didn’t care rather than because she had a decent view where she stood.

Apparently this section was supposed to be comedy, which was funny because Eizen hadn’t cracked a single laugh in the fifteen minutes they’d been watching. The rest of the limited crowd seemed to be enamoured, though. He had a feeling it was less to do with it being amusing and more to do with the pinkish blush on the cheeks of Magilou’s assistant. Humans were so easily won over, Eizen thought. Maybe that was something admirable about them.

Finally, after much badgering, the assistant finally relented with possibly the worst dove imitation Eizen had ever seen. Magilou beamed, undeterred, and threw her hands up in their air. Sparks flew from her fingertips, making the audience gasp in awe.

Edna’s attention was momentarily drawn, but only for the briefest of moments before she yawned loudly behind her hand and went back to looking bored. She obviously had realised the same thing Eizen had; this show would be full of flashy magic tricks that would no doubt have a mundane source. It was how all magic worked; it was only incredible until you knew how it worked, and Eizen was sure he’d figure it out before the show reached its end.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your undivided attention!” Magilou called out, bowing grandly as she lavished in the attention. She was a gaudy looking thing, her frame scrawny yet elegant in a way, her clothes a mishmash of pink and purple and books of all things. She and her partner made for a visually interesting duo, the other woman tall and broader shouldered, her hair long and black and braided. “If you enjoyed that, then there’s only so much more to come! You better hold onto your hats and strap into your seats, because tonight we plan to bloooow you away!”

A gust of wind shot through the crowd as she drew out the word. A wind machine, Eizen thought. Had to be. Magilou elbowed her assistant and said, “Oh my, Velvet, would you look at the crowd we’ve got tonight?”

For a moment, Eizen was sure that the two of them looked right at him and Edna. But then Velvet looked away and sighed. “Wow. What a crowd we’ve got tonight.”

She sounded so deadpan, so uninterested, that Eizen actually smiled, finally amused. Magilou huffed and broke into a tirade about how Velvet should appreciate the audience, and their skit began anew.

Comedy wasn’t their only forte, though. Magilou’s Menagerie was four people strong, which looked small at first glance. It seemed though, for what they lacked in numbers, they made up for in character. Magilou herself had enough personality for seven people, and Velvet, though seemingly taciturn, proved to have her own wit when provoked. Once they had left the stage, a man dressed in traditional looking robes took their place. Eizen had little time for that, though, his attention swiftly drawn by the weapons the man carried. Three; a sword at his back, and twin blades at his side. He flashed the crowd a cheeky grin, and then, much to Eizen’s disappointment, pulled the daggers from their sheaths. “Hey, everyone having a good time?” he shouted at the audience. He paused long enough for them to respond, and then shook his head. “What? C’mon, I can’t hear you!”

When the audience responded in a satisfactory manner, he nodded smugly and waved. “Well, I’m gonna show you something even better! I’m Rokurou of Magilou’s Menagerie, and you lucky few are gonna get to see some real skills tonight!”

“Oh great.” Edna said. “He’s gonna wave his swords around and call it a show.”

“They’re daggers.” Eizen said, appalled.

And Edna was wrong anyway, to call it ‘waving’. The man danced with the blades, his movements smooth and choreographed and graceful. Yet there was still a sense of chaos in the piece, something manic and unhinged that Eizen could only catch glimpses off. It was in the glee of Rokurou’s expression, in the way he would suddenly divert the routine into something completely unexpected. His movements were controlled, but at the times it seemed as if he was possessed by something that had its own ideas. For the first time that night, Eizen was actually watching attentively.

“Now this,” he said, “is real entertainment.”

Edna rolled her eyes.

Unfortunately, he didn’t touch the sword on his back once. When he finished his show, he put his hand on the hilt as if he was going to pull it out, but instead he just smiled. “Want more, guys? Then I guess you’ll just have to come back next time! Thanks for watching, see you again!”

“What a tease.” Eizen huffed as Magilou returned to the stage to link the act into the next segment. Edna yawned again, loudly, and then glanced up above to the rafters. Eizen watched as Magilou did her part and then danced off the stage, the final member coming to take her place.

The girl looked somewhat out of place in the show. Unlike the wild looking Magilou, the stoic Velvet, or the chaotic Rokurou, this girl exuded a calmer aura. Her ginger hair was tied in girlish pigtails, and her dress was ladylike and elegant. She stepped to the middle of the stage and addressed the crowd.

“Hello, ladies, gentlemen.” she said, her voice steady and relaxed. “My name is Eleanor, and I’m here to present to you a show that will leave you absolutely, positively—”

“Positutely!” Magilou hissed from off stage. The audience laughed and even Edna had a half-smile on her face.

“Um. Absolutely, positutely astounded!” Eleanor finished, a determined look on her face. She raised her arms to the audience, closing her eyes as she did so, and then the lights went dim.

“Oh?” Edna said.

A second later, something bright fizzled through the air above Eleanor’s head, sparkling white. It split into four beams of light, swirling like tendrils about her body in red, blue, green, and yellow. Her eyes snapped open and she pirouetted on the spot before collapsing to the floor, the tendrils following her smooth arc of movement. Their light diffused as she fell, but when she rose her arms again they followed her upwards, upwards, growing brighter again. She held them there for a moment, and then threw her arms outwards. The beams of light shot for the audience.

Amongst the gasps as the lights flew, Edna said, “These are malak artes.”

Eizen scoffed. “You’re giving them way too much credit. There’s no way, just an impressive light show that they’ve worked hard on. I bet if you looked around, you’d find some kind of device that lets them emit these lights. It’s simple, I’d assume. You’d just need something with—”

“No.” Edna said. She pointed up to the ceiling above Eleanor with her folded umbrella. “They’re malak artes.”

Eizen followed the point of her umbrella to the rafters. There, sure enough, was a tiny malak that looked about the size of Eizen’s thumb from where he was stood. He couldn’t make out much of the malak except that it appeared to be a little boy, and he was waving his hands in time to the tendrils that had seemingly been moving to Eleanor’s command.

Any enjoyment that Eizen had been deriving from the show vanished in that instance, replaced instead with disgust. Of course. None of the tricks in the show had been magic. They were just humans, bastard humans, who were bending a malakhim to their will.

He was about to grab Edna and haul her out of there, when the malak noticed he was being watched in the middle of an overzealous movement to send the water tendril around Eleanor’s head. He lost his balance, and if that wasn’t enough, the rafter he was stood on suddenly cracked. It split apart in a rough movement, and Eizen’s heart lurched as the boy fell fell.

The artes dispersed. Eleanor looked up in horror and shrieked.

“Eizen!” Edna shouted. Eizen didn’t think twice, didn’t think about how the malak being surprised should have been impossible if he didn’t have free will, and dashed towards the stage.

Velvet beat him to it. She all but snatched the boy out of the air, pulling him close to her chest. “Phi!” she gasped as the broken rafter clattered to the stage. Over the malak’s head, her eyes met Eizen’s. She could see him, he thought. She was looking straight at him.

Time stood still. Eleanor blinked. The audience looked at one another, confused, unknowing of what just transpired. And then the malak, Phi, waved his hands and whispered, “Thanks Velvet! Don’t stop, don’t stop, you can do it Eleanor!”

The four beams of light blinked back into existence, dancing around her body. Velvet let Phi go and kicked the rafter off the stage. Eleanor took her hands in her own. “Right, I can do this. Dance with me, Velvet?”

And before Eizen’s eyes, the solo dance turned into something intimate, something gentle and soft, while Phi stood back and conducted the lights like a musician would an orchestra. They spun around in time with them, Velvet slowly taking the lead, pulling her across the stage as the lights chased Eleanor’s skirts.

“Well what do you know.” Edna said, coming to stand beside him. “Looks like these humans aren’t as dumb as they look.”

When the dance came to an end, the audience applauded, rambunctious, wild. Magilou pranced back onto the stage like a gaudy, pink gazelle while Eleanor and Velvet made there way off. “Ladies and Gentlemen!” she cried, doing an excited little jig. “And malakhim too, thank you for your wonderful patronage tonight! While we’re done for now, there’s always more for next time, so strap yourselves in and make sure you come back next time. Whether Port Reneed or Hellawes, Loegres or Taliesin, we’ll be sure to raise the roof! Thank you, thank you, and maaaaagikazam!”

She pulled a ridiculous pose. Eizen thought that was the end of it, thought that perhaps this would be just one strange night to add to his thousand year log of memories to be forgotten about. But as everyone filed out, Magilou’s gaze fell upon him and Edna, and with a grin and a wave she said, “Hold up, you two, I think we should have a little chat!”

Phi, stood at the side of the stage, stared at them with wide, doe-like eyes, an encouraging smile on his face. Eizen glanced at Edna, who shrugged her response. Of course. He couldn’t rely on her for anything.

---

The rooms the menagerie’s members rented were nothing like their bright and wild personalities. Cheap, bland, and the very definition of temporary, Eizen wondered what kinds of rates they were being paid to perform given their tawdry lodgings. It couldn’t be much.

Magilou lounged across her bed chest down, her legs in the air behind her. The rest of the menagerie stood around, or in Rokurou’s case, leant heavily on the cabinet by the door. “What are malakhim anyway, like carriages?” he said. “You spend your whole damn life waiting for one, and then twenty show up at once.”

“Four.” Eleanor said. “We’ve met four.”

“Four, twenty, it’s the same difference.”

“I don’t think it is.” Phi said. He was sat on the edge of the bed by Magilou, swinging his legs off the side. “You’re both earth malakhim, right?” he asked, looking at Eizen. “I mean, you look like you are.”

“What gave it away?” Edna asked dryly. “And what are you?”

Phi shrugged. Magilou huffed. “Enough about him, I want to talk about me!”

“Business as usual then.” Velvet said.

“Hush! You know as well as I do that when I say ‘me’, I actually mean ‘us’.” Magilou ignored Velvet’s roll of the eyes and focused her attention on Eizen. “So! I think I speak for all of my menagerie when I say that we were surprised to see a duo of malakhim in our audience, and I think I speak doubly when I say that we were surprised to see Laphicet make such an amateur mistake like he did. In all our time performing, we’ve never had so much as a single mishap on stage! Why, I do think the two just might be connected. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Eizen shrugged. “Awful luck follows me around like a bad penny. That’s the way things go for me.” Magilou’s eyes flashed with interest. He ignored it. “So now I have a question. Why did you want to speak to us?”

She snapped her fingers in delight. Sparks flew from the tips. “Hold up.” Edna said before she could speak. “Where are you drawing your power from, if it isn’t the pipsqueak?”

Laphicet made a noise of protest. Magilou grinned deviously. From beneath her hat, something squirmed. With one stubby hand, the creature inside it lifted it, poking its head out; a normin wearing its own oversized hat and a wide smile. It jumped off her head and landed on the bed in front of her, placing its paws on its hips. “Miss Magilou has me to thank for that.” he said, haughty and high pitched. Eizen saw the longing in Edna’s gaze immediately. Whether it was to hug him or destroy him, he couldn’t be sure. “I’m the one providing all the scenery here! My name’s Bienfu, the man behind the man, the great and wondrous—!”

Edna poked her umbrella into him, sending him tumbling off the bed with a distressed cry. “Ah, that’s better.” she said. “I thought I heard buzzing. It’s stopped now.”

“I like this one.” Velvet said. Magilou giggled behind her hand as Eleanor went to rescue the normin from where he had fallen, patting his head softly.

Eizen, who was quite done with the diversions, reiterated his question once again. Magilou was happy to answer. “Don’t you think it a little strange? A ghost ship rocks into town on a dark and lonely night, and then like phantoms two malakhim show up, ready to torment and ruin the townspeople!” she gasped like she was still on stage, and then broke into a grin. “I’m joking, of course, but the point still stands. The Rayfalke Spiritcrest is something to do with you, isn’t it?”

“Of course not.” Eizen said, though he wasn’t really committed to the lie. “It’s just looking for its destined captain.”

“Hogwash!” Magilou said. “Absolute nonsense that is. If I were an ordinary girl maybe I’d buy that kind of story, but let me tell you, we at Magilou’s Menagerie are very much out of the ordinary. We are the devious, the dastardly, the deceptive, the dramatic! And we know malakhim and their ways when we see them.”

“Think she could fit anymore d’s into that sentence?” Edna asked.

Magilou ignored her and carried on. “So, with that in mind, I’ll ask again. Are you the ones who sail on that ship?”

Eizen held his tongue for a moment, drawing the moment out. And then he said, “Sure. Why are you interested?”

“Malakhim pirates!” Rokurou said. “Don’t you see why that would be a maybe even a little bit interesting? Sheesh, if the Abbey caught wind of you they’d go nuts.”

“They wouldn’t be pleased.” Velvet agreed. “But why don’t you get to the point, Magilou?”

“Right, right.” Magilou sat up at that, crossing her legs. “So, the thing is, Magilou’s Menagerie isn’t just some stationary bore of a show. We travel all around, right?”

“As most acts do.” Edna said.

“Except as of late, our shows haven’t been pulling in as much as they used to.” Magilou continued, waving her hand dismissively. “It’s the daemonblight. Everyone’s far too excited about that to come and see our brand of fun. I don’t see why, but, alas! I don’t make the rules.”

“So what are you getting at?” Eizen asked, his interest starting to wane. They were humans with resonance, but just because they could see them didn’t mean he had to bow to their every whim. Humans were fascinating, but they were all the same at the end of the day. He didn’t think he’d ever seen one that wasn’t acting for their own selfish means. “You’re running out of money. What does that have to do with us?”

“A ship would cost! Westgand has been fun and all for now, but we’re getting bored and it’s time to move on. I wanted Port Zekson would be our next stop, but we’ve found ourselves tragically stuck. Tonight’s earnings barely bought us dinner!”

Magilou collapsed on her back dramatically, a cry leaping from her throat. Eizen had a feeling she was over exaggerating. Edna pulled a face. “We should leave these morons to it then.”

Eleanor, who had been mostly quiet, hugged herself. Bienfu sat on her shoulder, his huge eyes peaking out from the brim of his hat. “I apologise for Magilou’s demeanour.” she said. “What we’re—she’s—asking, is that if you are the captains of that ship, perhaps you would consider taking us on as passengers? I understand that this is a lot to ask, and it is forward of us, but we’re sort of stuck right now.”

He crossed his arms, deep in thought. Port Zekson. Eizen hadn’t been to Midgand in a long time, and had absolutely no desire to return now. “It’s not happening.” he said. “And besides, what makes you think I’d go all that way for no pay? You think that just because we’re malakhim we don’t need funding?”

“Who said we wouldn’t pay?” Magilou said. She waved her hand and produced, from seemingly nothing, a tiny bag. It was no bigger than Eizen’s coin, and sat daintily in her hand. “I don’t just present our show, you know. I’m a witch, and you know what witches do? They create hexes!”

Eizen couldn’t believe this. “So you’re going to curse me? I hate to break this to you, but I'm already under one.”

“Oh how rude!” Magilou tittered. “I had a feeling you were. Like I said already, Laphicet would never make a mistake like he did tonight, and you wouldn’t believe the whispers we’ve been hearing of late. If you’re right and misfortune does follow you around, then this is just the thing! A good luck charm.”

Eizen looked at Edna, who simply popped open her umbrella in the middle of the room. “Oops.” she said, not sounding affected in the slightest. “Now I’ll have bad luck too. Don’t suppose you can make another one of those?”

Magilou did some sleight of hand wherein the bag simply disappeared with the movement. “Well, that’s the thing. The materials to make even one of these little baggies are quite hard to procure…and we’ll need all sorts of nasty monster bits for it to work. As it is, I’m fresh out!”

“This is ridiculous.” Eizen said. “So you don’t even have the good luck charm to begin with?”

“Getting the materials wouldn’t be difficult if we had more malakhim with us!” she said, jumping up to her feet. “Why, how about tomorrow? We go out, get the materials, make the bags, and then you can set off with us on board and the sweet knowledge that you’re in the hands of some seriously wonderful fortunes! We’ll be Magilou’s Menagerie, the terrors of the high seas, the storms that rock the boat sides—”

“We’re sorry about her.” Velvet said. “You should just go, forget about us.”

“But Velvet!” Laphicet protested. “I want to be a pirate!”

The thought of the good-luck bag was enticing. He didn’t believe in its magic, didn’t believe in anything to do with it really, but anything that could offset the effects of his domain had to be worth a look. And really, what was a boat ride at the end of the day? Once all was done and dusted, he and Edna could turn their backs on Port Zekson, their little placebo good luck bags in hand, and go back to searching every corner of the world for their own amusement.

“Alright.” he said. “But I’ll warn you now. Travelling with me, it’s not easy. My curse effects everyone around me. I can’t guarantee you’ll be safe on my ship, or even in this little trip out to find the materials you need. Keep that in mind. And also, I have one more condition. Say yes, and my ship will be yours to use.”

“Go on?” Velvet said.

“In your next performance, Rokurou uses that sword. I want to see it on the stage.”

Rokurou’s eyes went wide.

“Whatever you want, malak, I don’t care!” Magilou hollered in delight. “Woohoo! Port Zekson, here we come!”

---

The Warg Forest, past the Fens of Nog, was a nightmare to traverse. Marshy and wet to begin with, Eizen’s presence had only seemed to make it worse. A storm raged around them, the rain heaving down as if someone was throwing buckets of the stuff from the heavens. Edna looked at him from beneath her umbrella, dry and sheltered, and smirked

“It never rains like this.” Rokurou moaned, shaking out his soggy sleeves. “Like, seriously. It always rains but it never rains.”

“Right! Isn’t it fascinating, seeing this so-called curse in action?” Eleanor said. She walked alongside him, holding a spear in her hands. Apparently they weren’t just performers, but fighters too. Eizen found himself wondering about their pasts, about what had made them who they were. Humans lived such short, fleeting lives, a blink of the eye to a malakhim like him, and yet they managed to fit such a great deal of experience into them.

They were looking for the hides of lycanthropes, and the eyes and intestines of boars. Magilou didn’t seemed bothered by the rain, flinging balls of flame at anything that so much as moved. When Eizen questioned if charcoaled ingredients would work, she’d shrugged. “It doesn’t matter! Material is material, an eye is an eye, and hide is hide even if it’s a little bit blackened.”

“So, Eizen.” Velvet said, coming close. “Port Zekson. You’ve got a problem with that place?”

Eizen watched as Eleanor charged after a boar with a war cry. Laphicet and Rokurou followed as Edna and Magilou dispatched a skunk-like creature that had dared creep in on their space. “I don’t know what you mean.” Eizen said, twisting his enchanted bracelets. “Port’s a port.”

“And yet your eyes tell me a different story.” she smiled, but it was more like an Edna-brand of smile. Something cruel, not quite sweet. “Malakhim such as yourself are well travelled, correct? It wouldn’t be strange for some places to have bad associations.”

“There are plenty of places that I’d rather not sail to nowadays.” Eizen said. Port Zekson, Midgand itself, the real Rayfalke Spiritcrest down in Eastgand. Home seemed so far now. He knew the next time he returned he would not be himself. “But what would it matter to someone like you?”

“Just an observation.” Velvet said, though he had the feeling there was far more to her words than that. “You have a past there, don’t you?”

“And where is your past then,” Eizen said, “if you know so much?”

“Port Taliesin.” Velvet replied, curt, her eyes finding not his, but the battle Magilou was now raging with the boar that Eleanor had engaged. A second had joined the brawl, taking on Laphicet and Rokurou. “Aball.”

He had heard of it. “Your group is strange, you know. A bunch of humans with enough resonance to see the malakhim ending up together? How does that happen?”

The boar was refusing to go down without a fight. Rokurou cut through its hide, but even then it remained upright. Velvet stepped forward. “It starts with a hunt in the forest.”

She charged inwards, performing a roundhouse kick with the grace and flexibility of an acrobat. She did not let up, rapid strikes finding home amidst the carnage of Laphicet’s magical attacks. The boar struggled to keep up. She wore it down one kick at a time, and when she took even the slightest of hits, Laphicet was there with a healing arte. When she changed tactics, Eizen was surprised at the brutality of it. Hidden knives appeared from her sleeves, and with no mercy she cut through the boar like it was made of mere paper.

She reminded him of an assassin, and it was then he’d realised that he’d underestimated her. She dusted her hands while Rokurou began to gather the needed materials. “And how does it end then?” Eizen asked.

Velvet looked him in the eyes. “It ends with a girl finding her place in a travelling show, because there is nowhere else she feels alive. Ask us all, and we’ll answer the same. Whether it begins with that hunt, or a broken sword, or a cruel father, or dead parents, we all ended up here.”

Curiosity burned. He wanted to know the middles to those stories, what had driven Velvet to find her place with these people. Velvet said, “How does your story begin then, malak?”

Eizen reached into his pocket. His reaper’s coin was heavy in his grasp. “Depending on where you start,” he said, “it begins with either a girl, or a dragon.”

A roar from behind them. Eizen turned to see a lycanthrope, ugly and huge, approaching them with inhuman speed. “About time.” Edna said. She had been standing off to the side. “I was beginning to think you’d dragged us out here because you wanted to show off, but I doubt you puny humans could take on a beast like this.”

Eizen ran in first. Edna was strong in stature, but weak in pure strength. He was the opposite; he could deal the damage but couldn’t take it as well. Together, they covered one another’s weaknesses, their eyes always on each other’s backs. He slammed his fist into the beast’s jaw at the same time Edna let off an arte, the floor erupting upwards in an icy mountain-like structure. It disappeared almost instantly as it launched the lycanthrope into the air, the beast crying out in pain.

Eizen let loose with a wind based arte, something that had taken him a long time to learn and even longer to master. The green spears he conjured struck the beast as it fell, and with it he remembered Zaveid’s not-so-careful instruction, his lazy grin, the way he gave pointers. “You gotta just feel it, Eizen.” he’d said once. “Wind’s not like earth. It’s not steady, not stable. It’s chaos and it’s free and you’ve just got to go with it. You can’t control it like you do your earth, it doesn’t work that way.”

The wind-spears he had conjured caught the beast in a frenzy as it hit the ground, but it was stronger than he was giving it credit for. It recovered quickly, flipping to its feet, and then Eizen was forced to backstep as it swiped a claw at him. Inches from his face, he felt those claws cut air.

He could feel the eyes of the others watching them. This was the kind of monster that they had wanted help with, not the boars or the skunks or the other dregs of the forest. They were just humans with a child malak, while Eizen had a thousand years of experience and Edna had hundreds.

As the lycanthrope advanced on him, making it difficult to strike, Edna made her move. She ran in beside him, her umbrella in front of her like a spear, her earth artes enhancing its durability as she jabbed it into the creature’s chest. It gave Eizen the opening he needed to slam his fist into its jaw. He felt something crack beneath his force. He grinned at his victory.

But then, as it always did, his curse struck. The rains had made the floor sludgy and slippery. The beast snapped its head back so rapidly that Eizen was caught off guard, its claws slashing the space in front of it. Edna threw herself back out of its range but his boots caught in the mud, leaving him open as he tried to back step away. He caught the lycanthrope’s claws across his face, ripping open his skin from above his left eye to his jaw, four separate gashes that bled freely.

Eizen growled in pain, focusing his power into his fists. The wounds from a daemon hurt malakhim more than any usual creature, like the malevolence that made them up was searing into his skin. “Eizen!” Edna cried. He could feel magical energies from her, the beginnings of a healing arte. He could cast them too, they were both as talented as each other, but she was out of range and there was no way he could start up and successfully cast one when he was this close to the lycanthrope. He roared, earthen might in his blood and in his fists, and then he punched the beast back as Edna bathed him in healing light.

He brawled, the thrill of the fight catching up to him. He could see Edna falling under its thrall too as she began to toy with the lycanthrope more than truly battling it. She took its blows like she was made of stone, keeping its attention on her as Eizen beat it down, vicious and powerful.

But the malevolence around them, from the clawed marks cut into his face to the beast itself, was beating down on him like a sun. He could feel it acutely, like pinpricks in the back of his mind. Malakhim were more vulnerable to it than humans. Water was the most easily corrupted, but earth was just as much a toy in the hands of malevolence’s cruel effects. Eizen had many secrets, but this was his biggest of all; he had already absorbed enough to teeter him on the edge of an irreversible state.

And maybe that was why he lost himself, just ever so slightly. His curse was unkind and malicious, it turned every win into a loss and every moment of quiet into a chaotic din. He stunned the beast enough to gain the upper hand, and when the timing was right, he lost his grip on his malakhim nature and let something a bit nastier shine through.

“Eizen!” Edna gasped. She sounded horrified.

The dragon-like shadow that formed from him was a monstrous thing, For a single second in time it was like he had those scaled, powerful wings. Those shadows threw him upwards, sky bound, and he could see his sister, the beast, and the menagerie. All were tinted red and yellow. He wasn’t sure if he recognized them.

Fire reigned down. Not earth, not even wind. Fire.

He’d only known one fire malak. She was a beautiful woman, though he hadn’t seen her in years. She had helped him when Edna had been young, when he’d been but a boy in the eyes of malakhim, when he’d had no idea how to bring up an infant. Many people knew her, a steadfast guide to many youths, pure hearted, kind, serious. That was the opposite of everything he was in this moment, and yet he was using her element in his malevolent state.

In a flash, in the blink of an eye, he was on the floor again, the moment passed, the smouldering remains of the lycanthrope prone on the floor. Edna was looking at him with wide eyes. He looked at the menagerie, who all stared with varying looks of surprise, amazement, and horror.

How does your story begin then, malak?

Eizen stood there, breathing hard, feeling the malevolence rescind within himself, his body his again.

It didn’t begin with the girl, or even the dragon. Not really. It began with a disagreement, a fracturing of a friendship, and Port Zekson. Eizen was still paying for it. He would be paying for it for the rest of his life.

---

They didn’t talk about it. None of them mentioned it. Not even Magilou, who Eizen was sure would fire off a million questions a minute, breathed so much as a mention of it.

It was fine. Humans didn’t understand the relevance of the shadow, of what it meant to a malak like him, and he didn’t intend to spill those secrets. Eizen and Edna dropped the menagerie back at their inn and then went to stalk the streets of Port Reneed alone. Magilou said she needed time to do her magic, and Eizen, though admittedly curious, didn’t want to stay cooped up in their room.

The sun was setting, but people were still peddling their wares. Edna was silent as she walked a few paces behind him. He hadn’t breathed a word to her about malevolence. They had been travelling together for a long time and he’d never said a thing. She didn’t know, he told himself. She had no idea how close to the brink he was. What happened in the forest meant nothing. It was just an arte. Just an attack.

Together they looked at the stalls, Edna’s gaze longing when she saw the one selling stuffed toys. Eizen laughed. “Don’t tell me that you want another. I literally bought you one the other night.”

“I told you, I’m not interested in these stupid human things.” Edna said, a blatant lie if he’d ever heard one. “What do you think about Witchyface’s magic bags, huh? Think they’re worth their salt?”

“I think we’re just going to get a bag of singed bullshit.” Eizen said. Edna fixed her sarcastic grin to her face. “It was a waste of time. A grand waste, but a waste nonetheless.”

“But you still wasted it willingly.” Edna said. “So which is it? Do you believe in the bag of magic nonsense, or are you that desperate for an excuse to go back to Port Zekson?”

That stung. Edna was good at digging her claws in when she wanted. “We’re dropping them off and then we’re leaving.” Eizen said. “Port Zekson has nothing for me.”

Eizen took a fruit from a stall and swapped a coin for it. Edna took one for herself. “You keep telling yourself that.” she said, taking a bite of the apple she’d procured. She ate in silence, and Eizen didn’t have anything to say. Together they watched the humans hurry from stall to stall.

It was difficult to comprehend how they could fit so many experiences into their terribly fragile, fleeting existences. Eizen hadn’t been human. Some malaks had been once, but not him. He and Edna had been born from the earthpulses, the same one, rarities in that they felt their connection to one another when most malakhim didn’t form familial relationships.

“Eizen.” she said. “When are we going home?”

Home. The mountain from where he’d taken the name for their ship. How long had it been since he’d seen it? “Why?” he asked. “Not enjoying the travelling?”

“It’s alright.” Edna said. She looked at the apple, twisting her hand as she inspected it. “Sometimes though, I get sick of it. We’re earth malaks. We don’t belong on the sea, we can’t even swim. Have you ever wondered what we’d do if we sunk?”

“We wouldn’t sink.” Eizen said.

“We could sink. We’ve almost sunk before. Do you remember that time when that shark daemon attacked us? It was nearly as big as our ship and you fell in the water trying to beat it up. I had to fish you out, which was awful because I got soaked and you nearly drowned. Your dumb curse makes it so we nearly sink all the time.”

Eizen huffed at the accusation. “We don’t sink ‘nearly all the time’.” he said. “And I didn’t nearly drown.”

“Please. You’re earth, and yet a water malak could look at you funny and you’d fall over.”

“Is this an attack on my pride, Edna?” Eizen asked. “I’ve beaten plenty of water malaks in my time.”

“Wind malaks too?”

And there were her barbs again. Eizen didn’t wince, didn’t flinch, but he felt the sting nonetheless. She was still smiling, but now he had a feeling she was digging around in him for an answer to a question he didn’t know she was asking. “I could beat any wind malak that challenged me.” he said.

Edna snickered. She finished her apple and tossed away the core. Eizen hadn’t taken a single bite out of his. “By the way, brother.” she said. “You know it’s bad manners to answer a question with a question, right? I’ll let you off this time, but I’m gonna ask again. When are we going home?”

“When we’ve charted the entire world and seen everything we want to see.” Eizen said. “When we’ve plundered ships and taken their treasures. When we’ve found artefacts from a thousand years before I was born, when we’ve found the very edges of the sea. When we’ve tunnelled our way beneath the ocean to create our own personal escape routes to every island in this world.”

“Wow.” Edna said. “Big hopes there. How long are you planning on living? Ten thousand years? Will Rayfalke even still be there by then?”

“We can hope.” Eizen said. The conversation died with that, and Eizen thanked everything that she didn’t press further. It wasn’t a discussion he wanted to have, especially after the events in the forest. He’d named the ship after their mountain home for a reason, to make it feel like home away from home, but it seemed like even Edna got homesick.

He felt guilty. His sister pretended she was strong, but there was so much beneath her facade. He wasn’t stupid enough to pretend that their conversation hadn’t been about something entirely different. She was clever with words, and it felt like his grip on his own secrets was getting slack.

“Let’s walk.” Eizen said. He pocketed his fruit, his appetite having disappeared with Edna’s question. He thought about it, and decided it wasn’t fair for her to have the upper hand against him. “My turn now. A question for you?”

“Spit it out then.”

“Do you regret coming with me?”

He didn’t turn to look at her, not wanting to see her expression. She was good at masking her gaze but he didn’t want to chance seeing the answer written in the curve of her mouth or the look in her eyes. He wanted to hear it in her voice, to find the truth or the lie hidden there, to know if he’d made a mistake all those years ago when he’d been unable to leave her behind.

“Stupid.” she muttered. Her tone had bite to it. “You think I’d make a choice I’d regret? What do you take me for, a moron? Home isn’t just a mountainside, Eizen. Though you’d believe that, wouldn’t you?” she stomped ahead, opening her umbrella and resting it on her shoulder. “Ugh, do I have to spell it out for you? Yeah, home is Rayfalke, but that’s not the only place it can be. Home is also where you are. It’s doesn’t have to just be some dumb pile of rocks.”

Eizen didn’t think he’d feel relieved at the admission, didn’t think he had anything to be relieved over. Despite that, he still let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “Consider me told then.”

#Tales of Berseria #eizen (tob)#Eizen #edna (toz)#Tales of #Magilou #Velvet Crowe #Rokurou Rangetsu #Eleanor Hume #Laphicet #Zaveid #My Writing

13 notes · View notes