#PLEASE ILL MAKE HIM EXTRA GREASY | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

evarcana · 3 years

Text

Taking it out on you

Ev attends the court meeting only to learn that sometimes the second impressions are just as bad as the first ones.

characters: Ev Panopolis, consul Valerius and brief appearance of Volta

words: ~3k

warnings: alcohol (as expected)

notes: On some point I gave up on the idea of Ev being the apprentice, as she just does not have this "MC energy". So this is an introduction to her story, because there is no better way to celebrate the 1 year anniversary of this blog than to remember that a very long time ago I used to write fanfiction.

It has been almost a month already. Almost a month since she came to Vesuvia, almost a month since she was told that her services were not required here. The thought makes Ev frown, but she keeps a quick pace, the sound of her impatient steps on the marble floor echoing through the palace corridor.

It is just before eleven o’clock, and the last of crisp morning sun pours over the rich mauve of lustrous silk drapes and the gold leaf of intricately carved murals, drawing out the warm scent of orange blossom and beeswax from the polished panels of precious wood. Vesuvian palace is exactly what she was promised - a great wonder, and yet Ev doubts it could give any lesser impression while the backdrop to its striking opulence is the city torn apart by disease and grief.

There are no servants or visitors in sight, and Ev’s only company in this seemingly endless corridor are paintings on the walls, depicting what she can only guess are some of the proud moments of Vesuvian history - people and places so foreign to her.

She does simple math in her head: two months and two days ago she was marching down the corridor of a very different palace, eager to be on time for the meeting with Crown Princess Nafizah despite the quite literal last minute notice, and not knowing yet that she was about to hear details of this so-called diplomatic mission.

Back then it sounded straightforward enough. Prakra couldn’t ignore the news of Count Lucio's tragic death, not least because that meant Princess Nadia, the youngest daughter of the Prakran royal family, was left widowed and with the daunting task of handling the red plague epidemic in Vesuvia all on her own. Any ruler could do with an extra pair of hands and any country could benefit from the alliance with Prakra, especially in times of crisis like this. And it would have stayed straightforward if only the discovery of Countess Nadia’s mysterious illness and the unexpected, unreasonable, outrageous hostility of Vesuvian court did not bring this crisis to the whole new, now personal, level.

In theory, Ev did not have to deal with any of that. She could use the excuse that it was only appropriate to deliver such unsettling news about Nadia in person, go back and forget everything that happened in this palace like one of those unpleasantly bizarre dreams you get after a night of drinking. But Vesuvia was still the city Prakra cared about, Nadia’s city, and as far as Ev knew none of the people who came to be in charge of it were appointed by her. Prakran diplomatic presence was perhaps the only way to look after Nadia’s interests until she woke up. Even if Ev had no actual power over the court, returning to Prakra without accomplishing at least something felt like a failure, and failure has never been an option for Ev. With that in mind, she pressed the seal with enough force to imprint Prakran royal crest on the desk and not just on the drop of red wax marking the envelope, and stayed.

Now, after a month of living in the city, she has learned to see that there is more to her new role than just misfortunes. Her relocation allowance is generous, her new place is nicer than what she had in Prakra and she is getting rather used to the convenience of the wine shop next door. Even if parts of it are foreign and unwelcoming, Ev feels at ease in Vesuvia. The tension in her body relaxes, and she thinks maybe this palace can eventually get used to her too, but the thought faints away as soon as she sees the salon door. Ev presses a pile of papers closer to her chest and tells herself that she can think about everything else another time - the court meeting is about to start.

She pushes the door open but immediately freezes on the spot stricken by the gagging wave of nausea - nails dirty with soil and blood, sickly sweet buttercream pastries and rustle of feathers covered in mud. It is no more than a faint impression but even through the fogged mind Ev recognises the feeling - it is vestige, the afterimage of magic. She has felt it before, many times and in many different forms but never has it made her feel physically sick. What is even more unusual is that such a revolting sensation is coming from the palace quarters. One would expect tingles of bubbles from the charmed fountains of never ending sparkling wine or at least the impression of whispers, premium tea, treacle and bitter ambition from the walls which have been magically given ears, and not... whatever this is. Ev draws a deep breath, pushing down into her diaphragm and looks around the room. The salon is not set up for the court meeting, instead there is a tray of food and stacks of empty plates towering on almost every flat surface. Her eyes stop on greasy remains looking terribly out of place on the delicate porcelain plate and she unconsciously covers her mouth. Maybe she is mistaken after all - it is the strange smell of food and not some kind of creepy magic, and, more importantly, maybe this is not the salon she was looking for.

Before Ev gets a chance to mentally blame the chamberlain for giving her the wrong directions, a tiny figure appears from behind the chair. The white cornette is instantly recognisable and Ev is about to ask procurator Volta whether she is here for the court meeting too when she sees that behind the commotion of dark robes Volta is frantically trying to push the whole roast rack of lamb down her mouth. Dear gods. Somewhat unsurprisingly, one of the bones appears to be stuck. Clearly having not expected to have an audience, the procurator widens her eyes at Ev in a mixture of terror and shame. Unable to speak, after a few incoherent squeaks, she throws her tiny hands in the air helplessly, spattering herself with gravy and gestures to the open French doors leading to the balcony. Without giving it too much thought, Ev gives Volta a quick nod and takes an opportunity to escape the awkwardness of the scene.

Wrapped in the soft shade of the balcony, consul Valerius is casually leaning back in the chair, with the usual glass of wine in his hand. Even before she reaches the doors, Ev sets her eyes on his face. The consul is looking away, his face carved and unmovable, the tight knot of dark eyebrows making him look ireful and disgruntled, like one of those statues of stern gods she saw growing up in Zadith. Her next step lands much quieter and then, there steps in, Ev stops and stands very still wondering what thoughts could possibly bring this storm to Valerius’s face. Sun would suit him much more, she thinks, her eyes curiously trailing down the golden glints of his hair.

A loud snort catches Ev off guard and she realises that Valerius is now facing her, looking considerably more displeased than before, no doubt because of her. That’s more like it. How could she forget that this man is the very cause of her problems.

“Could I please have some of your time, consul?” she asks, heading straight towards him. Greetings seem excessive, they didn’t necessarily part on friendly terms last time.

“I didn't expect to see you here again.”

Ev allows herself a smirk. “I know.” I am not here to do what you expect from me. She stops inches away from his chair looking down at him, apparently enjoying the close proximity which, considering their formal relationship and the consul’s well known bad temper, could be regarded as both highly inappropriate and potentially reckless. But Valerius only turns away, more interested in his drink than in her.

“I have been studying the treasury records,” she continues, searching his face for any kind of reaction. His lips curl up in a sneer as he takes a sip of wine, but his eyes are still firmly fixed on the horizon. Ev follows his gaze expecting to see some radical change to the surrounding landscape, but there is only faint outline of the city roofs behind the lush green of the palace's vast grounds, - no columns of smoke, no ominous looking storm clouds gathering in the distance, nothing that could possibly be more interesting than her. Whatever. “Your tax system - ,” she hands Valerius neatly arranged papers, which he completely ignores,“- it is not working.”

“Vesuvian tax system remained largely unchanged for the last two generations, this is how these matters are handled traditionally,” says Valerius, once again denying Ev courtesy of eye contact.

Ev’s mouth twists at the sound of the last words. Too worried the conservative mindset might be contagious, she quickly withdraws her hand and takes a step back.

“I trust you understand that sometimes one should focus on what works, and not what is traditional,” she says, doing her best to disguise the growing irritation. “You don’t attract nearly as much foreign trade as you used to.”

What comes next is a very profound, uncomfortable silence. Ev sighs.

“Consul, you had plague in the city, people died,” her voice is louder now, “lots of people died”, and the irritation is obvious. “And Vesuvia cannot exist without its people. Somebody needs to bring food from the farmlands, make clothes, teach children, attend to the sick. Yes, in the past you could always import whatever you did not have but now people are scared to come because of the plague. You -”, she pauses in anticipation noticing Valerius shifting in his seat, but he only reaches for the bottle to top up his glass, “- you need to do something to make it attractive for them again. Lower the customs, lift the taxes for people whose skills you need, sell empty real estate cheap. There is plenty all around the city!”

Deep down Ev knows that none of these is going to work long term, but she doesn't care - she wants to do something and she wants to do it now.

Yet, nothing changes. She is still standing there, and he is still looking away. Ev would prefer him to disagree, start arguing with her - anything really, as long as it breaks this silence.

“Fine! If you don’t feel like changing this traditional system of yours, even temporarily, at least fix your mistakes.” Ev starts chaotically flipping through the papers searching for the one she needs, which would be a much easier task, if she was less flurried and if Valerius offered her a seat. She wonders whether he is now watching her, sneering at her struggle. “Your approved accounts, here,” this time she brusquely puts the paper in front of Valerius’s face blocking his view, “your numbers do not even add up! ”

For a split second she sees something on his face - a twitch, a flick of rage, and thinks that she has gone too far. But his question comes out in a calm, almost disinterested tone: “What makes you think that somebody like you is even qualified to check the city’s budget approved by the esteemed procurator Volta?”

A moment passes before Ev is able to break from staring at Valerius in disbelief. She glances to the salon where, judging by the sound, Volta has freed her mouth only to move to the next dish. Seriously? Perhaps she should be impressed that he managed to say it with the straight face.

And then there is a chilling sensation at the pit of Ev’s stomach. She asks herself what is going on here? What is this city under the reign of a person who questions everything and everyone except the obvious mistake in the accounts? And what is she - ? Angry, she reminds herself, is what she is, and throws a look at Valerius, who is taking another sip from his glass as in triumph. You don’t need to be qualified, you just need to have common sense. And you, Valerius, either don’t have it or you were not even bothered to look at what your court approves.

She pictures him lazily drinking wine, legs on the desk, his shirt unbuttoned, while completely ignoring his state duties. The image is irritating and yet not entirely unpleasant.

“We both know that I come from a family of alchemists and merchants. Trust me, I know how to count,” she says with a smile. It sounded right in her head, a ridiculous answer to the ridiculous question.

“I thought that during our last meeting you said that you had nothing to do with your witchcraft family.” A perfectly raised eyebrow, and that infuriating smirk.

Ev opens her mouth in protest but gives up quickly. Those were her exact words after all, save for the witchcraft part.

She begins to pace around the balcony avoiding looking at Valerius as much as possible. The consul clearly has a way of getting on her nerves, and she needs all her concentration if she wants to explain what exactly will happen to this goddamn city if they carry on with this approved budget.

“Think about the consequences for the people if this mistake is not corrected!” she shouts, her voice much louder than she would like it to be, and quickly turns to Valerius expecting a blowback. But the pale eyes are looking down, studying something on the floor, or on the edge of the fabric of her long sleeve, she really can’t tell. Oh gods, he is not even paying attention.

***

Valerius has firmly decided that he is not going to pay any attention.

The time of plague was exhausting: the palace suddenly full of people of all kinds and intentions promising to find a cure, pleas for help on the streets which he could not escape even behind the doors of the most expensive carriages, the count who was growing more desperate everyday and the white smoke of the Lazaret carried by the sea breeze towards the city, the memory of which still haunts him. And now there is the Satrinavas’ new pet here having an audacity to talk about his city’s problems - the problems which, out of all people, he should know the most about, he is the consul after all, and a Vesuvian.

Vesuvia he inherited is haggard and sad, and on top of that an enormous responsibility. The last thing he needs is a stranger questioning his authority, as if the incompetent court and the city demanding their beloved countess back have not been tiresome enough. Valerius lets out a short, barely audible sigh. He just wants this farce to be over so he can go back to thinking.

But the witch is not planning to stop, if anything she seems to be enjoying it. Look at her. Absorbed by herself and her ludicrous ideas, she is loud and talks too much with her hands. Her dress keeps slipping down the shoulder draping around the soft curve of a half barred breast every time she does one of these unnecessary, overconfident gestures. Valerius has absolutely no idea whether this is deliberate or she is simply unaware of the indecency which keeps drawing his eyes.

He tries to distract himself by taking a drink of wine only to discover that his glass, just like the air around him, is full of this loud perfume of hers. Harsh cinnamon, incense and patchouli, very much alike their owner, have no concept of the personal space ruining the perfect balance of his red. The wine is not helping. He catches himself looking at the shoulder again. In fact, absolutely useless. He sets his unfinished glass aside on the small table. Valerius has had enough.

***

“Enough!” Valerius shouts. His voice is suddenly deep and rather forceful and Ev hates that it has the desired effect on her. She stops and looks at him. “You were not invited to the court meeting.” The consul’s face looks awfully angry now.

Ev narrows her eyes. “And what exactly are you doing at your court meeting?”

“That should not be a concern of the Prakran subject”, Valerius says, his words dripping with poison, “or whoever you are.”

“I am a diplomatic emissary -,” she does not get a chance to finish.

“Leave!”

Ev wants to scream and protest, but even she knows better than to yell at somebody who outranked her. She draws a breath. One, two, three. All right.

“I only came to give you the papers”, she says coldly, her eyes still locked on his, and leans forward to place the documents on the table. “But I am taking this away, one should work without the distraction of wine.”

With these words Ev snatches the glass from the table, turns away and heads toward the exit as fast as she can without breaking into running. She does not want to look like she is scared that Valerius will grab her by the arm. If anything she is slightly disappointed that he doesn’t.

“My regards to the court,” she raises her hand and waves the glass in the air without looking back. Behind her there is a sound of paper being torn apart.

***

Ev only slows down when she reaches the main staircase.

Suddenly feeling very tired, she leans against the handrail. Again, what is she doing here? Why did she need to turn up in person when she could send a letter? Ev closes her eyes and rubs her fingers together as if feeling for answers in the whorls of her own skin, and remembers about the glass in her hand. Another bad decision. It would have been wiser to take the bottle.

She raises the glass to her lips and breathes in the wine. It’s pleasant. Perhaps she would prefer its company to the boring palace affairs too. Ev twists the glass in her hand, eying the smooth rim before drawing one long sip. It leaves a blush mark of her lips firmly planted on the surface which she studies for a few seconds. “You better be as angry as I am now”, she says to the dark liquid at the bottom of the glass.

#no i didnt read the whole thing myself #the arcana #consul valerius #the arcana fic #the arcana fanfic #evpanopolis #valerius x mc #ev x valerius

42 notes · View notes

mxvladdy · 4 years

Note

Good hell, your True Form series is the absolute best! (and totally canon for me tbh). I saw that we can drop you a prompt and I wanted to ask, if you can do one where the obey boys comfort an Mc who lost someone dear to them? It's totally alright if you dont want to! I hope you are having safe and healthy days!

Thankie anon! I hope you are well too! My condolences if you have lost someone ;.; I hope you like this and I’m stoked you like my True Form series!

Diavolo

Loss is not a new concept to him. Like many on the student council, he is well versed in it. The emotional strain can be numbing, and was numbing to him at one point in his life. He can’t really remember it now though. When was the last time he actually felt grief over a fallen companion?

But humans are different. Time is a scant commodity to mortals. Lose could stick to a human for their entire lifetime. When you come to him he is distraught. He hates seeing you in any form of discomfort. The best he can offer you is his undivided attention and shoulder if you need it. He is actually full of comforting and wise words from all the lifetimes he has experienced.

If you need time topside he’ll arrange a portal for you and you just take all the time you need. His program is not more important than family in his eyes. If you would like him to accompany you then he shall gladly. Sends the biggest, yet most tasteful flower arrangement to the funeral home and to the gravestone.

Barbatos

Probably has the hardest time relating to such a concept. The finite idea of time is something he struggles to conceptualize. Unless he physically wipes someone from the planes of existence he can, to a certain extent, simply find them in another stream.

He knows not to offer or bring up that idea to you. You don’t ask him to either. His abilities have ironically a time and a place. This situation is not one of those. It upsets you but there is nothing you can do about it.

He will distract you instead, taking you on errands and shopping trips around the Devildom. He will indulge your human curiosity under his watchful eyes. Then, he will take you to the kitchens and brew you something strong. If you need to vent while he cooks please feel free, he wants to listen. Nothing you say or do will pass through this room.

Solomon

Being human, and yet not, he understands the most out of everyone. He has loved and lost a great deal in his lifetimes. Some of which is still a raw wound on his heart. He is very much someone who will avoid talking about his feelings or things that dredge up his past failings.

If you come to him he will give you coping skills and drag you around the Devildom to take your mind off of your thoughts. He’ll take you for walks or to the woods. Is it dangerous? Yes. But the distraction of self-preservation has always worked for him.

During all of this, he will check in on you. If none of his tactics work he’ll cave, taking you to sit on the nearest comfortable surface. He’ll ask you little things about them or your relationship and reply in kind, albeit stiffly. It’s-nice. Some human bonding he didn’t expect. In a way, you both console each other.

Luke

He’s an angel in training. He can help! Simone has been teaching him! He’s excited but knows he has to tone it down. He’ll recite all the verses and words of wisdom he’s picked up from Simone and Michael.

He’ll sulk a little if it doesn’t help. Well, that’s fine, he will just have to study harder for you! Till then he’ll try other methods. He’s goto is homemade cakes and hugs. He will want you to help baking (he can’t reach the top oven shhhhh).

You naturally take over after a while, and as time in the kitchen progresses you teach him a few recipes that your late loved ones had taught you or were their favorites. It makes you feel better, it’s cathartic. The smell reminds you of home. Luke will memorize each recipe and will make them for you whenever he thinks you're feeling down.

Simone

The first to offer you his condolences and a warm hug. He is very vigilant of you and your mood for weeks after you had confided in him of your loss. His words of wisdom and experience with working with souls were more comforting than with Luke.

He will ask Diavolo to take you outside of the Devildom. Just you, Luke, and himself. You may pick where. Whether it be the mortal realm or the celestial one. If you decide you want to go back home to visit your old stomping grounds then that is where they will go.

You lead him around your familiar territory, pointing out where you and yours would hang out. He’ll buy you things from their favorite stores if you allow it. Humans are sentimental and if a little bobble or trinket will soften the pain in your eyes then it is worth more than gold. Will visit the grave with you to place the things you bought on it. If you allow it will pray from them too.

Lucifer

He lashes out at first when you come to him. It makes him feel vulnerable, his pack mark is infused with your storm of emotions. He brushes off your feelings and bristles at you trying to seek comfort in him. Familiar loss is a very touchy subject to him and bringing those feelings back to the surface for him hurts in ways he does not want to remember. It takes Simone politely (or not) reminding him it’s not about him and perhaps swallowing a bit of his pride would help you both.

He will come to you in the dead of night. He just opens up and talks to you. He’ll sit on the floor of your room with his back resting on your bed and share memories. You both laugh and recount the good, bad, and some ugly memories. You give each other great words of advice and comfort too. You fall asleep holding his hand with a soft smile on your face. Your tears have dried up hours ago. He leaves you to rest feeling lighter and closer to you in the long run.

If you invite him to the wake he will join without hesitation and hold your hand the whole time.

Mammon

He will cry with you. Seeing you like this makes him think back to the fall, it’s a lot for him. He’ll take you out drinking. It’s how he copes aside from gambling and other reckless things. Turns you into the responsible party of the night. It keeps you busy though that's for sure and side-tracked. Though, he will notice when you are uncomfortable and dips from the casinos to lead you somewhere quiet. He’ll pass a bottle between the two of you and talk about anything that comes to mind. He is bad at opening up in public. But alone and drunk, he has a bleeding heart.

He slips into his big brother persona pretty quickly once you two are alone. He may be a goofball around the others but he can be serious when the time calls for it.

He will ask all sorts of questions about them. He wants to know all about them if you are willing. He loves learning about your life and wants to make it better if he can. He will listen with rapt attention and interrupt only to laugh or ask a question. He swears over a greasy plate of food he bought you both at Hell’s kitchen to sober you that if you want him at the wake just ask.

Leviathan

For someone who usually stumbles over his words when you come to him for comfort, he is surprisingly eloquent. He’ll be uncomfortable with physically comforting you until you expressly ask for it.

He’ll try to distract you with video games and asinine conversations while you rest your head on his shoulder and watch. If you’re ok with it he’ll also drape his tail across your lap. The best hug he can give you while his hands are busy with his controller.

He wasn't very close to Lilthe compared to some of the other brothers but he’ll exchange little funny memories he has with you or some cringe-worthy ones to hear you laugh. Between the dim light of his room and the blue glow of his fish tank, you chat until you fall asleep. He doesn’t mind and lets you doze, still filling the dead air with little stories.

Satan

Ah...You have his sincerest condolences. It pains him to admit it but he has never truly felt loss for someone before. Things, yes. A loss of a good book, either stolen by Mammon or destroyed in a fit of rage by himself. He knows that feeling-but those aren’t the same and he knows that it is an ill-suited comparison.

He’ll lend you his ear though. Listen to whatever you have to say, or if you need to cry it out. His arms are always open for you. If you get angry he can help with that. He knows how to channel it all to be productive or temper it so you don’t burn yourself out while you process your emotions.

He-like Levi- will give you sage advice or find just the right words of comfort you need. During the school week if you need a break he will gladly take extra notes or turn in your assignments for you while you take some time off. He will give you some books from his personal library too after an off-handed comment about your late loved ones' favorite genre or author. They are yours if they make you happy.

Asmodeus

Sympathy tears like Mammon. He’ll listen with rapt attention and coo over you. Very touchy when he senses you are troubled. He’ll stroke your hair and let you dumb whatever weighs heavy on your heart. Hugs are the best way he knows how to comfort you.

He doesn’t try to distract you from your grief or your emotions. He knows all too well what happens when one bottles up their emotions for too long. Nasty business that. But, if you want a distraction just ask. He'll give you one. Something nice and (hopefully relaxing) maybe a night out perhaps? Or if you want to stay in he’ll pop in a movie or playlist of your choice and stay quiet. You spend the night in enjoying the physical closeness and no need to express yourself or exert energy trying to vocalize your feelings. He’ll bring out his best snack for the movies too, only the best chocolates and dried fruits for you to munch on.

If you have to plan the funeral or wake he will be there every step of the way if you want him to. He can take the reins if you are just too emotionally drained to do it. If you have ideas or plans for it he will follow them to the letter, no questions asked.

Beelzebub

It’s a lot for him. Even though his sister’s death was a millennia ago it’s still fresh in his mind. But he is strong and will do anything in his power to be there for you. The best way he knows how to cope with such pain is to exercise. If you want to, he will take you to the gym and train with you. Let you tire yourself out on a punching bag or weights.

He doesn’t have many words to say so he will just listen. The best partner for this really, you could go on for hours and he would just sit there and truly listen. He won’t judge how you cope, whether it is wailing or you just trying to act normally around campus. He will be a little bit more clingy after you tell him the news. He knows the tells of a breakdown from his twin so he wants to make sure you are not close to one.

If you invite him to the wake he will stay in the back and offer emotional support. Afterward, he’ll walk you around the local neighborhood and ask questions sporadically about how you're doing. Back at school, he will take notes to you and homework if you don’t feel like going in person.

Belphegor

Stays up with you at night if you can’t sleep due to stress or sadness. You can stay up in his room with him as long as you like and do whatever you need to get through this. Stay up or sleep with him though the day is fine. Though, if you stay up too long he will use the pack mark to make you rest. He keeps a close eye on you like his twin does.

He keeps you up in his attic room with him during the school day. Online classes are a thing and he will keep you content and warm with him till you feel up to snuff. He is smart but just lazy, though if you just can’t get the work done he’ll do it for you to turn in. Whatever, you need a break anyway.

He will fill the dead air while you rest with stories of when he would venture to the human realm with his siblings. He likes to hear stories of your childhood and adventures you had with your loved one too. He won’t offer to go to the human realm with you for the wake. But he will give you an elegant star themed decoration for the gravesite if you allow it.

#obey me fandom #obey me requests #tw: death

91 notes · View notes

ibijau · 4 years

Text

Nie Huaisang too has a list of requirements for his future spouse. This eventually comes to bite him in the ass in an unexpected way.

also on AO3

The first time Nie Huaisang hears someone say that he'll be hard to marry, he's eight. It's the first time he gets to accompany his father and brother to a conference, and while he's desperately trying to be good, he gets bored pretty quickly and disappears to explore a bit. Nightless City and the Wen's palace aren't fun places, and he's too worried about getting lost to go very far, but there's still a few interesting things to look at.

Not far from the main halls where the conference is happening, he almost stumbles upon two adults whom he recognises as friends of his father. Well, friends might be pushing it. But Father tries to be polite to them to their face, and that's not an effort he makes with everyone. So, Nie Huaisang counts them as his father's friends, and knows they have the power to scold him if they spot him somewhere he shouldn't be. As they approach, Nie Huaisang finds a curtain to hide behind, and waits.

"And that second son of his is a disgrace," the man in red says as they pass by him. 'Wen Bastard', Father used to call him when chatting with mother, which always made her roll her eyes. "That's what happens when blood weakens."

"Only a fool marries a woman like that," says the other one, 'that greasy Jin merchant'. "A dancer… That's just what you call a prostitute who can't live without making extra efforts. With a mother like that and how weak he's said to be, they'll never secure a match for that boy."

"Qinghe Nie isn't what it used to be. And that saber of his…"

Nie Huaisang doesn't hear the rest, because the men are already gone. He doesn’t want to hear more, anyway. Just that bit about his mother upsets him. It’s not news to him that his mother didn’t have the most respectable of lives before meeting his father, and he’s vaguely aware that some people looked down on their marriage for that, but hearing it put in such crude words hurts.

As he returns to his father’s side, Nie Huaisang slowly realises that those comments he overheard won’t leave his mind. He can’t say anything, though. Father gets too upset whenever something reminds him of mother. Nie Mingjue isn’t an option either, because he’s so hot-tempered, and even Nie Huaisang can tell that those words were pretty strong insults that the men would never have dared to say in public. It could lead to bad things if he were to repeat what he heard.

So Nie Huaisang remains silent until they all go to bed. They’ve been given a nice bedroom for their stay in Nightless City, but there was a misunderstanding and Nie Huaisang himself wasn’t expected to be there, so he doesn’t have his own bed. Nie Mingjue refuses to share his, because he’s too old for that apparently. Good. He kicks and steals the blankets, so Nie Huaisang wouldn’t have wanted to share either. Of course they could have asked for another bed to be brought to their room, but Father decided it would be too much of a bother. Instead, Nie Huaisang gets to sleep with him, which is nice. Father is always so warm at night, and doesn’t mind that he moves too much.

Cuddled against his father, safe and warm in the darkness of their room, Nie Huaisang would be perfectly happy if not for that conversation he heard earlier. It still nags at him. The thing against his mother is bad enough, but the other comment they made, the one about him…

"Father, will I get married someday?" he asks when he figures that he can’t fall asleep without figuring that out.

His father huffs, an amused smile visible on his lips even in the low light.

"You're too young for that!" Nie Mingjue grumbles from his bed. "I get to have someone first!"

That remark gets a short laugh out of their father, which in turn makes Nie Huaisang giggle. Nie Mingjue is always complaining about this or that lately, which apparently is a normal side effect of being fifteen.

"You can both get married if it pleases you," their father announces. "The order doesn’t matter much, either. You'll find someone. You're both handsome, clever boys, with the fame of our clan to make you seem even more handsome. And if you don't find it on your own, I'll try to find it for you."

"I want a pretty girl," Nie Mingjue quickly says. "With a gentle personality, but who is still my equal in a fight, and…"

Father groans.

"It's too late for this, Mingjue. Make a list and give it to me later. You too, Huaisang, if it worries you so much."

Nie Huaisang nods, relieved that this gives him time to think about the problem, and shuffles closer to his father. Sect leader Nie pulls him against his side, one arm wrapped over his son's shoulders in a protective gesture. It feels so safe to be like this, and Nie Huaisang soon falls asleep.

In the morning, still bored at that conference, Nie Huaisang starts a list of what his future spouse ought to be. He decides, pretty quickly, that he'd rather marry a man. His own mother has just died with the baby she carried, and Nie Huaisang doesn't want to feel that pain again.

So, it will be a man. He must be handsome, the most handsome in the world. Intelligent, too. And… he has to get along with Nie Mingjue, of course.

He doesn't dare show the list to his father, feeling it is not yet complete, but it is nice to have it.

Some weeks later, Father's sabre breaks during a hunt.

The months that follow are rough.

Nie Huaisang adds 'kind' and 'patient' and 'just' to his list.

Nie Mingjue says, several times, that he shouldn't judge their father based on those last few months, because he was unwell and that's not who he really was. He’s right of course, because until then Father has always been good to both of them and to everyone around. He just got sick. So sick he died.

Nie Huaisang also adds 'calm mind' to the list, just in case.

If things were rough while Father was ill, they become worse after he dies.

For one thing, Nie Mingjue gets very busy. Of course he’d started getting more responsibilities in the sect since forming his golden core, and again during Father’s sickness, but now Nie Huaisang hardly ever sees him except at meals or during training, when Nie Mingjue mostly shouts at him for not doing better.

It’s funny. Nie Mingjue never used to care too much that Nie Huaisang can barely hold his sabre, but suddenly it’s absolutely essential that he becomes as tough as everyone else in the sect and that his cultivation improves.

At least Nie Mingjue does that because he’s worried. Nie Huaisang knows his brother enough to see that. But the rest, the elders, pick on him over everything just because they don’t like him. It comes as a shock to realise that, but his father’s cousins and uncles hate that their former sect leader had married a dancer, that he’d disgraced the clan like that. They never dared to say anything while Father was alive because he wouldn’t have allowed it, but Father isn’t there anymore, and Nie Mingjue is too busy to notice.

When Nie Huaisang tries to complain to his brother that the elders are mean to him, Nie Mingjue tells him to work harder to prove them wrong, like he’s doing whenever someone says he’s too young to lead their sect. It sounds like good advice, but Nie Huaisang’s efforts bring no results with regard to his cultivation or to the elders' opinion of him, so he just ends up giving up.

Meanwhile, his list gets a little longer. Now his future husband must love him (he never thought of that until one day he had a bad argument with his brother and wondered if anyone cared for him at all). He must also be accepting of Nie Huaisang’s weaknesses, and value his strength, whatever they are. Hopefully, this perfect husband will help him find them. He must also be honest, because Nie Huaisang still hurts from the fact that all his uncles have just lied for years about liking him and his mother. And it won’t hurt if he is skilled in all the arts, and if he has great cultivation and even greater fighting skills, so that nobody ever dares to pick on Nie Huaisang again.

It was planned to send Nie Huaisang to study in the Cloud Recesses at the same time as all the other young masters of the Great Sects, but something happens with the Wens, and Nie Mingjue hurriedly decides to send him there one year early.

It’s not the worst.

Sure the food is bad, the lessons are tedious, and Lan Qiren is a horrible teacher… but the scenery is nice, and most people don’t really pay attention to Nie Huaisang, which is a nice change from home where everyone always watches what he does.

And also, there’s Lan Wangji.

The two of them have been encouraged to try and spend time together, since there used to be a friendship between their fathers. Well, there’s a friendship between them as well now. It surprises a few people, because they’re so different, Lan Wangji so quiet and studious, Nie Huaisang so chatty and careless, but that’s because people only look at the surface. After all, Lan Wangji doesn’t mind chatter too much if it’s from the right person and on the right subjects, while Nie Huaisang can make himself very quiet when he finds something worthy of his attention. They often go on walk together, admiring the mountains around the Cloud Recesses, painting a little, chatting about things.

They have a lot they can chat about.

Lan Wangji, just like Nie Huaisang, has lost his mother when he was young, and it left a deep impression on him. They also both have complicated feelings about their fathers, and that’s… such a relief to finally have someone who can understand that.

Nie Huaisang doesn’t have very close friends at home, and Nie Mingjue refuses to hear anything about those last few months of their father's life, acting as if because their father wouldn’t normally have done those things, then it doesn’t matter that he still actually did them. And Lan Wangji seems glad that someone will listen when he says that he just wishes his father would see him sometimes, that he’s working so hard to be worthy of his attention.

Lan Wangji doesn’t like to be touched, but they hug a few times, and cry as well.

So maybe, just maybe, Nie Huaisang puts even less effort in his studies than he would have, just so he fails his years. Nie Mingjue has told him he’d stay in Gusu until he passes when his grades started reaching him, and Nie Huaisang isn’t above using that to his advantage.

While he is in the Cloud Recesses, his list of requirements for a husband continues getting longer.

It’d be nice to marry someone from the Lan clan, Nie Huaisang figures. Someone who is trustworthy. Someone who is a good listener. Someone serious but with a surprising sense of humour when you know him. Someone with a face that looks carved out of marble, with eyes that look almost golden in the right light. Someone tall, with the manners of a scholar and the posture of an emperor. Someone who maybe is next in line to lead his sect.

Nie Huaisang might have a bit of a crush. He knows it’s one sided, though, and he doesn’t mind too much. His list is a fun thing to think about, but he’s starting to realise that maybe Jin Guangshan and Wen Ruohan were right that day: he’s not exactly the most marriageable person in the world.

Well, he’ll just have to stay at his brother’s side and help him once he’s old enough for that. It’s not a bad fate.

Still, that list is getting a little too specific. Just for the sake of plausible deniability, Nie Huaisang also adds ‘smiles a lot’ on it.

Later, Nie Huaisang can’t even remember what the argument with Nie Mingjue was about. His grades and failure in Gusu, maybe. Or the fact that his golden core is really little more than a slightly tinted dustball. Possibly, it was because Nie Huaisang blew so much of his allowance into buying paper and a pretty new fan. But really, it might have been something else entirely. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that the argument blew up into a huge fight, with Nie Huaisang and Nie Mingjue shouting at each other for what feels like hours, until Nie Mingjue says that he never wanted to have a brother anyway, to which Nie Huaisang replies that good, because he doesn’t have one anymore now, right before storming off to his room.

They’ve always had arguments. It’s in their temperament. Back when father was alive, it wasn’t too much of a problem because he always found ways to make them reconcile within the day. The fights they’ve had since his death have been nastier, brought on by Nie Mingjue’s exhaustion from working so much and Nie Huaisang’s frustration at never being enough. They’ve been vicious sometimes, but never like that day. That day, it feels like something broke.

As soon as he reaches his room, Nie Huaisang grabs the largest qiankun bag he can find, and shoves inside all his most precious possessions. Fans, robes, brushes, books… some jewellery and money too, because he’s not stupid no matter what some people seem to think. If he’s running away to Gusu, then he’ll need to pay for inns and food… and for a horse as well, because he’s certainly not going to fly there. Nie Mingjue can keep that stupid sabre.

Figuring that the guards might stop him if he tries to leave through the front door, Nie Huaisang decides to go through the back of the Unclean Realm and take the mountain path. Surveillance there is lesser, and he is quite capable of using his cultivation to quickly climb the high walls, thanks. After that, it's only a matter of finding his way back toward the road to Qinghe, and from there he'll have no trouble going toward Gusu.

At least, that's the plan.

The truth is, those mountains around the Unclean Realm are rough and hard to navigate, with heavy fogs making it hard to find one's way. It doesn't take long for Nie Huaisang to get lost. He gets a brief moment of hope when the fog lifts after a few hours, until he realises that's only because it has started raining. It soon turns into a downpour and Nie Huaisang, who isn't dressed for that weather, starts getting very cold.

Desperately trying to find a place to hide from the rain, Nie Huaisang would have missed that little cavern if he hadn't tripped face first right in front of it. He thinks, later, that it might have been fate. For now though, it's just a dry place where he happily takes refuge.

As bad as he is at cultivation and Night Hunts, Nie Huaisang has suffered through enough lessons to know what to do in this situation. He removes all of his drenched clothes, and puts on one of the robes he brought, the thickest one he can find. The wet clothes are laid flat on the floor to help them dry, Nie Huaisang eats one snack, and then sets out to explore his refuge and make sure that nothing there is dangerous.

One slow burning flame talisman in hand, Nie Huaisang discovers that he isn't in an ordinary cave, but in an abandoned temple. He'd be hard pressed to say who the temple is dedicated to. Time has erased names and signs, and the divinity's statue has suffered so much that he can't even decide if it's a man or a woman. Still, Nie Huaisang isn't one to take unnecessary risks, so he bows before that statue, and offers thanks for the refuge.

Kneeling before that forgotten god, Nie Huaisang feels something poking at him inside his sleeve. He almost laughs when he discovers that stupid list of his, and then nearly cries instead.

The list, which for years has brought him comfort, suddenly feels like the physical manifestation of how stupid he is. Did he really think anyone would love him, let alone a person as perfect as the one he's described? And what was he thinking, trying to run away? Even if Lan Wangji somewhat puts up with him, the instant he steps into the Cloud Recesses, Lan Qiren will send him back to Qinghe. That's if he even makes it to Gusu, though, which seems unlikely when he is so badly lost in those inhospitable mountains. He can't even fly up to find his way, because he's a stubborn, talentless little idiot who left his sabre at home. He's probably going to die here, and no one will miss him. If anything they'll be glad he's gone, one less problem to bother them.

Nie Huaisang does cry in the end. He doesn't want to die, and he's tired of never being good enough for anyone.

He wonders if that forgotten god would understand the feeling, left behind in this old temple, without anyone praying to them. If that was the god's only temple, then they must have faded away long ago, just like Nie Huaisang might die if he's not rescued. At least, he'll die in a fitting place.

Outside, night falls. Inside, Nie Huaisang is shivering, no matter how many robes he puts on. He vaguely wonders if he might have a fever, but his head feels too fuzzy to really care. Bored and cold and burning, he starts chatting with that faceless god, almost as if they were old friends.

"We will be if I die here," Nie Huaisang points out as he meticulously divides his snacks so half of them will go to this unknown god. "I hope you don't mind chatter. I'm told I talk too much sometimes."

When his task is finished, he puts the snacks on the dusty altar, and bows again to the deity. It feels like a pitiful offering, but he dares not put his money and jewellery there.

"I'll need them to have a road built to this place if I survive," he explains. "And then I'll come whenever I can, and encourage others to come too. I think that's a good deal, right?"

There is no answer. He's not quite feverish enough to expect one. Still, it doesn't feel like he's giving enough. Biscuits and a promise… But it's all he had. That and a stupid list about all the things he'll never have, all the things he'll never be.

"Do you want this as well?" he asks, unfolding the list and laying it on the altar. "Listen, I just want for things to get better. It's all, you know ? Make sure it gets better, and I swear I'll get people to come pray to you again."

The hidden temple remains silent, save for the sound of heavy rains outside. Growing tired of this one sided conversation, and just tired in general, Nie Huaisang curls up before the altar, wrapped as comfortably in his many robes, and closes his eyes.

He wonders if Nie Mingjue has even noticed yet that he's gone. Probably not, he figures before losing consciousness, and even if he has, he most likely doesn't care.

When Nie Huaisang wakes up, it is to the familiar comfort of his own bedroom in the Unclean Realm. He’s tempted, at first, to think that everything was just a bad dream, that he never ran away and found that little temple. It sounds like the sort of stupid dreams he’d have. Quickly though, he figures that something is slightly wrong. First of all, there’s a chair next to his bed. It is empty at the moment, but Nie Huaisang finds vague memories coming back to him, telling him that it has been occupied for a long time. Then, there’s the fact that Nie Huaisang is very thirsty and positively starving, something that rarely happens to him. He never goes for long without snacks of some sort, unless he’s ill.

He thinks back of the temple, how cold and hot he was. Uh. So he really got a fever from all that rain then. It’s embarrassing, and Nie Huaisang is sure that as soon as it’s clear he’s healthy again, he’ll be scolded for his low cultivation that allowed this to happen.

That’s a problem for later. For now, Nie Huaisang’s only worry is that he’s starving. Scoldings he can deal with, but he can’t bear to have an empty stomach. With great effort he rises from his bed, finds a robe to throw on, and leaves his room. He hasn’t taken two steps into the corridor that he finds himself in front of Nie Zonghui and a servant carrying on a tray a bowl of what smells like broth.

“Nie er-gongzi, I’m glad to see you’re well,” Nie Zonghui says, and quite amazingly he seems to mean it. “We were all very worried about you.”

Nie Huaisang rolls his eyes before glancing toward the bowl of broth. He’s salivating already, it’s disgraceful.

“You were so worried that I woke up alone,” Nie Huaisang teases. Then, unable to resist a second longer, he grabs the broth and starts greedily drinking it, manners be damned. He almost chokes on it a few times, but it doesn’t matter, he’s just too hungry to care.

“Slow down!” Nie Zonghui orders him, only to be ignored. “And I had to drag your brother out so he’d have a look at his mail instead, but you can’t have been alone more than five minutes, so don’t complain.”

The bowl emptied, Nie Huaisang puts it back on the tray and thanks the servant. Maybe Nie Zonghui had it right about going slow, because he feels a little nauseous now, but… no way he’ll admit to that.

“Nie zongzhu has been at your side the whole time,” Nie Zonghui insists. “He’s the one who found you, too. Nie gongzi, we really thought we had lost you. What were you thinking, going to such an isolated place? If your brother hadn’t found you when he did…”

Something in his cousin’s tone makes Nie Huaisang shiver. In all honesty, now that he’s not upset about whatever argument he had with Nie Mingjue, he does realise that it was stupid of him to run away like this. He knows the mountains are dangerous, he’s grown on tales of people getting lost or falling to their death. And that’s without getting into the spirits and demons that live there, waiting for whoever will be foolish enough to enter their territory.

“I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” he mutters. “I just wanted to go out without being seen. I was just going to…”

“Tell that to your brother,” Nie Zonghui cuts him. “He’ll be happy to see you’re well enough to be running around. Although you might want to dress a bit more, because…”

Nie Huaisang dashes off without listening. He feels a bit wobbly on his legs, which tells him he might have been out for at least a day or two, but it doesn’t matter. If he looks a little pitiful, Nie Mingjue will be less angry at him for being such a mess of things.

When he enters his brother’s office, Nie Huaisang has the surprise to find that Nie Mingjue isn’t alone in there. There’s a stranger with him, the two of them chatting quite amicably. It must be what Nie Zonghui tried to warn him about. For a moment Nie Huaisang feels rather embarrassed to be seen like this by that very handsome stranger, his hair unkempt, wearing nothing but underwear and a hastily put on robe… but he doesn’t get a lot of time to worry. In an instant Nie Mingjue jumps from his chair and crosses the distance between them to hug him so tight it almost hurts.

“You little idiot,” Nie Mingjue huffs, sounding as if he’s fighting tears. “What are you doing up? Did the healer say you can?”

“I was bored and hungry and I wanted to see you,” Nie Huaisang retorts, glancing toward the stranger and wishing he’d go away. He has apologies to make, but he can’t do that in front of an audience. In fact, he expects his brother to make the young man leave. Their fights are always awful, but they’ve never not reconciled before, and they both get so tearful over it, which Nie Mingjue doesn’t want anyone to know because he has a reputation.

It’s a shock when Nie Mingjue doesn’t say anything to that stranger, and starts apologising anyway.

“I’m sorry we had that fight,” he grumbles. “I was tired, I shouldn’t have said that… A-Sang, are you ok? You had such a bad fever, I really thought… don’t run away like that again, you hear me?”

Nie Huaisang nods. He wants to return the apology, but there’s still that young man, looking at them with a fond smile, and it’s starting to make him very uncomfortable. He’d like some privacy, thanks.

“Who’s that?” he asks, nodding toward the stranger.

The young man frowns at the question, while Nie Mingjue pulls away from the hug to give his brother a concerned look. He even goes so far as to put his hand on Nie Huaisang’s forehead.

“No, the fever’s gone,” he says. “Huaisang, is this a joke?”

“Why would I be joking?”

Nie Mingjue glances behind at the man who looks just as puzzled as him, and frowns.

“Huaisang… that’s Xichen.”

His tone of voice makes it clear that the identity of the young man is very obvious to him, and should be obvious to Nie Huaisang as well. Intrigued, Nie Huaisang looks more closely at the young man, trying to remember if they’ve met before.

“Lan Xichen?” he hazards, judging by the embroidered ribbon and the pale robes, to which his brother nods.

It doesn’t ring any bells. If there’s a Lan Xichen in the inner Lan clan, then Nie Huaisang has never met him, never heard of him… which is very odd, because this young man seems barely older than him, so they should have been introduced when Nie Huaisang went to study in the Cloud Recesses. Besides, he’s sure he would have remembered someone that handsome, with features so similar to Lan Wangji’s that they could be twins. Not only that, but the quality of his sword and the jade token hanging from his belt mark him as being very high in the hierarchy of Gusu Lan, so really Nie Huaisang can’t imagine how he wouldn’t have taken notice of such a person.

“I was in the area and I thought I should say hi to Mingjue,” Lan Xichen explains with a warm smile, his voice gentle and pleasant to the ear. “I was told you had been unwell, but I’m glad you are getting better.”

“I don’t know how much better he is if he doesn’t remember you,” Nie Mingjue grumbles. “You’ve only been visiting me every other month for the last four years, and spent a whole damn year tutoring him in Gusu. Damn brat left his bed too soon. I’m taking him back and then we can chat some more, Xichen.”

Nie Huaisang blinks a few times, and takes a step back.

Something is wrong.

Something is very wrong.

His brother never speaks so casually to people outside their sect. In fact, even inside their sect, there’s only a few people he’ll talk to like this, mostly Nie Huaisang, Nie Zonghui, and a few other cousins close in age. Nie Mingjue doesn’t trust anyone outside of Qinghe Nie, and he does his best to keep his distance from others so nobody forgets to treat him as a full sect leader in spite of his youth.

Aside from that, Nie Huaisang might have somehow missed a Lan Xichen while he was in Gusu, but he would have noticed if the Unclean Realm had gotten such a frequent visitor for this long, and he certainly would remember if anyone had tried to tutor him last year.

“With your permission, I’d like to stay here until your brother gets better,” Lan Xichen offers. “My uncle’s business is dealt with so there’s no emergency, and that way we could travel back to Gusu together so I keep an eye on him. I know Wangji wouldn’t forgive me if I let his friend go alone after such an ordeal.”

Nie Huaisang tenses, his eyes going wide.

Nobody calls Lan Wangji like this except his uncle. Everyone else gives him a very polite Lan Wangji, or more likely calls him Lan gongzi, to show the proper respect and deference due to a future sect leader.

“Still can’t believe your brother took a shine to that brat of mine,” Nie Mingjue huffs. “Opposites attract can only go so far.”

Lan Xichen laughs, and it’s the most pleasant sound Nie Huaisang has ever heard in his life, but he barely notices it because he’s panicking.

Lan Wangji doesn’t have a brother. Nie Huaisang knows this for sure because it’d be kind of a big detail to miss about his friend.

Lan Wangji doesn’t have a brother, but Nie Mingjue apparently thinks he does, and that it’s this young man in front of them.

A young man who does look like Lan Wangji, down to the golden flakes in his eyes, but smiles as if the whole world makes him happy.

A young man who apparently gets along very well with Nie Mingjue, who is kind and considerate and who, judging by the way he keeps glancing toward Nie Huaisang, might have some fondness for him as well.

A young man who looks right out of Nie Huaisang’s wildest fantasy, but is apparently real and standing right before him.

Nie Huaisang feels his legs go weak under him, and has to grab his brother’s arm to avoid collapsing.

Make sure it gets better, he asked that forgotten god, handing them a list full of his wildest dreams. It certainly wasn’t what Nie Huaisang meant. All he’d wanted was to not die and go home and maybe not be scolded too hard, not this.

“Huaisang, what’s wrong?” Nie Mingjue shouts.

“His pulse is too fast,” Lan Xichen says, having come closer and grabbed his wrist. “He must not have been as well healed as it seemed… Mingjue, you have to make him lay down, I’ll got get the healers.”

In a daze and feeling darkness creep upon his mind, Nie Huaisang almost wants to laugh.

This is such a mess.

Also, apparently, he has a debt toward a god now.

#xisang #nie huaisang #lan xichen #mo dao zu shi #the untamed #based on a discussion on the xisang discord that I couldn't stop thinking about :D #jau writes #xisang wishes au

177 notes · View notes

madyxtothemax · 3 years

Text

The Pit Stop - Part One with @MyArrowBends

Atticus:

-After a few days, the roads and sights began to blur together. Each truck stop was the same. The coffee all tasted the same and the bathrooms were all equally disgusting. I had enjoyed the solitude at first, but was now beginning to get a little stir crazy, and despite having bought a thicker foam for the bed, it still wasn’t the greatest sleep I’d ever had.

As I crossed into California, I found myself craving human interaction, and more important than that, I had decided one way or another I would be sleeping in an actual bed tonight. As I gassed up at another same looking, shitty coffee making gas station, I didn’t bother checking google for any nearby hotels, figuring I’d stop when I grew tired and see what was close at that point.

The hours passed and the sun was inching down toward the horizon with a speed that my van couldn’t seem to match. Dusk had settled and on the horizon I could see a cluster of lights that belonged to a city. I wasn’t sure which one it was, it didn’t matter. I had stopped paying attention to the names at this point since I didn’t really have a destination in mind. I would know when I was ready to stop and until I felt that feeling, I’d keep driving west.

As the city lights grew closer, that same feeling of from earlier in the day returned. I was ready to find a motel for the night, maybe even somewhere I could grab a drink and a greasy burger. The potential for brief human interaction had a grin pulling the corners of my lips up.

Still, I avoided searching something out on my phone, wanting to see what I could find on my own. Exiting off the freeway, and making my way toward the city, my eyes searched the buildings as I passed them by. Disappointingly, nothing much seemed to be open...at least nothing that grabbed my attention or sparked any interest. I wanted to find something local, I wasn’t interested in any kind of franchise. Those places were not geared toward any kind of interaction, speed and efficiency was their purpose.

Finally after a few turns bringing me deeper into the city, I spotted a neon sign. The bright OPEN flashing in the door was the only invitation I needed. Admittedly, I wasn’t paying proper attention because I was still needing to keep an eye on the road, but as I pulled my van over to the sidewalk and looked up at the sign to fully read it, I couldn’t stop my laughter as it filled the quiet around me.

A tattoo shop.

I was not a collector of skin art, even though I liked it, I had never really felt a desire or pull to permanently mark my body with any sort of image. But I could see people inside, and I could go in and look around. I could get that human interaction I was craving even if I had zero intentions of getting a tattoo. Yeah. I could do that.

Twisting the key in the ignition to turn off the engine, I unbuckled my seatbelt and made my way toward the door, noting the time on the door before opening it. I paused to check the time on my phone...they weren’t too far from closing. Perfect. Just enough time to have myself a casual conversation with someone about something I’d never follow through on before finding myself some food and a bed to sleep on.-

Madyx:

<I’d woken with it, the unshakable intuition alerting me that something was on the way. Something for me to attend to. Something significant. Someone to benefit from my unique abilities. Something to shake up the doldrums of a monotonous wave of months.

As the hours in the day had passed like any other with a few window shoppers, bookings and not much more, whatever I had been anticipating hadn’t materialized. My intuition wasn’t normally so off, in fact I momentarily wondered if I’d pissed off the wrong people and lost my privileges. But, nah, I couldn’t shake it, even as the hours ticked down to less than fifteen minutes before the neon went dark.

Having just finished with the people who’d shown up to book a session with Jordan, I was relegated to the idea I’d served as a glorified personal assistant for the day. Hell, I hadn’t even done a single piercing, let alone expressed anything in ink. At least Jordan would be pleased with what I’d lined up for her; a lot of people looking to lose their memories and oh-so-many willing to accept whatever consequences came with those choices.

I had my back turned as the group of three left, the bell chiming their exit. Oddly, the shop didn’t feel empty; I wasn’t alone after all.

Turning, I was unsurprised to see a guy had wandered in just as the others had left. First impression was strong: he looked road weary, like he’d been places, but he wasn’t weighted by fatigue - nope. He wore whatever travels he’d been on with an earnestness. He wasn’t unkempt, but it looked like he hadn’t had a shave in a few days, and there was nothing that could have been done to conceal that he was damn gorgeous. I’d need to see more skin to know if there was any ink hidden under the clothes, and there were no visible piercings… visible being the operative word…

Right.

I detoured my thoughts from veering in the direction of the gutter and noted the feeling that surfaced during the day had morphed into something more tangible.

Well then.

I walked his way, which conveniently enough, was in the direction of the sign that was about to go dark. He, whoever he was, already had an unspoken invitation to stay as long as he liked.>

Hey man, anything I can help you with?

Atticus:

-As I stood at the door, hand gripping the handle while sliding my phone into my back pocket, I looked up in time to see three people headed my way. I swung the door open and held it for them, offering an easy smile as they passed and spoke with an excitement I suddenly realized I wanted to feel. Seeing it on others left me no choice but to notice that I was heavily lacking that type of emotion in my own life. Sure, I had bought my van and felt the excitement and when I hit the road, it was there. But it was surface level excitement.

I wanted to feel the rush of doing something impactful in my life. I still wanted to have some kind of human contact, and while my opinion and lack of desire to ink my skin hadn’t changed in the thirty seconds it took for me to hold a door open and walk inside the shop, I was definitely more open to suggestions.

The guy who was working had his back to me. That was fine, he was busy and I had all the time in the world to wait to be noticed. Rather than doing something obnoxious like clearing my throat, I turned and began to look at the flash on the walls. Each page was neatly framed and hung with obvious care. Not a single one was off kilter. It made me smile. Anyone who paid this much attention to detail truly cared about what they did. I was envious of their passion.

I didn’t even have artwork that had hung on the walls in my office back in New York. Maybe if I had, my attitude toward being stuck behind a desk all day would have improved. Likely not.

As I scanned a page filled with anchors, ships and pinup girls, a voice was directed at me. I had been so lost in my head, I forgot my entire reason for stepping into a shop I had no business being in. Turning my attention on the guy, I paused at his question. Shit. Instant attraction. I couldn’t remember the last time that had ever happened. My dick twitched as if to say, SURPRISE I still work! I felt completely disarmed. A fraud. An imposter. I couldn’t help the laugh that was two parts guilt and one part eagerness.

“...anything I can help you with…”

Was there anything he could help me with? ...yes there certainly was, but I really didn’t want to admit that or what my initial reaction to him had been. My eyes searched his face first and then his gaze as it remained on me. His eyes were warm and welcoming the way my beloved hoodie felt each time I put it on.

I was taking too long to answer but he didn’t seem to mind considering I was one of those assholes who showed up 15 minutes before closing. Remembering my entire reason for coming in here, to have a conversation with someone, I lifted my hand to the frame on the wall I had been looking at and grinned lazily at him, one side slightly higher than the other as I answered his question with one of my own.- Do you know who drew these?

Madyx:

<The closer I got, the better my last call was looking. He appeared to be admiring what he saw on the wall which was a lift to my confidence after a day of nada. I was starting to pick up on the energy he was throwing off, and it was coming through strong. He was rife with a quiet excitement, like he was flirting with epiphanies and on the edge of taking chances. I was feeling it on a vibration much higher than my norm. Instant clarity. I relaxed into myself after his arrival helped me shake that unrequited anticipation I’d battled all day.

When his eyes flicked off the art on the wall to me, I was ill prepared. His steel-blue irises were rimmed in navy, and subtly backlit; his gaze flecked with mischief. The cut of his jaw was a visual temptation outfitted with an infuriatingly attractive amount of scruff. His laugh broke me out of my preoccupation. It was telling, but only thanks to my extra sensory skills.

His grin though… that was what slayed me where I stood. Crooked and slow, even stretched his lips were full and fetching. Literally, I couldn’t have hand-picked the features of my non-type type more perfectly. He was exactly what I liked in a guy, at least physically.

The lift of his hand to indicate the frame on the wall brought up my stare. A confident grin preceded my answer.>

That would be me. But those are some of my more generic samples. I’ve got a book you can check if you’re in the market. Unless you’ve already got something specific in mind?

Atticus:

-The weight of this guy’s stare left me feeling some kind of way. At first, I thought I might be getting one of those he’s into you vibes, but then he answered my question and doubt began to creep back in. Maybe he was one of those people who were far too perceptive and he could smell the scent of wannabe all over me.

No, I didn’t have anything in mind. I wasn’t interested in getting a tattoo, which was how I felt before I opened the door. I just wanted to have a conversation. Seemed the only way for me to do that without him getting annoyed that I was wasting his time so close to the end of the day was to keep looking at his work. I could do that, wanted to, actually.

I shook my head, answering as honestly and non-committal as possible as his gaze hit me with a pointed once over. All right. I knew that look. I had given it out a time or two myself. I felt more confident as I found my voice again.-

No. I don’t have anything specific in mind. I’m not exactly the type to just fill my skin with ink. -I paused and considered how my words sounded then quickly added to it so as not to insult the guy who clearly had no problem filling his own skin with ink which I suddenly wanted to check out every bit of.- I mean, not without research, that is. I’d love to see your book.

-As he guided me to where a few different books sat on top of the glass countertop, I noticed each one had a different name on the spine. The one he gave me said Madyx. I grinned at him again and flipped open the cover. There were pages of photos of tattoos done on people. Some pages had drawings, too, and I took my time looking at each one. The silence between us was comfortable and easy. When my eyes landed on a particularly colourful image that took up someone’s entire back I paused to study it.- Wow. This one must have taken quite a while. Your work is incredible, Madyx.

-I chanced a glance his way as I said his name so he knew I wasn’t just blowing smoke up his ass, before looking back down and flipping another page. I was beginning to feel like I was leading him on knowing I wasn’t going to be in town long enough to commit any kind of time like that, even if I did want ink. Which in the three minutes since I last asked myself, still hadn’t changed. I couldn’t pull the trigger on something that permanent. Plus, a tattoo that large would have taken more than one session, I knew that much. As I shifted from foot to foot, trying to figure out how to let him know I was sorry to have wasted his time, the light caught something below the glass counter. It was a showcase of sorts filled with what I assumed was body jewelry. My stomach lurched and adrenaline surged through my veins. I’d always been interested in getting a piercing, maybe...it was far less permanent than ink and wouldn’t take even a fraction of time.-

Do you only do tattoos? -Sliding the book to the side a little, I checked out the display of hardware with more than the curious interest I had previously given to his artwork.-

Madyx:

<Gorgeous seemed to be stalling. I sensed a reluctance I couldn’t quite define. I was starting to think it was definitely his first time, or maybe he was just feeling out the idea. BULLSEYE. He admitted as much by answering that he wasn’t the type to fill his skin with ink, but I wasn’t offended, nope. His eyes seemed to reflexively land on my own collection of pieces, and I wanted to invite him to gawk with those blues all he wanted.

I didn’t care if he didn’t want any work only that it might end up in him leaving sooner rather than later. I was not down with that. I almost missed when he caught his self-perceived fuck up, but was nearly punch-drunk when he took me up on the offer to check out my book. Normally I wouldn’t waste someone’s time if they weren’t actually intent on letting me scratch my artistic itch, but he didn’t seem in a hurry to leave and, duh, same page.

I handed off the book and he seemed to be truly checking it out. There was an excitement for me, one I hadn’t quite tasted. It was a thousand flavors, custom made...meant for me. Yeah, this was hitting way below the epidermis, into the bone, and below the belt, too. When he stopped on the page he did, my gut twisted in the best way, he just so happened to land on the favorite piece I’d ever laid down in ink. It had been inspired by Klimt’s “The Kiss” per the patron’s request, but with several liberties worked into the artistic elements. Instead of an obscure male and female, it was clearly two males. It had morphed from a symbolist piece to something more sci-fi and steampunk. There were three dimensional aspects and an inordinate amount of intricate details, like any provoking piece, it begged look after look. In total it had taken 36 hours in six sessions. I would have got lost thinking about it if something else hadn’t caught my attention - my name. The intention in his tone was unmistakable. Now we were getting somewhere.

I didn’t even care that we didn’t discuss that tatt he’d stopped on, it was logged into the distant past when his attention shifted to the display of body jewelry. I walked to the opposite side of the counter, light shining up from the backlit case, we were closer to face to face and hell-to-the-yes; I saw the change in his posture. We were REALLY getting somewhere.

I handle the piercings, too. <clearing the space of the books for the full view> But before we get to that, we need to level the playing field. Got a name or should I just call you gorgeous?

Atticus:

-Generally speaking, I was not always very quick to pick up the cues when someone was flirting with me. It usually took a couple of are they or aren’t they moments before I caught on and then properly joined in on the exchange of the flirting game. Tonight it only took me two of those moments. First when I caught sight of him looking me over and then again, just now when he called me gorgeous.

My grin at Madyx was instant and interested as I answered, holding out my hand to him for a shake, as proper dudes do.- Atticus.

-When his hand slid into mine, I gave it a solid squeeze, and chanced a light brush of my thumb over the back of his before releasing it. His hand was warm and slightly rough on the palm, not at all unpleasant, the kind of hand that knew how to do hard work and wasn’t afraid of it. Not at all like my paper-pushing, then couch lazing hands. The most work mine had been doing lately had been flicking a signal indicator for left and right.

As I returned my attention back to the display of body jewelry, I briefly thought about the other places I might enjoy the rough grip of his hands and damn near groaned. My dick was more than on board and before I could pitch any kind of tents of embarrassment, I considered piercing the damn thing just to get it to go back down. As far as ideas one might think about to initiate a cooling down effect on their body, this one should have worked for bringing my semi back to completely flaccid. Should have.

It didn’t.

The more I imagined Madyx jamming a needle through my most sensitive flesh, the more my pulse quickened and the more I discovered that I liked the idea. Fuck. Guess my body had decided for me. I now only needed to man up and tell the guy what I wanted. Vocalization time. If I couldn’t ask for the damn piercing, I did not deserve to have his hands on me, and that, judging by the sinking pit my stomach had just become was not at all what I wanted.

Given how everything else I had done since rolling into this town has been on impulse decision making, I let my mouth run without much consultation with my brain, and hoped for the best.-

I’d like to be handled. -Welp. That was a wide open innuendo of his own words that couldn’t be taken back now. Guess I wasn’t going with my usual subtle approach, then again, nothing about this encounter was close to my usual.- A piercing, maybe two? Do you have time tonight? I noticed the sign said you were closing right away. I can always come back tomorrow if you need to close up and get out of here...

-I wouldn’t keep him if he had somewhere else to be, but I really didn’t want to wait until tomorrow, I was too afraid of losing my nerve or even worse, waking up having decided I suddenly wanted an entire back piece devoted to body piercings. I shuddered at that particular thought before shaking my head, waiting to see if he was game for some over time before I even broached the topic of where I wanted him to pierce me.-

Madyx:

<There was the grin again, but this one drew me in like it was baited with something addictive. I wanted a taste. I also wanted to hear him say my name again, that was until he told me his.

Atticus.

As if I wasn’t already in deep shit with the grin, he had to go and share a name with one of my favorite literary characters. I wanted to roll it around in my brain on a loop, then say it out loud so I could see how it would feel in the slide off my tongue. I swallowed thickly and dropped my hand into the one he offered for a shake, setting off a chain reaction I had in no way expected.

Our hands fit like they belonged to each other, his warmth matched mine but his skin was smoother, more pliant. My eyes hit his just as I felt the subtle stroke of his thumb on mine. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and an electrifying buzz scaled my spine, then split and radiated north, east, south and west. My heart started to race in an erratic beat against my rib cage. When heat balled in my gut and prickled along the underside of my dick, it finally registered what was going on. Pleasure had always been my gift, but I had only played delivery boy and spectator so I hadn’t immediately recognized my receptivity. And it was specifically something about him…. I could feel his desire commingling with mine, the energy and tension between us behaving like a magnet...SNAP.

Shit. For the first time in my life I was on the other side of the glass I’d always looked through. He was human, it shouldn’t be possible, but his singular, innocent touch had been undeniably thrill inducing. My mind and body were both fully engaged. If it wasn’t for the loss of his hand and his next words, I probably would have stood there in silence like a mooning asshat…. Lost in his eyes and all that.

But, HELLO, he wanted to be handled. I crossed my arms casually over my chest and couldn’t suppress the sideways smirk that came on quick. I’d handle him all he wanted, and with curiosity layering on top of the attraction to him, I wasn’t going to be shy.

I kept getting hit with solid signals from him, they were unlike anything I’d ever felt, and somehow I knew he was also outside of his norm, but completely natural. My attention perked when he brought up piercings and something about coming back tomorrow.

Time to perish that thought.

Shaking my head, I dropped my hands in a wide sprawl on the display case, leaning towards him.>

I’ve got the time and my place is just upstairs. So what do you want, Atticus? <The question was meant to be overt and open ended. And if I loved learning his name… saying it packed a thousand times the punch.> And for the record, I’d love to handle you. <It was shameless and I was not at all sorry.>

Atticus:

-He lived upstairs...I laughed at the immediate thoughts that came to mind then shook my head slowly, speaking quickly before he could get any kind of insulted.-

Seems for the moment we are neighbours, Madyx. -The hand that had just held his, because of course I would now be differentiating my hands by whether or not they had touched him, lifted and I thumbed over my shoulder to my van parked out front. As his eyes moved to where I had indicated, I stared at the way his lips curved up at the corners and my fingers twitched at my sides wanting nothing more than to touch him again.

Since it was generally frowned upon to yank a guy I’d just met over the counter and kiss him without giving him any kind of forewarning or chance to stop me, I cleared my throat and attempted to redirect my wayward thoughts back to what we had been talking about. He’d asked me a question and the proper thing to do was answer it. What did I want?

I knew what I wanted… HIM. But that wasn’t what he’d been asking no matter HOW suggestive his voice had sounded to my ears.

In my early twenties I had looked into piercings, researched all the types and varieties a guy could get as a means of using the knowledge to impress this one chick I had liked when I overheard her talking about how hot guys who had them were. It even worked, up to a point. Turned out, simply knowing about piercings was much different than actually having them, and when she discovered I didn’t actually have any, her interest in me wavered and she quickly moved on. At that point, I didn’t see the need to get anything done since I had started out wanting to impress her, my intentions had been shallow, and lacked the intent to follow through. But now...now, my intentions were less fueled with wanting to impress someone I was attracted to and more about self-discovery.

Tonight, the idea of getting a piercing made me feel more alive than I had in years. It was the right reason to pull the trigger on this. The gut churning excitement was the same I felt when I had called the number on the FOR SALE sign that had been hanging on the window the day I decided to buy my van. I was immediately grateful to the chick of my early twenties for having inspired me to do all that research, even if her rejection had been a blow to my fragile, immature ego.

Was I being impulsive now? Absolutely. But I already knew I wouldn’t regret this which was why without any uncertainty colouring my voice, my gaze found Madyx’s and I grinned confidently as I told him exactly what I wanted.-

I’d like the first two rungs of Jacob’s Ladder.

-I knew what I was asking for, and I hoped like hell the nickname for frenum piercings hadn’t changed in the years since I had done all that research. If it had, I fully expected him to laugh in my face and tell me to get my wannabe ass the hell out. I held my breath, and counted the thuds of my pulse as they wooshed in my ears feeling less and less confident in my answer as the seconds passed by that it took him to speak.-

Madyx:

<There were several impulsive words trying to fly off my tongue, but I was biding my time. I glanced past him when he indicated he was my neighbor, noting the tell tale silhouette of his VW bus. Currently nomadic, likely sleeping on a less than comfy mattress in the name of experience. The mentality someone must possess to live on impulse was a turn on, and it worked in my favor. Without knowing it, he was feeding me information and arming my artillery with all kinds of weapons to extend the night…because without explanation, I just wanted more with him. More time. More touch. MORE.

Atticus was setting off signals like flares in a moonless night, the attraction was undeniably mutual. I knew it, but did he? He would, I wasn’t letting him out of my company without shooting my shot. . My sensory grid was lighting up in a bright spectrum of greens, this was something fae only experienced in the rarest of circumstances. I knew what it meant but couldn’t delve into all that mythology on the spot.

Fuck that. I was just going to go with it.

And then he said it. What he wanted.

I knew there was more by the way his eyes flicked over my lips and the unequivocal energy that told me he was using restraint.

My brows shot up in reaction. My grin stretched a little wider. My dick bucked in my jeans clearly in support of this development. I toed the line of professionalism in my day to day operations, but this was beyond that. I couldn’t stop thinking about getting his cock out of his pants. With a casual swipe of my tongue between my lips, I opened the case, pulling out the options so we could get down to business. I knew he wasn’t going to run. I’d bet on it.>

You have piercings I can’t see? Or do I get first honors?

<fingering a few of the barbells to draw his eyes down, even though I loved the heat of them on me> Are you thinking the same size for each? Or a descending size? Grooved balls? <I smirked, couldn’t help it> Smooth?

We’ll get to gauge when I see what we’re working with, Atticus.

Atticus:

-Just as my lungs were beginning to burn for fresh oxygen, he spoke, and I exhaled slowly, controlling myself from letting out a sigh of relief so as not to let on how unsure of myself I had been feeling. There was no laughter or smirking from him that told me I had used an outdated slang. Excellent. I was starting to feel less and less like a poser with each follow up question he asked. He was very clearly taking my request seriously though I was not blind to the less than subtle moments of flirtation he was allowing to slip out with each exchange between us. And I was about to let him see my dick. I almost laughed. I held it in. Barely.

It was my turn to speak. Right, he needed answers. I could give those. With a grin and a rub of my hands together I chuckled as I got the first question squared away.- No. I don’t have any other piercings. You’re my first, Mad.

-My eyes dropped down to the tray of hardware he removed from the display case, ears working overtime to hear each of his rapid fire queries that I was delayed in noticing I had already shortened his name from Madyx to Mad. Both suited him, but if he was about to get face up in my junk without it being sexual I figured it was all right for me to shorten his name without expressed permission, that was how nicknames were supposed to happen anyway.-

Size. I hadn’t really considered that when I went and got overzealous with my request for two piercings. -Laughing low, my eyes moved between the various sizes of barbells he was showing me before making up my mind with ease.-

I want them to be the same. As far as accessories go, I’m a bit of a minimalist and the idea of gradually increasing seems a bit pompous if not arrogant to me. I can only imagine the size needed at the base if I went and got the great idea to complete the ladder. FUCK. -A shudder of regret for future me shot down my spine then ricocheted straight into the tip of my dick. All previous arousal swifty vacated my body and in a hurry. Decision made.- Yeah. definitely the same size. And smooth.

I also know enough from my research ages ago to know I won’t be looking to stretch out the gauge, either. No matter how fast these particular piercings tend to heal, I don’t want my dick to become a branch of a Christmas tree, sagging under the weight of a too heavy ornament. God, can you even imagine?! -The mental images that began to fill my mind had me laughing again.- Otherwise, any other decisions needing made, I will heed to your expert opinion.

Madyx:

<I caught his exhale and something about it felt like he was relieved, as if he’d just confessed a long held desire for the first time, and maybe I wasn’t so off the mark as he answered that I was his first. I didn’t have time for a smart ass remark about popping his cherry because of what he said right after.

Mad. He called me Mad. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, as if a hand had ghosted upwards, calling it to attention. The sensation carried up into my scalp, and even to the tips of my ears. How was it that something so damn simple was so affecting with him? It wasn’t the first time since he walked in my shop, and the longer he stayed, the more I was convinced there was more of it in store.

I took him in as he weighed his options out loud, none of his choices surprising me. I figured he’d want something understated, but I didn’t want to assume out loud and then have him reveal his elaborate plans for a rainbow ladder with alternating barbells down the back of his cock. That would have been a grave mistake!

I laughed my ass off when he referenced a Christmas tree sagging under the weight of a heavy ornament from sizing up the gauges, unable to stop myself.>

If the piercings look like too heavy ornaments and your dick a limp tree after piercings, then someone doesn’t know shit about shit when it comes to proper technique.

You’re in good hands, Atticus. I promise you that. <I flicked my eyes up to hopefully catch his, and thankfully I didn’t miss my target.> First, proper frenum piercings need to hit at the right depth to avoid that unfortunate look. Second, and counterintuitively, because of the skin, we’ll want to use a heavier gauge. With a lighter weight, during the healing process, it would push towards the surface, also resulting in the wrong appearance and a damn inconvenient dangling effect that could lead to unfortunate zipping incidents.

<Laughing, it was a feat to drop my eyes from his as I started selecting options to suit his taste>

You’ll want to consider width dependent on your head. Sight unseen, I think this brushed steel goes with your vibe.

You also have options when it comes to the size of the balls. <smirking, I laid a few out> You don’t have to decide standing here, we’ll bring them over to my station and you can see what looks right to you.

You ready? Need a beer? Something stronger? <My mouth on your cock to ease any nerves? I kept that last one on lockdown, lifting a brow, as I anxiously waited for his reply>

Atticus:

-My previously lost arousal was swiftly returning, and reaching tenting trouble territory when Madyx promised I’d be in good hands. Wouldn’t I just love to be in his hands. I stared at them while he sorted through the barbells, selecting some he thought would work. Long fingers, nimble and sure in their movements. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Now was not the time to learn I had a kink for hands, I’d never felt that way before, maybe they were just his hands I was lusting after, particularly when paired with this whole conversation that felt heavy with an undercurrent of attraction. I couldn’t deny it was flowing in both directions. He was making it pretty obvious, where I would have normally brushed it off as him being friendly in the beginning, I’d have to be blind to not see it now. I was damn sure seeing it.

Things were about to get very awkward if I didn’t get control over my body. I was a magnet drawn to a piece of metal, desperate to move closer, to obtain that satisfying click when the connection was finally made.

What was my life right now?

How could, of all the places I decided to stop on a whim have this guy right here, and have this kind of mutual attraction happen so effortlessly. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt that way toward someone and have them return it. Years, for sure. Many years. My eye was not exactly particular, it checked out chicks and dudes equally, but it took a lot to make me want a second glance.

Then he had to go and talk about ball sizing while smirking at me. I was starting to suspect he was playing with me. Cat toying with a mouse. Taunting my dick with his innuendo, coaxing it to come out of hiding and play his game. Did I want to? DUH. There was no denying how much I wanted to do just that.

But how does one go from piercing consultation to...Hey, you give me a boner, wanna hook up? Yeah…..no. He was hot, and there was no doubt in my mind that he was hit on all the time. Likely every day. I was certain of it. I didn’t want to be just some lame customer who was looking for an after hours special with the good looking tattoo shop guy.

Could I be any more of a cliche. I prided myself on being nothing of the sort...well I kind of was with my current on trend living in a van and travelling lifestyle. The only points working in my favour there was that I hadn’t documented a single moment of it outside of the memories in my mind. I wasn’t the next Van Guy with the Instagram worthy morning shots overlooking the ocean while holding a cup of coffee and casually displaying my abs for more likes. A thirst trap, I was not. I had higher standards than that.

Questions were being sent my way. Was I ready? What a loaded thing to ask, I laughed and hoped it didn’t sound as choked off to him as it did to my ears.- Yes. I’m ready. I’m good on the beer, for now. I think.

-I laughed again, this time it felt a little looser passing over my lips and I looked down at the tray of jewelry once more then looked back up at him, eyes finding his. Before I could stop myself, words tumbled out without much control over the content or how they’d be received, now was not the time to have shame or embarrassment, I needed to know if the situation in my jeans could be salvaged.- I once read that when getting dick tattoos, you had to be hard the whole time. Is the same true for piercings?

Madyx:

<The energy smacking me around was nothing I’d ever come across. Fuck. It was inexplicably intense, like we were plugged into each other and exchanging a charge. I was still mind-blown by what he was putting out. His subconscious and deep-seated pleasures were stimulating mine, as if they were dependent on one another. When I caught moments of him looking at me, my body reacted and my heart was thumping, driven by the physical and not so physical. I shut-up the internal analysis as much as I could and focused on what was in front of me.

Atticus was definitely anticipating, his excitement laced with nervousness inciting my extra fae receptors into overdrive. He covered pretty well, but his flustered laugh made me want to drop my jeans on the spot. I was stoked he’d declined the drink, especially since he’d slipped with the “for now.” Bingo. That was enough to confirm he wasn’t looking to bolt after I got up and personal with his cock.

The jewelry out, I let my attention land squarely back on him while he entertained what I’d displayed. It gave me a chance to scope the strong, lithe line of his back, and the sharp cut of his scruffed jaw. Hell, with every fresh recognition of his attributes, his hotness was intensifying right along with my craving for a thorough taste. While I had this fuck-me revelation, he was quiet, probably thinking about the dual-punctures I was about to put through his cock. I knew something was coming but the smirk that happened when he asked his question could not be helped.>

I’d like to see someone keep it hard through an entire inking. It only needs to be up for the stencil portion of the tattoo, after that there are creative ways to stretch a dick for the shading. As for you… <pursing my lips then rubbing them together> I’ll get the job done either way, as long as I can pinch the skin, I can pierce it. Generally, there’s more to work with when it’s not at attention. Chew on that and follow me.

<My smirk widened just before I broke eye contact and grabbed the tray of jewelry. Cocking my head in the direction of my station and the chair that would have him slightly reclined when he planted ass in it. I set the tray down and waited for him to get situated while I snapped on my gloves. When I turned around,shit, my eyes went straight south where it was hard to miss what was happening behind his zipper and before I could blow it, my eyes shot back to his. I couldn’t seem to stop doing that. I also couldn’t repress the urge to set him at ease and give him something to grab onto during this prelude to a pierce.

Playing it cool, casual, intent on finessing my approach, I took a seat on my stool, which kept us at eye level with one another. I knew he wanted this in my bones, but I was feeling the nerves from the risk of it. I stepped over the edge and took the cliff dive, the words passing over my lips as I felt a rush from the free fall.> How about you don’t leave after we’re done with business. <It was a question, but the way it came out sounded more like a statement. Unintentional. Organic. Assured. I dropped my eyes to his cock before they raked back up his body...to his suckable throat...his full lips...and back home to his grey-blue eyes.>

Atticus:

-“Chew on that and follow me.” Shit. He knew. He had to. There was no way he couldn’t tell I was already sporting wood. When he turned his back to me and headed to his station, I tried to chill myself the fuck out. Naturally my eyes landed on his ass and the fire that was in my veins ignited to an inferno and I knew there would be no way to get the blood to vacate my cock. This was going to be embarrassing for at least one of us in a couple of moments.

Did it matter though? I was just passing through town, at least that had been the plan when I entered the shop. I came in here looking for a conversation with another person and now I was about to leave with some metal accessories. I shook my head as I took a seat on the chair he wanted me in and took a few deeper breaths trying to slow the thundering of my heart.

I wasn’t shy about my body, never had been, but damn if I wasn’t worried about how he’d react when he took notice that I was more than eager to have his hands on me. Could I explain it away with a joke about being a masochist? Maybe, but it wasn’t true, not by the definition of the word.

As I spent precious time fretting in my mind he had turned around from setting down the tray and...YEP. I watched as Mad got himself an eyeful and like the professional I already figured he was, his gaze moved right past my crotch and straight up to my face.

He didn’t laugh. Or smile or even make a comment. The flirting that had been so natural halted. I didn’t know what to do with that. I was suddenly feeling overheated in my hoodie while worry about insulting him began to cycle through my mind, of course that was when things started to chill out for me in trouser tent town. I reconsidered the whole masochist angle again just to try and break the silence but shook my head to myself. It wouldn’t matter in a day or two or a week. I’d carry on with my drive and he’d have a story to tell his coworkers tomorrow. I was fine being a laughable story.

Before I could find something casual to say, he sucker punched me with that line of staying after he was done and I briefly wondered if he was trying to throw me a bone because he felt sorry for me. I didn’t think so. The tension between us had been palpable from the start. I nodded at his non-question.- Yeah. I’d like that. Though we both know you already know that I would.

-I laughed low as his eyes did another sweep and the previously cooling jets fired right back up again. Jesus. When did I become a thirteen year old boy seeing his first dirty magazine. I reached up behind my neck as I sat forward in the chair and pulled my hoodie off over my head, draping it on the arm of my chair, leaving me in my well worn white tee that was underneath.

There was no point in trying to hide shit, the elephant in the room had been noticed, spoken about and well acknowledged, not to mention Mad was about to shake hands with the trunk. I blew out a breath, feeling all embarrassment sliding away as easily as I had taken off my hoodie, and grinned at him.- Let’s get to you shoving some needles through my family jewels so we can have that beer you mentioned.

8 notes · View notes

egelantier · 4 years

Text

Yuletide Recs

Having had two days of more or less nothing but reading fics, I come bearing recs!

First of all, my amazing gifts:

The Goblin Emperor

For Thy Principles

The nohecharei of Edrehasivar VII were unparalleled in their defense of his person, but there were limits to even their prowess. When Maia first developed the fever, Cala quickly determined that it was not the end result of a magically-based assassination attempt – and from there it had to be left to the court physicians.

Maia falls ill, and Csethiro protects him as best she can.

Beautifully gentle Maia sickfic, with Csethiro holding him together. For me all for meeee.

Benjamin January Mysteries

Dry as a Bone

“Oh. Well, I’ve been better, maestro, been a hell of a lot better to tell truth.” Shaw stared at him for a long moment, and he was stunned to see honest to God grief in his eyes. Even when Shaw had just lost his brother he had been so much more himself than this lost man currently standing before him. “Not that I mean to put anything extra on your shoulders, I’m sure you’ve got enough of your own shit going on at present moment, but it seems like I’ve just lost my job.”

Shaw loses his job, and finally confronts Ben about trust (and lack thereof) between them. It’s GREAT.

The Tarot Sequence - K.D. Edwards

A Distraction Worth Losing

They may never be together, but the gods would have to move heaven and earth to split Rune and Brand apart.

Brand, Rune and The Kiss incident. (Poor messed up babies, somebody save them.)

And fics of the collection:

17776, Astreiant, Raksura, Frederica, The Gentlemen, The Goblin Emperor, Hades, Innkeeper Chronicles, Jeeves, Kate Daniels, King Arthur the movie, My Next Life as a Villainess, Nirvana in Fire, No. 6, Psmith, The Secret Garden, The Sleuth of Ming Dynasty, Swordspoint, The Tarot Sequence, Teixcalaan Series, The Temple of the White Rat verse

17776: What Football Will Look Like in the Future

so far, so fast

When Manny gets a craving for some fancy meal he had once, over ten thousand years ago, Nick decides he’s gonna fulfill that craving, no matter how hard it is. Because real romance is about making the impossible happen for his husband.

Goddamn transcendental.

Go Get It

Sometimes you start out just planning to get some groceries with your husband, and next thing you know, you’re committing to join the most hopeless team in college football.

Nick and Manny decide to play. It’s perfect.

Afterlife

A young man dies six months before the end of human death; his loss saves five lives, which end up much longer than anyone expects. (A series of worldbuilding vignettes about original characters in the 17776 setting.)

Made me cry, in a very cathartic way.

Astreiant Series - Melissa Scott & Lisa A. Barnett

April dressed in all his trim

A quiet evening in spring.

Sweet little slice-of-life with lovely sensory details.

Books of the Raksura

The Second Consort

“When Glow arrives, be friendly and welcoming,” Ember said. “Not scary.”

“Why does everyone think I’m going to scare him?”

Chime said, “They can see your face when you look at him.” He paused, glancing over at Moon. “That face, that’s the one.”

Ember sighed. “I remember being in his position. It’s pretty nerve-wracking coming to a new court and not knowing what’s going to happen to you there - whether they’re going to welcome you or shun you, whether you’ll make new friends, whether a queen is going to claim you…” He came and put a sympathetic hand on Moon’s shoulder. “Glow is probably worried about all of those things, and missing his home and clutchmates, and it’s our job to try and help him relax.” For a moment Moon thought he was just being soft-hearted, until Ember added, “He won’t open up and tell us what’s really going on unless he’s relaxed.”

Jade takes in a new consort, on Moon’s permission, and everybody is delightfully adult about it.

Frederica

Lady Alverstoke

Frederica commences her first Season as a married woman by planning a ball, promising most straitly that her husband will have nothing whatsoever to do …

Sweet and funny slice-of-life post-happy-ending for canon.

**The Gentlemen (2019) **

Even

The week after he intercepts Fletcher, that squirrelly little cunt, outside the London Miramax office, Raymond reluctantly ventures down to Brixton.

Under normal circumstances, Raymond tends to give this part of Brixton a wide berth, but he has unfinished business that needs attending to. Of course, that doesn’t mean he has to like being accosted by the overwhelming smell of greasy fish and chips when he pushes the car door open, doesn’t mean he has to be pleased about stepping into a piece of chewed-up gum the moment he sets a foot on the kerb.

But then, he can always take a shower after an errand in Brixton. The deep-seated discomfort of unfinished business doesn’t wash off that easily.

Raymond tries to pay Coach back for saving his life, and it doesn’t quite go as planned :D

The Goblin Emperor

The Archduke’s Discovery

Prince Nemolis goes on a journey, and learns a bit more than he wanted to know.

Really great point of canon divergence, and true and precise character voices.

Hades

all the spaces between us

For a place full of the dead, crammed with ghostly shades and nothing but the endless lull of eternity unchanging, gossip sure travelled fast in the Underworld.

Or, Zagreus mulls over his relationship with Thanatos while the rest of the Underworld get overly invested.

Slow, slow, slowest of burns.

Innkeeper Chronicles - Ilona Andrews

A Quick Trip

“It’ll be a quick trip,” Maud said, more to herself than to Arland. “No one will even notice we’re gone.”

Pirates are plaguing an ally, just outside of vampire space. Maud and Arland don some aesthetically beat-up armor and try to get more information from the pirates themselves. Of course, plans only last until you meet your enemy. Or your enemy’s giant alien attack boar.

Excellent canon voice, action/adventure sprinkled with badassery and hilarity.

Jeeves & Wooster

August Thirteenth

Discovering that this is not the first August thirteenth that he’s lived through, that certainly was a head scratcher. Luckily Bertie has the stalwart presence of his man’s man, Jeeves.

Very, very great and satisfying use of the time loop.

Kate Daniels - Ilona Andrews

lookin’ like a snack (cake)

It took Barabas a while to figure it out, because he wasn’t used to not being taken seriously.

Barabas considered several ways to phrase it, and finally settled upon, “Do you have a thing for twinks?” Christopher knocked his head back against the headrest: once, then again. “Is that a yes?”

King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)

When Goosefat Bill finds himself in a difficult situation, the last thing he wants is the King to show up and “help”, in his own unique and unexpected way.

Goosefat Bill does not need to be rescued by his King. But he might just enjoy it a little.

My Next Life as a Villainess (Anime)

All I Have To Bring Today

Catarina and Sophia had been discussing the latest in the Devilish Count series, and Sophia had mentioned how romantic the surprise picnic the count had planned for his lover was and how she wished for someone to surprise her like that.

“What about you, Catarina? Have you ever wished for someone to sweep you off your feet?” Sophia had asked.

Catarina makes a choice! As sweet and as hilarious as the canon.

Nirvana in Fire

Adverse Event

What a pitiful man must he have become, if the only thing he could provoke in bed was a monologue on his character flaws.

: or, the famous strategist mei changsu plays xanatos speed chess against truth serum: the fic.

Mei Changsu gets hit with an accidental truth serum; it doesn’t stop him from lying to himself, but it does buy Jingyan a clue.

Records of the Land of Xiang

There was something of Xiao Jingyan there, in the firmness of his jaw, the unforgiving slash of his brows, and most clearly in the eyes that neither saw nor conveyed deception. But Long Zhan was not Jingyan, could never be, no matter how much Changsu might wish otherwise, because Jingyan was dead.

In service to a very-much-alive Prince Qi, Jingyan dons a Jianghu-typical disguise and infiltrates the Jiangzuo Alliance to suss out this Mei Changsu fellow and see if he might be useful in helping them re-open the Chiyan conspiracy case. Basically, a slightly ridiculous premise where everyone is running around the Jianghu with masks, multiple identities, and secret agendas.

Fascinating and fun AU scenario that delves, among other things, into Mei Changsu the jianghu chef, not Sir Su the court schemer.

suffering as I suffer you

The first time Jingyan stays the night at Su Manor, he discovers an uncomfortable truth about Mei Changsu.

Excellent extrapolation of Mei Changsu’s illness into his nightly routine - with Jingyan watching…

Here, In Our Arms

With the world put to rights, however briefly, Xiao Jingyan and Mu Nihuang take the opportunity to make a fuss over their beloved Lin Shu, and will not take no for an answer.

Sweet moment of comfort.

Find the Coals Amid the Ashes

Despite Changsu’s assertions, Lin Chen is a well brought up person. He would never violate his host’s privacy during a social call. It would be inexcusable, for example, to break into a marquis’s private alchemy lab in the middle of said marquis’s birthday party, in order to search said alchemy lab for certain hard to find medicinal herbs, which one has reason to believe can be found therein. These would be the actions of a man without honour, of a man who has only desperation to his name.

Lin Chen crashes a party and makes a new friend.

The best team up ever :D

Dead Letters

Mei Changsu isn’t the only schemer in Da Liang.

Fei Liu fixes things, in the most Fei Liu way imaginable, and it’s great.

No. 6

All Good Things

In the midst of a crisis for No. 6, Nezumi returns to Shion’s side.

A reunion! And cuddling.

Psmith

The Psky Is The Limit

“As this ship’s Orator, my mission is still as it was in the beginning and shall ever be, world without end. It is to hail any message sent by comrades from outer space and pass it on to you verbatim. Well! The hour, I say, has come. The Word has come into being. Here comes Psmith, bearing news of great mirth: the intercom has spoken.”

(A Mike and Psmith Space AU)

Psmith in space! Hysterically funny Psmith in Pspace, at that.

Psmith Pops In

Psmith reached over and solicitously loosened Mike’s scarf, his fingers brushing the skin of Mike’s neck, and that young man, to his horror, felt heat creeping up from where gloved fingers brushed his bare skin. Really, this blushing nonsense was getting out of hand. Ever since Psmith had tried to take the blame in the case of the painted dog, Mike had developed an inexplicable habit of turning hot and cold around him, and these odd responses had become more and more frequent.

Very funny! And then very tragique! And then jussssst right.

The Secret Garden

The Space Garden

When Meri La Nix was sent from the Mars colony to live with her aunt at Missiles Wait Manor, nobody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. But some of them thought it.

Beautifully inventive space retelling - with gardens, still.

The Sleuth of Ming Dynasty

The sky spinning above him

In which there’s a jewellery thief on the loose, Tang Fan plays dress up, gets a mild concussion and also a boyfriend.

Frothy, sweet, well-grounded and hot. Also hilarious (check the end note!)

truth in fiction

Three days after Wang Zhi leaves the capital, bits and pieces of his extensive library begin arriving at Sui Zhou’s house.

Sui Zhou is really committed to research and accuracy in Tang Fan’s porn. It’s delightful.

Time don’t fool me no more

“The electrician is a Tang dynasty spy,” he says, dumping some of his eggs in Tang Fan’s bowl.

Tang Fan nods, shovels more food in his mouth, and starts talking again.

Past or future, Tang Fan has Priorities. And Sui Zhou is weak.

Meeting at the End

Sui Zhou knew he never should have let Tang Fan go alone. He knew he should have gone with him.

Really, really great and desperate whump. Super satisfying.

clever boy

Tang Fan never spares a smile for any of the girls at Wang Zhi’s establishment, he’s noticed. That’s alright, though. It means Wang Zhi gets his attention for himself.

Wang Zhi falling, falling hard; it’s delightful.

a bold and brilliant sun

“You’re sure you didn’t do something to it? They don’t usually stall out,” Sui Zhou says. He looks away from Tang Fan, out the windshield at the endless rust-red of the planet.

Tang Fan pouts at this, and slumps down on the edge of the console, feet propped up at an absurd angle against the pilot’s seat. “You think I’d fake a mechanical issue just so that they’d send a sexy Fleet crewman out here to rescue me?” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he giggles. “Okay, I would do that, but I promise that this time the problem is real.”

Space AU! Most excellent space AU condensing all there is to love about the canon in one perfect package.

Blind Taste Test

Wang Zhi invites Tang Fan to evaluate Joyous Brothel’s chefs — but it’s Tang Fan and Sui Zhou who are really being tested.

Wang Zhi, ever helpful :)

Authorial Intent

Sui Zhou and Tang Fan end up in hot water yet again. Kinky sex ensues.

Hilarious, kinky, heartfelt, and in character.

Swordspoint Series - Ellen Kushner

Chrysopoeia

It struck Alec that this would have been much easier if their positions were reversed. Richard would have known what to do if he’d been dragged back here with a hole in his gut. He was quite simply not supposed to be the one on this end of the equation. In fact, it was possible he had done something very bad to deserve this.

Richard is wounded, and Alex is coping. Excellent h/c and excellent bloodplay and sharp, painful slice of Alex’ POV, excellently rendered.

At first — this was just like him — he thought he was hearing god. But it was only the man in the bed, whose face had turned toward him on the ragged pillow.

The Tarot Sequence - K.D. Edwards

Third’s a Charm

Addam asks a favor of Brand.

Addam asks Brand for help, which ends up being exactly what Brand and Rune need.

Pretty good

Five times Brand crawls into Rune’s bed and one time Rune crawls into Brand’s.

Brand and Rune, through the years.

Teixcalaan Series - Arkady Martine

Also in the Act of Reaching

When Three Seagrass arrived at Lsel Station, she was, officially at least, traveling as a private personage. She had missed Mahit and the possibilities they’d both chosen to turn away from. She also had– would always have– a gaping hole in her life where Petal had once stood.

It was simply that, left on her own, Three Seagrass wouldn’t have let either absence drag her to the ass-end of beyond.

Reunion, metaphors and realigment. Subtle and clever and just right.

The (concept of the) World Was Wide Enough

Yskandr Aghavn comes to the world like a drowning man comes to shore, but he is living on borrowed time. Teixcalaan has so many wonderful things to choke on.

Teixcalaan has had his heart for all of his life, has elevated him, corrupted him, and discarded him.

It is Lsel that he thinks of as he dies.

Temple of the White Rat Universe - T. Kingfisher

If Grace Is Too Much

Zale is given a case by Bishop Beartongue which turns out to be more complicated and personal than a holy advocate-priest would prefer.

Clever and sweet and carefully shocking, but in a very right way.

Outreach

“We don’t generally assess the… cursédness… of objects, trees or otherwise,” Beartongue said.

Utterly delightful.

#17776 #astreiant #books of the raksura #sleuth of the ming dynasty #nirvana in fire #white rat universe #telxcalaan series #the tarot sequence #swordspoint #the goblin emperor #psmith #the secret garden #benjamin january mysteries #yuletide recs

26 notes · View notes

goldeneyedgirl · 4 years

Text

JaliceWeek21: Day 8 - Powerswap: Variable Stars 1/3

This is the LAST PROMPT. And such a good one, and I was just... stuck. And it’s only half done, but I thought I’d start posting it now to motivate me.

This started out as a joke and grew feelings and logic and ugh.

I hope you enjoy it, and I’ll do a round-up of everything I wrote once it’s finished <3

variable stars.

mary alice brandon.

What did you think would happen?

The panic is an animal scrambling to get out, pushing against her chest and her throat. She tries not to cry, but she’s shaking and she’s heard the screams that comes out of the room at the end of the hall.

Her face aches, where the orderly hit her to get her to move faster. She’s ice cold - it might be winter, she’s lost track of time - but other than the ugly brown sweater she’s been given, the one that hangs to her knees because nothing fits her right.

“Please,” she asks in a thin voice. When she was little, she had had a lisp. Her mother had called it ‘darling’, but her father wanted her to speak properly. And when she couldn’t, it was better she stayed quiet. She out-grew it eventually, but sometimes, when she’s tired or frightened, she can hear the ghost of it - another part of her old self that haunts her.

(She remembers her mama wasting away, lying on the chaise in the sitting room, looking like she was fading away. She’d sing and cuddle the new baby, but Mary Alice got a kiss on the forehead and an apology, “I’m so sorry, my darling. I’m so, so sorry.” She used to think that the apology was for dying and leaving Alice alone without a mother. She knows better now.)

They march her into the room, badly lit and tiny. She is stripped of her sweater and helped roughly onto the bed, with the tight sheet and the rubber rest for her head. The doctor looks at her like a dead thing, and her breathing speeds up. She tries to twist the hem of her clothing in her hands but they are quickly pinned and strapped to the bed, her ankles too (the straps are loose, she’s too small for this bed).

A hunk of greasy rubber is shoved into her mouth so far she nearly chokes; the taste of it is rancid and nausea swirls as she feels the indentations of other teeth, other mouths. She feels like she’s going to faint, everything is so blurry. But there’s a slap to her face and something is fitted around her head and no one has spoken to her, acknowledged her or explained.

She’s never been so frightened in her life. She’s shaking and the nurse stares down at her with a bored expression on her face, and there’s three blood drops on the woman’s uniform.

One, two, three.

And Mary-Alice Brandon screams.

—

(She was thirteen years old. A ward of the state. A hopeless case. The perfect little guinea pig for the experimental new treatment. Much more efficient than chasing a screaming child around, to force the Metrazol down her throat.)

(They should have waited until she was older, of course. But the doctor’s ego and arrogance were too much, made him too impatient to wait. It wasn’t so much that the future changed - it did, of course - but that the girl who was little Mary-Alice was altered, irreversibly and forever. And that made all the difference.)

—

Three. Three becomes her number.

It took three men to drag her from home in the dead of night (one broke her arm. How pleased her father must have been that they were in such a large house where there were no close neighbours to hear her screams.)

She was thirteen - one-three - when they first push electricity into her poor brain. (Unlucky Mary-Alice.)

She gets three shots, morning and night, bruises blooming like ink in water. (They made her head swim and the world soft. They make her stomach twist and her bones ache. They make her words slow and run together. They steal all of her away.)

She has three different orderlies - the one that twitches and is cold as ice (he doesn’t hit her); the one that calls her names and threatens her (he hits and slaps and pushes her); and the one that comes in to her cell at night (he touches her too much, and is always the one that takes her to the bath.)

Three times a week, she’s marched to the door at the end of the hall and they hook her into the machine and they look at her like she’s something wrong and foul. (She screams and cries and vomits and wets herself. She breaks an ankle because the loops are too loose and she thrashes. They were never fitted to hold a child down.)

She starts looking for threes. She’s broken two bones, she needs to break another. She sees two doctors who shake their heads and write down notes, and she wonders when they’ll bring in a third. She counts the bites of her food to keep them down, curdled and sour in her belly. She counts her steps everywhere she goes, counts the slaps and pinches and shoves they give her.

Three, three, three.

—

The fizz and pop of the machine steals things. It takes her awhile to realise that. At first, it was just time; hours vanish like smoke. Then it was words - she stammers and mumbles and slurs. Then it was memories, what happened before the room.

Then it’s her family, her mother’s face vanishing and her sister’s laughter fading.

(Someone said sorry to her a long time ago. It doesn’t soothe the hurt.)

Then it’s her full name. Mary-Alice Brandon. Mary-Alice.

Mary.

Alice.

(She doesn’t answer to Alice, only to Mary.)

Then it’s her vision. It goes blurry and dark around the edges, and even when she wakes up in her cot, it doesn’t go away. When she tells someone, they huff and shrug and dismiss it - it stops the pictures in her brain so it is worth giving up her sight.

They call her schizophrenic, a word that sounds like static, and a lot of other things. She hasn’t mentioned the visions in a long time; what good are they when she is locked up in cell? When she is convulsing in pain and forgetting everything she ever loved, and shivering in the dark?

(She learns to live without her sight. She relies on her visions sometimes, but mostly, herself. Fingers tracing walls, feet gingerly testing out uneven floor. They let her stumble, and mutter about her blank, cloudy stare. A doctor does examine her eyes, but there is nothing to be done. Perhaps they can prevent this happening to another patient, but for Mary-Alice Brandon, it’s just unfortunate.)

It steals everything except fear. It feeds the fear well, and she knows she’s going to die in this place, hollowed out so that the fear can fill her up. She can see the graves from the window of the laundry, where other patients have died. She has no illusions; those are the dead from the other wards. People who might have gotten to go home again, people who get to eat in a dining room, and take pills instead of shots, who knit for the soldiers and write letters to their loved ones.

People from the basement ward go on to their next life via the boiler room. She knows the stench of that intimately.

(Three people come to the hospital one day - a man, a woman, and a child; the day between her sessions. They are very important because she gets an extra bath and clean clothes, and the orderly brings her in a wheelchair. She cannot see them properly, just shadows and shapes in her gaze. The doctor makes them sit behind her as she answers questions and gives her puzzles to solve. She doesn’t know much, and she can’t get her hands to move properly or stop shaking. The man behind her keeps telling the doctor how ‘good’ it is, and she has a grim feeling her failure pleases him.)

(She’s going to die here, and end up being swept away with a broom.)

—

Three years.

It takes three years for them to break her, to curdle the fear in her heart to rage. To let hate swell in her heart. She fights back sometimes, learns to bite and scratch.

(They break her other arm, and there’s the third broken bone. That’s just fine with her, the heavy plaster cast makes a lovely noise against the face of the orderly who won’t stop touching her.)

She spits and swears and tells everyone the truth. A husband will die, a wife will run away. A child will drown. Debt, loss, prison, she spits her fortunes out with relish, and there are more shots and more slaps, but she doesn’t care.

(She fights like a feral cat when they take her to the room now, fights away from the pain of the device lighting up her brain. It can do nothing more for her, she knows that, than it already has and now they are just using it to cook her brain a little more, until she is soft and pliable like their other victims. She won’t go down like that, won’t let them make her into those people. She gets a few good hits in, and she’s sure they make the machine hurt her worse.)

The cold orderly is the only one who can manage her these days, and she is grateful when she becomes his problem. No more touching, no more hitting. He talks to her in a low, calm voice - “I cannot stop them or any of this yet, little one. But I can try to stop the worst of it.”

She lets him help. She is quiet and docile when he escorts her places. She takes her medications and does as she’s bid and it works, a little. She cannot escape the room at the end of the hallway, cannot stop all the slaps, but some of her bruises get to heal.

(When the cold sets in, he brings her clothes warm from the laundry; he smuggles her mugs of weak tea in tin cups, and swaps rancid porridge for an extra bit of stale bread on her tray. He lies to the doctors that she was ill, and unfit for her ice bath. He makes things a little better for her. In her dreams, she thinks about him falling in love with her, taking her away and marrying her. She doesn’t love him, but she sees her freedom in his kindness, and there are far worse ways to live than quietly married to such a man. If she ever had dreams for her life, the machine has eaten them all away and that’s comforting, because she would hate to realise how far she’s fallen.)

The shock therapy still demands its pound of flesh, and her memory gets worse. He writes her name in big black letters on the wall next to her pillow, but she certainly cannot see it to read it. So he carefully chips it into the wall, where her fingers can feel out the letters.

Mary-Alice. Mary-Alice. She is Mary-Alice.

(Sometimes he reads her things from her file. She’s sixteen years old. She’s from Biloxi, Mississippi. She is a ward of the state with no family - her surname is redacted in the earliest papers, and she is referred to as Miss Smith in all the later ones. She became blind when she was fourteen and a half. She is in the hospital for a laundry list of conditions that are, according to her doctors, incurable.

She has been here since she was twelve.)

The rage finds a good home inside of her. It wraps around the grief and fear, and it is comforting in a new way. It lays roots to remake her into something else, something she might be, could be. Nothing better nor worse.

Just different.

—

It all goes wrong on a Wednesday. She knows it is a Wednesday because it is a treatment day. It is also bath day, and the day the priest comes round to pray at their doors, too cowardly to venture closer to the insane, the stricken as if they are contagious or tainted, somehow.

(There are few in the basement that are truly terrible. They struggle and fight because of their fear of the pain, of the suffering, not for any other reason. Most of the patients are soft and dull, drugged and crippled into quiet obedience. There is no reason to fear them, truly. They’re all half-dead, anyway.)

It’s also a dreadful day because her orderly is not here, and they’ve been forced to deal with her alone. Her head rings from the hits she took, her shoulder aching. Her throat is sore and her stomach is churning and she is sick of hearing how God will forgive her and welcome her into His house. She has done nothing that requires forgiveness, her orderly assured her of that.

(She cannot remember his name, no matter how many times he tells her. He tells her it is okay. She will remember one day.)

“Shut up!” she finally screams at the priest, who is hidden in the hallway with his Bible and his sermon. “There is no God!” She means to say ‘here’, in this place, where an orderly held her under the water of her bath this morning to punish her, as she thrashed and struggled. Her chest still aches and she wishes she had drowned. She screams it over and over again, hot tears on her cheeks as her brain and mouth stutter and struggle to get the words out as she means them.

“God is dead (here)!”

“G-God is dead!”

“God dead!”

She can’t get it right, can’t untangle her words and thoughts to make sense and the frustration and weakness makes her cry harder, makes the words harder.

It’s the wrong thing to say anyhow, because then another orderly comes, and the priest is yelling at her, condemning her and then there are two nurses and a doctor and she gets to go to her standing appointment early because she’s behaving so badly, her arms bent behind her so she has to hunch over. The priest makes the sign of the cross over her and she spits and screams when one of the nurses slaps her.

(God is dead and so is logic. She never understood why they bathed her before they shocked her; she almost always wets herself, bites through her lip, or gets a nose bleed. She is always a reeking mess afterwards, and they act like they haven’t set her up for failure.)

She’s hurled on the bed, and held down, and the doctor holds her jaw so tight she knows there will be finger prints on her cheeks.

“We may have to increase your treatments, Mary, if you do not remember your manners,” he says, a cool and arrogant voice washing over her - he is just a wobbly shadow in her corrupted gaze.

She manages to spit on him, sort of, and he slaps her too, and jams the rubber mouth guard into her mouth, holding it there and forcing her to choke. She writhes and kicks and no one has tied her down yet.

They manage to restrain her, and she can feel the doctor’s pleasure as he pulls the lever and the pain…

… it is a wild thing, roaring through her like a fire. It burns like a fire too, and sinks into her brain, her bones, her mind and soul. It cripples her and changes her. It rattles around in her and all she can think is that one day she will hurt this doctor, hurt these people just as bad. She will burn the doctor to blistered flesh, to ragged charcoal, to see how fair and fine such treatment is. She has survived so long with this experimental treatment, with having different voltages, different wires and placements and techniques, without any gratitude or assurance.

Just the never-ending rolling pain and fear.

(And she opens her arms and her heart to that anger, that righteous fury, the power, and the creeping fear. It nestles deep and close, finally and indelibly rewrites Mary-Alice and what she will become.)

—

Her speech is nearly gone after. She slurs and mumbles and doesn’t get up off of her cot. It’s over for her, the last flicker of herself realises. They move her around like a marionette; she is just a bunch of loose limbs and dead eyes. They stick her with needles and smile at her, satisfied that she’s finally broken and docile.

(One step closer to the boiler in the basement.)

They watch her body arch in pain at the shock of an ice bath, watch her twitch and shake with another seizure, ones that have made her their home over the last few years. But these are getting worse, and sometimes there are only minutes before the next one wracks through her.

(They hurt her, make her body ache worse and her mouth taste like blood.)

Her cold orderly has returned, and he is still kind. He keeps her clean and warm, patiently feeds her dainty bites of inedible food. He talks to her and comforts her. When he thinks she is asleep, he tells her how unforgivable the state in which she lives is; that this was cruel and pointless, and she deserves so much better, so much more. He tells her of gardens and oceans, castles and beaches. He brings a flower, a leaf, some slightly greasy sheep’s wool that he guides her hands over so that she can remember good things.

(She dreams of a boy offering her a flower; it’s white.)

It’s only after she dreams of the man with the red eyes that she tries to talk again. She sees the man with ruby eyes, his mouth smeared scarlet. She hears screaming, desperate screaming and babbling, and then nothing. She sees her own body, her throat torn to meat, laid out in the surgical room in front of frowning doctors. They mutter and murmur and try to translate the mess of her throat, her broken legs, her cracked and torn nails, the three broken vertebrae.

Her nudity upon her discovery.

(Of course, it’s easy to say that the girl was insane, escaping and discarding her clothing getting attacked by wild animals - perhaps she fell, broke her legs and her back and that’s when the animals arrived on the hunt. Anyhow, it truly doesn’t matter. The girl is really a woman, and has been a ward of the state so long that only the very oldest workers recall her full name. She is wrapped up and sent to the basement, nothing more than a footnote in the day’s happenings.)

She wakes up panicking, and the nurses do not like her noise, and so they have extra shots for her, a straitjacket and a stern lecture. She gasps and croaks and tries to explain.

The cold orderly is there, trying to protect her from the rough treatment but disguised as trying to wrangle her. She tries to tell him, tries to explain there’s a hunter in their midst, a hunter coming for her to start with and maybe others but her head and tongue are muddled, so it just comes out as croaks of, “Red man, red man, red man.”

The shots pierce her flesh and she wails like a child because she doesn’t want to die like that.

Doesn’t want to die.

(She just wants to live. Just once. Just for a little while.)

—

The orderly is no fool.

But neither is the hunter.

The future ripples and changes once more.

—

Down south, amongst the dust and blood of the Wars, a soldier goes rogue, a Major deserts, and the Lady of Monterrey rages.

Up north, a family packs their things, ready to move on. Again.

And in the mud and mire of Mississippi, the girl who was supposed to be Alice Cullen stares dead-eyed into the stars as the venom creeps through her, changing her fate once and forever.

#jaliceweek #alice cullen #jasper hale #jalice #twilight fic #twilight renaissance #alicexjasper #my fic: variable stars #romance #angst #drama #AU #Alice loses her visions #and gains something else...

14 notes · View notes

taeguboi · 4 years

Text

“She’s Mine Now” Jungkook x Reader

“A fiction in which Jungkook steals the girl from right under her lousy date’s nose”

I sort of made this concept for a fiction a bit ago and... I’m not sure this quite turned out as good as I wanted to but here goes hahahaha

Fiction Masterlist

“Cheers guys!” the singer gratefully says to his audience through the microphone, showing gratitude for the amazing response to the song the band just played.

Applause fills the room as the band put down their instruments and get ready to relax during the interval between sets.

This is a great night for the pub; the drinks sales are pouring in and the crowd ebullient for the music provided by the band who are on fire tonight.

This date however… is not.

Your best friend had inaugurated a blind date after your little drunken breakdown around a week ago as you wept about feelings of loneliness and yet how you can’t help but feel hindered in moving on from your last relationship because of your dependency on it to be happy… Additionally there were also those insecurities and irrational fears about getting yourself back out there into the world of dating which didn’t exactly help your need to develop a more positive mind set.

“Tell you what?” beamed y/f/n. “How about I set you up with a friend?”

In theory, her suggestion actually sounded like a good idea; even if the date didn’t take you anywhere beyond a meal or a drink, it could be a good practice run at interacting with unfamiliar faces, maybe even a confidence booster.

You had gotten all dressed up to the nines in your little black dress: a simple, classy look one can never go wrong with. Slimming in all the right places, the garment perfectly hugs those curves, shows a little bit off, yet leaves plenty to the imagination. Alongside this dress you donned some matching heels which give you some extra height, but no so much so as to hurt your back, your prettiest dangly silver earrings with the black sapphire gems, and the gorgeous choker your friend bought you to compliment the rest of your ensemble.

“Well, not that you need it” she corrected herself after presenting it to you as a ‘good luck’ gift.

You remember scooping it up from inside the box and looking at the choker in amazement. It glistened under the light of the sunset which seeped through her living room window and looked striking with its three rows of sparkling black gems similar in appearance to the sapphires which your earrings hold. You wondered why she felt such a gesture was necessary or if you even deserved it.

“To be honest, I bought it for myself ages ago but I’ve never worn it” y/f/n clarified following your question. “It will suit you way better anyway, especially with those earrings”

You felt grateful to have such a kind hearted friend and it was the boost of encouragement you needed to get yourself out there this evening and go for it! To say yes to life! Yes to confidence! Yes to new opportunities!...

But this night, as far as this pairing is concerned, is turning out to be a great disappointment.

Sure, the band is great and the drinks are fine, but… this guy has no personality whatsoever, or at least he doesn’t have any traits or qualities you find preferable in a love interest. All he wants to do is talk your ear off and bore you with the details about how often he hits the gym, and then there was something about motorcycles you think, not fully engaging in what this dude has to say about himself. You’ve hardly been able to get a word in edgeways about yourself.

You always affirmed in your mind that looks are not everything. You never set sky rocketing expectations that he should have rock hard washboard abs or a razor sharp jawline; you know that life isn’t a movie. You didn’t care that when you first walked into the pub this evening that you were met by a man with mousy brown hair resembling the colour of the faded mahogany floor that met your feet, nor did you judge his typical smart-casual style consisting of a white v-neck, black blazer and jeans. The personality was what always mattered to you; the one thing that always sealed the deal.

“I’m just going to nip to the toilet! I’ll be right back!” you abruptly announce whilst your date is in mid-sentence about what hair product he uses which, by the way, is just a bit too much. You figure he must have put a bit too much mousse in his hair as it produces a greasy appearance even under the dim pub lighting that hovers above your heads.

“Sorry” you quietly apologise as you come to your feet and gather your black clutch bag and your phone from the small rounded surface of the tall shabby table.

After relieving yourself in the ladies room and finding yourself alone in there, you stare into the mirror to reflect in a contemplative way, ignoring the slight smudge of eyeliner beneath the outer corner of your right eye.

There is barely anything you are enjoying about the evening. You scan your brain for all the possible excuses you could make for leaving early, but nothing seems good enough:

You can’t say you’re feeling ill because he’d only offer to walk you home and that in itself just seems like an unnecessary effort for your date who will most definitely offer to walk you home only to be rejected in any further advances he’s likely to make on you. In fact, you feel somewhat apprehensive at the idea of being alone with him although that could just be your mind speculating following on from when he placed his hand on your thigh a couple of times throughout the course of the evening.

Calling y/f/n doesn’t feel like an option. She went to so much effort in a sincere attempt to make her friend happy from hooking you up with this guy in the first place, to helping you get your makeup on point, (you never realized how good winged eyeliner on your top lids looks!) to even driving you to this pub.

Doing a runner through the beer garden and out the back gate just isn’t your style either. Rude, cowardly and insensitive; you just aren’t any of those things... You suppose you could stick this through a bit longer and get a couple of more free drinks out of this, right?

‘Jesus y/n, what have you stooped to?’ you wonder to yourself.

Pulling out one of your emergency make up wipes from being crammed inside your clutch bag, you correct the small problem that is the smudged eyeliner and promise yourself that you will try harder to stop yawning from boredom, and then ultimately chucking the used wipe in the bin of the nearest cubicle.

You stumble out of the toilets, kind of forgetting about the small step on the way down, causing you to wobble a bit as your reaction time to stop yourself from falling is a bit too slow. Your shoulder crashes into the chest of someone passing by and you instantly fill up with embarrassment, apologising profusely.

“Oh crap, I’m so sorry!” you exclaim, taking a quick glance at the stranger you knocked into, then your line of sight goes straight to your outfit as you smooth down your dress in the hope that it hadn’t raised up from your clumsy gesture.

“No worries!” the voice replies back, the man already walking into the distance and towards the garden when you look up. He gives a wave to show it’s okay, no harm caused. He looks familiar.

With a black crew neck shirt and black shorts, one would think his clothes would only blend in with his ebony hair but somehow, his appearance does feel so ordinary; his fringe is a little too long almost covering the eyes yet rather than the length weighing it down, it glides buoyantly as he turns his head. You couldn’t see the colour of his eyes but they felt warm and dark, like mocha.

The logical thinking side of your brain is clearly non-existent practically as you can’t make any guesses as to why you think you recognise him and you have to urge yourself to stop thinking so pensively. Lots of people look familiar that you’ve never met before, it’s just one of those things.

Entering the main bar room, heels clumsily clunking on the floor amidst the low chatter of the punters, you search for your date as you register he is no longer sitting at the table you left him at. You let out a small sigh, one of contentment as you jump to conclusions. However, your date spots you from the bar counter and beckons you over.

“Oh, aren’t we keeping our seats?” you inquire as he places a fresh drink in your limp hand.

“Mm-mm” he hums as if to say ‘no’. “I thought we could have one more for the road and then… move on, if you like?” he requests, raising an eyebrow half suggestively.

It is now quite obvious that this guy is more into you than you are him and a small wave of panic hits you as you struggle for a good response.

Glaring feedback from one of the guitars on stage interrupts the awkward moment as the band plug back in their instruments to do their next set. Though this noise makes many tense, it fills you with a solace; that sound means the band are back on; the band being back on makes the perfect excuse to stay.

“Oh, well whilst I wouldn’t mind saying yes to one more drink, I… I was actually really enjoying the band” you stammer, taking a sip of drink after.

“Same as last time please mate” the bartender says, requesting payment as he serves your date’s drink. A £10 note is placed in the bartender’s hand and a doubting smile is thrown your way.

“Oh, okay, sure” he replies, bringing his hand into his pocket having received some pennies. You can sense his efforts to be some smooth suave kind of guy for you tonight, one with genuine intentions, but it was only coming across minutely. Move on? And before the band have even begun their second half? Impatience, in reality, is what is coming across.

You decide to ignore that your date is probably not ecstatic with your placid response to his suggestion and you turn your focus to the live entertainment.

“Come one” you smile. “Let’s go to the front”

Your suggestion turns into command as you reach out for his non participating hand, grabbing his wrist anyway and practically dragging him there.

“One two…” the singer vocalises into the microphone to see if it’s turned on and the audience response is already bursting with positive hollers, anticipating cheering and fulfilling applause that resonates across the room.

“Alright, that’s definitely on” the singer chuckles sonorously, sweeping back his highlighted mahogany hair.

“Here’s the next song to kick the night off a little…” he continues, hyping up the first song of the second half of the evening.

The main guitar riff begins the upbeat song which everyone immediately recognises causing many more layers of commotion in the room with whistling, singing along and feet stomping. You jig along to the song a little on your own, drink in hand and clutch bag under the same arm.

Oddly, you hoped your date might have wanted to dance with you, that maybe this dude might have at least one weeny small ounce of fun in him, but nothing. Halfway through the song, you glance over your shoulder, flash him a smile as you bop along and in return he sends you a rigid smile that for a split second makes you forget about how warm it’s getting amongst the crowd.

For the rest of the song, well tell a lie, the rest of their set, your eyes remained on the band. Along came more upbeat songs through which the occasional stranger would shuffle along and have a friendly dance next to you and then move along to the next amused punter with their terrible moves from 1982. There was the odd ballad to tug on the old heart strings and get everyone really singing along in the drunken semi-emotional messes they are; sweaty men with their arms around each other as the chorus hits, booming out the lyrics, mostly right, some wrong words, some really incorrect lyrics; young girls in their groups holding their drinks in the air and letting drops of wine spill onto the carefree souls behind as they sing the words correctly; couples in corners stopping their sessions of eating face to join in as they sing to one another with endearing looks.

Following a long string of songs came a drum solo to stall during a technical difficulty with the lead guitarist’s amp and you feel a bit dim-witted for not recognising that dude from earlier who is in fact the band’s drummer, who glances at you for a moment whilst he does a drum roll and your cheeks feel rosy.

And then you blush a second time when it feels like he’s looking at you again.

And again for a third time leaving you standing there both uneasy and perplexed as you recall why, when you bumped into that person not long ago, that face looked so familiar.

You conclude it’s the paranoia from the incident earlier as you analyse when and why he was looking in your direction those last few times. He was looking around the room as he played anyway. Every good performer gives their audience eye contact. In fact, he probably wasn’t even glancing at specifically you that first time, even. You shrug it off as the solo comes to an end with a crash cymbal ringing out eliciting a wide array of applause.

This time, you find yourself unable to put your hands together to make an appreciative sound. His eyes are burning into yours, a stare so mysterious, you can’t figure out what those eyes are trying to say to you. Like an idiot you can feel your jaw dropping slightly but you haven’t the focus to close your mouth before you catch a small fly and you’re not even sure you care that he’s smirking. It isn’t until the singer jumps back on stage and in front of the drummer that you snap out of it.

“This dude is awesome, right?” you ask your date who has now finally decided to stand at your side rather than standing awkwardly behind you as you haven’t allowed him the opportunity once to grab your waist or hug you from behind.

“Yeah, I guess” he monotoned, raising a glass and taking a big chug of his drink.

“So do you know any other good places to go to ‘round here?” queries your date, daring to snake an arm around your waist, his warm breath hits your ear and the front of his blazer rubs uncomfortably on your arm. You note that this is probably the least sensual intimacy you’ve experienced as his eagerness to move on mildly unsettles you.

As you hold back the urge to scrunch up your face, you muster a reply with the intention to soften the blow for him that you’re just not feeling the connection. You’re going to play it calm and cool, and you intend to buy the next round of drinks, you know, to show that you aren’t just here for freebies.

“Uh places ‘round here?” you reiterate back just before the band begin their next song.

“1! 2! 3! 4!” the singer shouts into the mic before all the instruments kick in simultaneously to start the next song.

“To be honest, not really” you explain, raising your voice to be heard over the music and cheering. This actually isn’t a made up excuse when you tell your date this; this pub is probably one of the only pubs in town that isn’t a complete dive.

“Within about a 2 mile radius, this is probably the one and only bar without sticky floors or loos that smell like p… smell bad” you continue, correcting your language at the end of your sentence.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be a pub” he suggests, now finally making some eye contact with you. His stare is somewhat menacing but not in a totally mischievous way; it’s more of a gaze that raises suspicion, as though he might be up to something. “How about a club?” he hums with expectation. “You know, get some sick beats to dance to, do some shots, that kind of thing.”

Clubs. You really really didn’t care for them. Maybe when you were a few years younger perhaps, but there’s only so many times you can get inebriated enough to tolerate an atmosphere of needy blokes who want to spike unknowing girls’ drinks and people getting off in the corner and being forever unable to hear what any of your friends are saying.

‘Sick beats? What is this guy…’ you think to yourself.

“Hey, I’ll buy the next round, yeah?” you ask rhetorically, diverting the topic of going someplace else and slipping away from his hold as you go back to the bar to order, the queue which to your relief has become a vast one. At least in this waiting situation, something interesting will happen at the end and your patience will pay off. Probably you’ll look back on this moment as the highlight of the night.

***

“Thank you! You guys have been awesome! Good night!”

The last few chords and cymbal crashes are rung out to put an end to a brilliant evening of music eliciting once more the roars of applause and appreciation from the pub’s punters.

You’re now sitting at the bar with your date, engaging in conversation…

...Not.

So actually, you’re just sitting on the stool next to this guy, a leg which is crossed over the other swinging back and forth repeatedly whilst you hold your almost empty glass. The applause dies down once the crowd gather the band won’t be coming back for yet another encore - they already did about six extra songs in total - and the room goes back into an agglomeration of chatter and clinking of glasses.

Forever the try hard type, a part of you wants to try just one more time tonight, and forever the self-deprecating type, you begin to doubt whether you gave this guy enough of a chance or not or that perhaps it’s you not sparking enough conversation. Deep down, you kind of realise you have indeed made more than enough of an effort and played your full hand in topics only to be dismissed from most of them… but the doubt about yourself is there nonetheless.

‘Fuck it, another round’ you think to yourself.

“Excuse me!” you call out to the bartender.

“Same again for us two please!” you grin, leaning back on your stool ever slightly, lazily handing over another £10.

‘Right. Here goes. Try again.’

“So the band was on fire tonight weren’t they?” you smile to your date.

“Yeah, I suppose they were” he replies, his voice faltering a little. You can’t quite tell if or not the uncertainty in this voice is because he just finished the last sip of his drink and perhaps didn’t allow himself enough time to let it go down.

You’re quite sure now that sitting around just drinking and listening to some band all evening might not have been part of his plan; it seems this band tonight were kind of a last minute booking or maybe your date didn’t think the music would go on for so long… or something or other.

“So what kind of music do you like?” you pose, really hoping he doesn’t say anymore things that are deal breakers. You might just lose your shit and be known as that one loony girl at the pub who stormed out on her first date because the bloke she was sat with didn’t like the same music as her…

“Oh, you know, anything with a good beat, really. ‘Bit of drum and bass. Stuff that really gets the party going” he replies.

You could just facepalm right here and now if it weren’t for the two drinks you are thankful to be slid your way… So basically, he likes anything he hears in the club. Wow. Very interesting(!)

Alright, so maybe there’s something else you can talk about. There must be some common ground somewhere here, right?

“Uh, I’m just gonna nip to the men’s room… I’ll be right back” he mutters, not even allowing you the chance to reply to him.

As your date makes his way through and disappears in the crowd, you find yourself in a bit of a trance, half trying to think of something to talk about when your date returns, half contemplating standing him up and leaving.

“Sorry? Excuse me?” speaks a voice, taking you away from your thoughts “Sorry, could I just squeeze in here please?” asks a girl trying to get to the bar to order.

“Oh yeah, of course, sorry love” you reply, dismounting the stool, dragging it away a little to make room, then reaching over to the two drinks to pull them over to your new spot. You stumble a little from the lack of space to move about in and accidentally tread on someone’s shoe.

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry” you apologise as you turn around to face the stranger whose toes you just squashed. Trying to keep hold of the stool behind you, a hand behind your back remains clutched onto one of the back bars of it and it suddenly doubles up as something to lean on as you feel yourself going weak at the knees at what feels like a deja vu type occurrence.

“We’ll have to stop bumping into each other like this or I’ll have to learn your name” he smiles; it’s the drummer from the band again.

His black hair is slightly damp from the energy he put into tonight’s gig yet he still manages to look radiant. Tall and broad shouldered with eyes that are a sensuous brown, you can’t help but admire the view in front of you. You could kick yourself for how clumsy you’ve been as the evening has progressed… have you really had that much to drink?

“It’s y/n” you smile, now ignoring your seat completely and coolly leaning onto the bar... only to be suddenly shaken up by the return of your date as he makes you jump.

“Hey!” he exclaims. “Goodness, people really are like vultures with the seats in this place, huh?” he questions as he observes the already occupied bar stools behind you.

“Ah, just a bottle of water please my good man” the drummer requests now having the attention of the bartender who immediately gets his order.

“On the house dude; great show tonight”

“Thank you so much” replies the drummer gratefully, then facing back to you to say goodbye. “See you around y/n… the name’s Jungkook by the way” he smiles, raising the bottle in his hand as if to say ‘cheers’ as he walks away.

“You know him?” asks your date.

“Not really no” you reply “I was just a bit clumsy and trod on his foot” you laugh nervously.

“I apologised and we got chatting…” you explain, feeling the need to justify yourself for some reason.

“Y/n, I’m not going to scold you for talking to other people” he replies, stepping closer to you.

“But if there’s something you’re not telling me…” he coos, once again giving you that unpleasant shiver down your neck.

“I can help change your mind” he says suggestively - and it does absolutely nothing for you.

Not even the slightest bit of arousal?

Nope. Nothing.

Unsure of how to respond, you excuse yourself to go to the toilets once more.

“Sorry, I guess I’ve had a lot of these drinks; I need to use the ladies again” you chuckle.

***

The band load out the last few bits of equipment into their van and stop for a break from all the heavy lifting, taking in the fresh cool air that the outdoors offers. The singer, dark brown hair wavering in front of his face in the breeze, scrambles his pockets and pulls out a pouch of tobacco and rolls himself a cigarette which immediately goes noticed by the disapproving lead guitarist, Seokjin.

“Oi, Tae, I thought you’d given that shit up” Seokjin challenges, eyebrows slightly furrowed beneath his light brown fringe.

“It’s just the last of what I had left, promise” shrugs the singer with a slightly muffled voice from the filter he holds between his teeth, earning a glance of disbelief from the other three band members.

“What?” he shrugs again, brushing his hair back with his spare hand and placing the loose tobacco in the paper. “Anyway, it was a good night; I deserve it.”

“It’s alright ‘Jin” hums the drummer tunefully, placing his almost empty water bottle on the floor to take his sweaty shirt off, revealing a handsomely muscular body. He slides open a door to the back seats of the van, rummaging for his clean shirt as he continues to talk:

“I’m sure Taehyung’s more than aware that if he starts croaking like some old frog then we’ll find a replacement…”

“Ah Jungkook, quit teasing” the singer sighs with a smirk, leaning against the door of the front passenger’s seat, lighting up his cigarette. “You guys love me really,” Taehyung continues, taking an inhale after.

“Alright, sure we do” jokes the bassist, Namjoon, hands in pockets standing opposite Taehyung and next to Seokjin.

“You do” smiles Taehyung with a confident smirk.

Gathering the pool of fabric that is yet another black shirt, the drummer takes his head out from inside the car, slams the door shut, and throws the shirt over his body and poses a question. “So, we sticking around for a drink then?” he asks, picking up his bottle of water and taking a sip from it.

“‘Fraid not mate” replies Namjoon with a sigh. “Work in the morning”

“I’ll take you back mate” offers Seokjin, fumbling in his pockets for the keys. “I wouldn’t be drinking anyway so just let me know when and we’ll set off Joon”

“What time is it?” asks the bassist, looking at his wrist and showing an expression of exasperation upon realising he must have forgotten to put a watch on before tonight’s gig.

“Almost 20 minutes to midnight” Taehyung says, already able to see the time of 11:39 on his brightly lit phone he holds in front of him as he checks his social media.

“Oh shit” mumbles Namjoon. “Might have to go sooner than we thought then mate, is that alright?”

“You staying Tae?” asks Jungkook.

“Uh, yeah, sure” the singer replies, putting his phone back in his pocket and lifting himself from the car door. “Just lemme finish this and we’ll go back in, yeah?”

“Right see you guys at rehearsal in a few days” smiles Seokjin, bringing in Jungkook for a goodbye hug.

“See you soon man” adds Namjoon, reaching out for Taehyung’s hand and the two shake hands and bring each other in for a friendly pat on the back.

The guitarist and bassist hop into the van as Taehyung flicks the cigarette butt onto the concrete and he burns it by stamping on it. A couple of beeps from the van as it drives away prompt Taehyung and Jungkook to wave goodbye and they turn their backs to head inside the pub.

Finding a spare table in the corner of the room, the two boys sit themselves on two lonely chairs positioned behind a small round table, looking onto the rest of the room.

“So a bit of dutch courage and then we take our pick of the crowd this evening ‘Kook?” asks Taehyung casually, now definitely in the mood to pull after such a dynamic gig.

“I’ve already chosen mine,” Jungkook replies matter-of-factly as he spots one girl in particular walking past them. “See that girl over there? The one in the sexy dress?” he questions, pointing over at the bar where she now stands.

“You mean the one right next to that guy who appears to be her date or boyfriend?” Taehyung conversely states.

“I want her” answers Jungkook with a fairly deep hum showing an urge to go do something about it.

“Dude what the fuck? Not gonna happen” ridicules the singer. “She’s been with that guy all evening; I could see from the stage”

“Challenge accepted” Jungkook arrogantly responds, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair as he unashamedly checks out the target of his desire.

Now usually, Jungkook would look straight at all the curves on a woman, but not this time. He watches the way the girl coyly smiles at her date and Jungkook finds it super cute; though he’s barely convinced she is flashing a genuine smile at this other dude, she still looks beautiful and charming.

“20 quid says you can’t do it” Taehyung challenges, sliding a note out of his wallet and placing it on the table, now invested in the idea of making something a little more interesting happen again since the atmosphere of the bar now seems pretty anticlimactic to what he felt on stage just 20 minutes ago

“Make it 30 and we have a deal” Jungkook counters, pulling out a 10 and a 20 from his wallet and placing those on top of Taehyung's initial bet. “I plan to treat this girl to whatever she wants tonight”

“I think this gig got to your head Kook” laughs Tae not quite believing the audacity of his friend. "I mean I know that was probably one of our best but…"

“She’s totally into me” adds Jungkook as the girl from the bar glances in his direction and flashes a friendly smile.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I’ve already spoken to her a few times… Anyway, is it a deal, or what?”

“Right then, 30 quid it is…” Taehyung agrees, sliding out an additional note from his wallet and slamming it down on top of the rest of the money to complete the sum proposed. He feels pretty confident about his side of the bet so he’s more than happy to up the ante.

Jungkook reaches out a hand to shake and Taehyung returns the gesture, taking a firm grip of the drummer’s hand and firmly shaking on it.

***

You had possibly taken a lot longer than expected in the ladies room. Partly it was that you needed to compose yourself as the alcohol was beginning to make you feel a tad dizzy but mostly it was you sitting on the loo seat in a cubicle composing a list on your phone.

Your little document didn’t have a title but the content mostly revolved around things you could possibly try to talk about and ways you could put an end to this part of the evening without seeming rude.

Family emergency…

Phone a friend to pretend to by chance be at the pub…

Ask him about his family…

Bite your tongue and ask more about the motorcycles

Grin and bear it and ask about his gym routine… but I’m still not fucking him.

“Hey sorry I took so long” you apologise, holding up your phone. “It was my mum; you know what parents can be like, even when you’re more than old enough to take care of yourself…”

Nice save y/n.

Deciding to stick this through for some bizarre reason, you pick the topics of conversation as ‘plan A’... okay it was more like plan B, C or D at this point, just in different variants of ‘plan A’ to just be yourself and talk. Maybe asking more questions about him will spark some other sort of conversation. Maybe making an effort to find out more about him is what this needs… even if the most of the first half of your date had already consisted of talking about him...

“So tell me more about this bike you’re doing up,” you begin with your best interested smile and trying to keep the conversation innocent after what was said before you made your panicked exit. “Maybe you could show me sometime” you continue, throwing yourself in the deep end a little but then wondering what is actually happening here.

‘Have I actually become that desperate that I’m forcing myself to make arrangements for another meeting with a guy I’m not even interested in?’

“Actually, it’s almost finished” replies your date with a much more confident and genuine smile than he gave you previously. “I know this great place where we could take it for a test run if you’re interested actually…”

Just as you’re about to reply, a figure comes barging between the two of you, half annoying you, half relieving you of the pressure to muster the enthusiasm to make a positive comment.

“Hey guys! Great night, huh?” booms Jungkook. “You managed to stand on anyone else’s toes yet y/n?” he grins.

“Not yet, no” you laugh.

“Good, good…” he hums, then turning his attention to the bartender. “Excuse me! 2 pints please!” he requests, pointing to one of the beer taps. “And… can I get anything for you guys?”

“Oh, you don’t have to” you tell him.

“No, I insist” he exclaims. “And another round for these two please!” to which the bartender nods.

“So I’m doing a bit of research guys… what was your favourite song this evening?”

Your date seems rather speechless which doesn’t surprise you as you could just tell from his vacant stare throughout the whole gig that he wasn’t so much as even paying the slightest bit of attention.

“My favourite song?” you ask, scanning your brain to try and pick one. “Well, I enjoyed a lot of them, so….”

And just like that, an engaging conversation is sparked. It goes from the music, to asking each other what you each do in your ordinary lives, to funny anecdotes, to current affairs in the news, and then even following on from those news stories with opinions and theories, and before you know it, you glance up at the clock behind the bar and it is already half past midnight.

Clearly, your date also takes note of the time and finally decides to speak again right in the middle of you and Jungkook laughing about the idea of what ridiculous conspiracy theories have been said about the very latest bit of breaking news.

“Oh my God, really? Some people are so ridiculous!” you laugh, unable to contain yourself, stitches forming in your ribs.

“Um, y/n, it’s probably about time we should get going…” he informs you, coming to stand next to you, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“Oh, really?” you sigh longingly. “I’m quite enjoying it here.”

“Well, it’s just that I’m getting a bit tired and I thought you might want to join me for a night cap…” he suggests, slightly pulling at your arm to coerce you into putting down your drink and leaving.

“I’m not ready to leave yet” you admit with a shrug as you look at the floor unable to look your date in the eye.

“Here you go guys” you hear the bartender speak in the background followed by the sounds of full glasses being placed next to you. You look up so that you can grab and take a sip of your fresh drink.

“But we’ve been here for hours” sighs your date in a huff, clearly annoyed at the rejection.

“Yeah, but our next round just came in” Jungkook adds, helping your case to stay put.

“I’m sorry, but no one asked you” replies your date through gritted teeth.

“Woah, woah!” you exclaim, standing up in front of him, hands raised as if to calm him down or bring the peace. “There’s no need to talk to him like that…”

“There’s no need to be talking to him at all if you ask me”

“Dude what the hell?” you ask.

“Yeah, come on mate!” whines Jungkook in view of your date from behind your shoulder.

“Don’t you ‘mate’ me!” responds your date with a fit of bad temper, slamming his glass down on the table, causing some of it to splash out over the edge. You notice a couple of heads begin to turn at the sudden commotion

“You’ve clearly been lingering around here all evening just so you can oogle over my bird”

“Sorry, your bird?” you protest loudly.

Suddenly aware of the attention the volume of your voice draws, so that’s only a couple more heads turning to look at the three of you, you take a deep breath and muster the courage to speak up.

“Who said I belong to you? This is a first date, a set up” you remind him.

“I said I wanted to stay. I’ve been enjoying it here tonight, and if you aren’t enjoying it as much, then I’m sorry - not my problem! I’m not going to leave just because of that.”

Taehyung, who had also been sat with you guys for the past quarter of an hour decided to chime in:

“Come on mate, maybe it’s time you should go” he suggests placing a hand on your date’s shoulder in attempt to calmly escort him out

“Who the fuck asked you either?” bellows your date, aggressively shrugging Taehyung off his shoulder.

“No one asked him, but I agree with what he has to say” you defend now positioning yourself between him and Tae. “Maybe it is time you should go. This clearly isn’t working out.”

Your date approaches Jungkook and goes face to face with him. If most of the pub were watching the scene unravelling before, every single person is watching now.

“This is all your fault, this” you date tells him in a threatening manner.

“Oh yeah?” challenges Jungkook, pushing his neck upwards towards your date so that they are practically butting heads. “And I don’t suppose it has anything to do with how bored this poor girl has been looking for a good portion of the evening or how you’re so desperately trying to get into her pants when clearly, she’s having none of it? Yeah, I know your type; you’re a creep only in it for the fuck…”

“So what if I am?”

The audacity of this comment from your date outrages you.

“Wow” you remark.

“Oh shut up!” he bellows, turning to face you once again. “We both know I could give you the time of your life if you went with me… what’s he got, eh?” he questions, placing both hands on your waist, making you feel super uncomfortable.

You push the creep off you and back away a step or two and towards Jungkook.

“You know, at least Jungkook was asking me about myself which was quite the refresher from talking to you! Do you really think you were winning me over with talks about how you go to the gym and how you ride about the county on some shitty bike?”

“Well maybe it’s just that you’re a frigid cow then”

“Oi! Oi!” yells Jungkook, pushing your - well, he’s not your date anymore, so - pushing this idiot away. The guy pushes him back and it briefly goes back and forth like this until Taehyung decides to pull his friend away, seemingly surprised at himself for being able to have the strength to do so.

“Oh my God! Just stop!” you demand. “Did you not for one moment consider that I might have just not been that into you?” you question, addressing the jerk who just described you in such a horrible way.

That really riled you up, you know. You refuse to be spoken to in such a demeaning way just because some dude couldn’t get his rock off with you. This won’t do. You know you’re not the problem here. Yet you feel the need to prove a point...

“Besides, would a frigid cow do this…?” you ask, pulling in Jungkook by the arm and swinging him in towards you lips crashing together.

You throw your arms around him as he eases into the intense kiss by putting his hands on your waist which, by the way, feels much nicer than when the other guy put his hands on you, and the entire crowd that was watching this movie-like scene cheer.

You can feel Jungkook positively responding to the kiss as he smiles into it so you milk it by running your fingers through his hair as he pulls you in closer. Your hands trail down to his shoulders and you take in how strong they feel giving you a great sense of security in the kiss… plus you go weak at the knees at how amazing the kiss feels; how amazing he feels as you bask in his warmth.

Jungkook’s lips are divine. He tastes like the drink he just had, yet the softness of his lips gave almost a honey like flavour, delicious to savour. You relish the way his tongue runs along your loose lips requesting entrance and you see stars as just a kiss progresses into a small make out. You have to try with all your might to pull away from him so as to not create a sickly public display of affection for the onlookers.

“Yeah, well whatever” shrugs the losing man as you glance over at him with a look that says ‘this argument is finished’ Attempting to give off an unbothered appearance, as if his ego hasn’t been dampened, he wanders to the other end of the bar and towards the first lone girl he can see.

At this point, many people have returned to chatting with the people at their own tables, low conversation stirring and restoring some of the usual ambience one would ordinarily find in a pub… the difference right now being that you’re quite certain they’re all talking about you, Jungkook and your jerk date.

For a few seconds, you watch this guy initiate conversation with her and those who are paying attention are humoured by the sight of the girl slapping him across the face and walking away, causing some to jeer ‘wahey!’

Out of sight, out of mind, you feel much calmer now as you see the guy walk out of the door.

“So, was that just for show or… can I interest you in coming to our next gig?” Jungkook questions, walking around you so that he stands in front of you.

“I’ll be a pleasure” you smile, heart fluttering at the sight of this handsome man. “Thank you”

______________________

tbh I’m not too happy with myself for how long it ended up being before the so called juicy bit but I figured it would be a wasted effort to not post it so if you got to the bottom of this post, I thank you so much for your time to read my 7.1k words of trash :P

Fiction Masterlist

#jungkook #jungkook fiction #jungkook imagines #jungkook scenarios #bts #bts fiction #bts imagines #bts scenarios #jeon jungkook #bts jungkook #jungkook fic #bts fic #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #bts fanfiction

121 notes · View notes

chain-unchained · 4 years

Text

December 17

The rustic twang of country guitar played over the jukebox in the Saloon. Sundays were far from the busiest days for the establishment, but there was always a handful of regulars that would come by, and someone would always plonk a few coins into the machine. The music was never loud enough to make conversation difficult; it was just there as background ambience.

It was a familiar song to Ashe as he stepped in through the door. By this point he’d visited so many times that he knew just about every track on the old machine. And this was one that he remembered fondly; he would often listen to it with his mother. Before the illness.

“Hey, there you are!”

Emily’s smile was a mile wide as she hastened around the counter to greet him. “It’s been forever since you stopped by.”

“Emily!” The hug they shared was mutual. “Sorry, just—I’ve been so busy.”

“No need to apologize. I’m just happy to see you again.” She held him back at arm’s length to study him with a critical eye. “You doing okay now?”

“Ah—” His cheeks flushed, and he looked anywhere but at her. “Yeah. I’m better. Definitely better.”

The smile was half-forced, half-genuine, and 100% embarrassed. It felt so awkward, having so many people ask him how he was doing these last few days. The same kind of awkwardness as standing there while people sang happy birthday.

“I’m glad to hear that. Don’t start pushing yourself too hard again, okay?” She gave his shoulders a squeeze. “You’ve got people you can talk to.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Good.” With another smile she let him go. “Well then, let me show you to the back. Shane’s waiting for you.”

The blush deepened. “He is? Am I late or something?”

“No no. He just got here early. Right this way.”

She led Ashe through the short swinging saloon doors to the left of the room. His heart began to flutter in his chest; it wasn’t their first date, but… this felt different to the gridball game. He didn’t know what to expect.

They made their way down the hall and to the private dining room. A ‘reserved’ sign hung from the hook in the center of the door, which sat slightly ajar. A different song was playing through the crack; it was softer, melodic.

‘Oh no—was I supposed to dress fancier?’

A nervous thought raced through Ashe’s mind as they drew near. The music sounded almost classical, and he couldn’t help but feel like maybe he should have dressed up a bit more.

“Hey, Emily?”

She stopped and turned back to him. “Yeah?”

“Um, is my outfit okay?”

“Hmm…” She observed him again. “Do a little spin for me.”

He did, the anxiety rising at the unreadable expression on her face. It wasn’t like he’d come here in his farming best— dark-washed bootcut jeans, his lavender turtleneck beneath a white sleeveless vest, his good boots—but the insecurity was there. He couldn’t help but doubt.

After a moment, Emily’s face split into another smile. “Very cute—Shane’s going to go crazy.”

“Really?” Ashe’s face lit up at the praise and prediction both. It was a relief for a worry that he knew was unfounded. “Whew… Thank you~”

“Hey, there’s that sunshine smile! I was getting worried I wouldn’t get to see it before winter ends.”

The private room was small, and quaint, styled much the same as the bar area. Paintings decorated the walls, and one of Emily’s own hand-woven rugs adorned the floor, upon which an aged oak table rested. The music was coming from a smaller radio resting atop a matching end table in the corner; candle wall sconces cast a warm and gentle glow upon the red hues of wood and fabric both.

Shane was already there, of course—and Ashe’s face turned several shades of tomato red as his eyes fell upon him. Though his back was to the door, it was clear that he’d cleaned up for tonight. His hair, which he’d been letting grow out, was freshly washed and styled; he wore a well-fitted, plain dark sweater tucked into new jeans, with a black leather belt. He turned his head in response to the door opening—he’d even gone so far as to shave.

“Hey, you made it…”

His own voice trailed off as his eyes fell on Ashe, and there was a moment of silence as they both just stared at each other, somewhat slack-jawed.

“Wow,” Emily looked between the two of them, “you really are made for each other. I’ll go and grab some menus and some drinks to get you started.”

She traipsed out, shutting the door quietly behind her. Shane cleared his throat, his face nearly as red as Ashe’s at that point.

“You, uh… you look good, chickadee.”

“Th-thanks.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Ashe shyly added, “you do too.”

Shane grinned self-consciously. “Heh, you think so? Kinda feels like my gut’s gonna bust through this sweater…”

Ashe tip-toed closer until he was completely leaning against him, and his voice trailed off. “You look amazing,” the farmer mumbled, his face hidden in the fabric of Shane’s chest. “I can’t handle it.”

That was enough to silence Shane’s self-doubt—or at least keep him from vocalizing it further. “Yoba, you’re too cute.” He took the opportunity to steal both a hug and a kiss from his boyfriend, lingering perhaps a bit longer thank he intended to upon his lips. “So… d’you wanna sit down?”

“Y-Yes, please.”

It was with only minor reluctance that Shane stepped away from him to pull one of the chairs out from the table. He gestured for Ashe to sit, and pushed the chair back into place when he did. All the while, he had to fight to keep his hands from shaking. It had been at least a decade since he’d been on a fancy dinner date like this before, let alone with someone he cared so deeply about. He wanted it to be perfect.

By the time he’d taken his own seat opposite Ashe, Emily had returned with glasses of ice water—lemon slices included—and two menus. “Here you go,” she said with another smile. “Take your time, and press the buzzer when you’re ready to order.”

“Thanks, Emily.”

She dipped back out the door again, and for a moment there was silence as they both skimmed the menu. “Order whatever you want,” Shane said, glancing up to see the conflicted look on Ashe’s face. “Don’t worry about prices. It’s my treat.”

“But—”

“No buts.” He grinned. “I can afford to splurge on my favorite dweeb every now and then.”

Ashe hid his blushing pout behind the menu. It was hard to focus on choosing, because every few seconds he couldn’t help peeking over the top to get another look at Shane.

“… What?” Shane caught him staring. “Did I nick myself when I was shaving or something?”

“N-No no—It’s just—” He hid behind the menu again, face redder than it had been before. “I-I never realized how good you look with long hair. Sorry, I’ll stop.”

Now it was Shane’s turn to become a tomato head. “Bud, you’re gonna give me an ego with all these compliments.” He looked through the menu a bit more. To be honest, he was in the mood for pizza, but he wanted to impress Ashe—

“Would you judge me if I said I wanted pizza?”

He lowered the menu to look at him again. There was a meek sort of grin on the farmer’s face, which he was quick to hide once more behind his own.

“Nevermind, I’ll—pick something else.”

“Actually, I was literally just thinking the same thing.” Shane dropped the menu onto the table. “Do you just wanna order a large and split it?”

“Oh my Yoba, yes please.”

So much for a romantic dinner. Shane’s expectations went out the door, and with them the hesitant awkwardness that hung in the air. It was like they both settled back into their skins, and once the 16-inch pie was on the table they dug in. No forks, no plates, just greasy slices in hand and a couple of paper napkins.

“Ahh, I’m in heaven~” Ashe practically melted into his chair. “Sssooo good…”

“Yeah, it’s been awhile since I had one of his pizzas.” A long strand of cheese stretched out from Shane’s mouth to the slice he’d taken a bite from. The sign of a quality cheese pie. “This cheese didn’t come from Hanako, did it?” He joked.

“I wish it did! She’s still just a baby though. I was kind of thinking I might see about getting a full-grown cow in the meantime—sometimes I worry that she’s lonely, being in that big barn all by herself at night.”

“What about Silva?”

“Oh, well… Silva kind of picks on her a bit. I had Robin build her a stable.”

Shane sighed. “Bugaboo, I’m not gonna lie—that horse scares me.”

“I’m not giving her up.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest that—” even though he really thought that was the best idea, “—I just want you to be extra careful with her. Please.”

The plea made Ashe deflate a bit. He picked up a strand of cheese that had fallen and nibbled on it before answering. “I will. Don’t worry, I haven’t tried to ride her yet. And I still really believe that she wouldn’t ever actually hurt me.”

“I sure hope that’s the case.”

Shane helped himself to another slice, hesitating only briefly in contemplation—it was going to be more calories to burn in the gym later—and taking a bite when he decided it was worth it.

After a minute, Ashe spoke again. “I, uh… I saw Dr. Vance yesterday.”

“Oh, that’s why you were gone. I was wondering.” Shane licked a bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have to answer, but how’d it go?”

“It went… good.” The farmer began to gently rock back and forth in his chair. “A lot of talking. It was harder than I thought it would be.”

Shane could see that he was getting nervous. Wiping his hand on one of the napkins, he held it out to Ashe across the table; after a moment, Ashe took hold of it. “Yeah, it can be like that sometimes. But it’ll get better. Might not ever be easy, but better.”

“I hope so.” The warmth of Shane’s hand was comforting, and the rocking ceased after a minute. Ashe even managed to smile as he added, “I’m getting really tired of crying my eyes out already.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s part of the process.”

“Did you cry?”

“Oh yeah. More than I’m comfortable admitting, honestly.” He laughed. “So yeah, don’t feel bad about it. It’s different for everyone, and some of us just gotta cry before we can start moving on.”

“Yeah… I guess so.” Ashe shifted in his seat. “… I know I’m the one who brought it up, but… can we talk about something else?”

“Of course. Uhhh…” A stream of air blew past Shane’s lips as he fished around for a different topic. Of course now of all times he was drawing a blank.

“You still haven’t told me what you want for Christmas.”

Shit, that was the one he was hoping to avoid. “Cos I don’t want anything. I’ve already got all that I could ask for.”

“Shane,” Ashe leaned forward a bit, a very serious expression on his face, “I’m gonna get you something. It might as well be something you actually want.”

“Oh! Shit, that reminds me. Would it be okay if Jas hung out at the farm with you tomorrow?”

Ashe blinked. “Uh—of course. Why?”

“Because me and Marnie are gonna get some shopping done in Zuzu. And both Penny and Jodi are gonna be busy, and I feel bad for all the times they babysit her already. We’ll pay you for it, of course.”

“Oh, nonono you won’t.” He shook his head.

“You sure?”

“Yes I’m sure. Use that money to get Jas an extra present.”

“Bud, believe me, she’s gonna have more presents than she knows what to do with.” Shane wiped his hands on his napkin again and took a sip of lemon water. “What about you? You haven’t told me what you want.”

Ashe went quiet. The truth was, what he wanted more than anything was something that he knew he could never get back. But… well, there was one other thing…

“I just don’t want to be alone. That… That’s all…”

This time Shane gently took hold of both hands. “Who says you will be? The Feast lasts all day, and you can hang out at the ranch with us after. Okay? Don’t even worry about that.”

“I-I’ll try.” Ashe drew a shuddering breath. The emotions had utterly blindsided him, but at least he’d managed to keep from crying… again. But he was going to end up with whiplash with how all over the place his emotions were.

“You know, there’s gonna be a big countdown in Zuzu on New Years’ Eve. Would you feel up to going?”

“… Y-Yeah.” He managed a small smile. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

7 notes · View notes

lyssismagical · 4 years

Text

being alive

A Memoir Written For Class

TW: Depression, Dissociation, Graphic Depictions of Mental Illness

It’s 2:07am.

I’m sitting on the kitchen floor, tiles cold under me, eyes staring blankly at the reflective surface of the fridge, a blurry reflection staring back. There’s an empty glass by my feet, bare and goosebumped from the winter air. The tiles are blurred too, but there’s no tears in my eyes, everything always feels out of focus like I’m wearing a pair of glasses with the wrong prescription.

I stared at the girl in the silver reflection. Still a child, but far from it if you count the decades of pain stored in tired eyes.

She looked about as messy as I feel. A half-assed bun of probably greasy hair from having gone one too many days without a shower, strands of hair in every direction. Pimples on a pale face like mountains on a landscape. Picked at scabs leaving marks of dried blood. Dark circles beneath her eyes like someone has stepped all over her, leaving behind dark shoeprints and sunken skin. An emptiness behind dark eyes like an abyss hiding too much underneath for someone so young.

Her hands are shaking, just barely noticeably so.

This is dissociation, she says to me in the reflection, this is the answer to that question you’ve been asking yourself.

And I stare back at her, this reflection of a girl I don’t recognize, a person I don’t know, a pair of eyes, a window to the soul that isn’t mine.

I don’t know what to tell her.

Go to bed, she says, voice so far away.

She morphs into the girl I do know. The ten-year-old me with flowers in her hair and smile curving up her cheeks, eyes sparklingly bright. Skin endlessly clear with little freckles sprinkled over her nose and cheekbones, smile lines crinkling the corners of her eyes. She looks like the version of me I last remember seeing the world clearly as. She’s so wide-eyed and innocent to the world of truths she’ll face soon enough. She doesn’t need to think twice, doesn’t dwell on mistakes, doesn’t overanalyse every little word or action, doesn’t need extra motivation to crawl out of bed in the morning, doesn’t need to put effort into things like breathing or being in the simplest form. She laughs, clear and bell-like, so easy, so simple, for her. Sees the world as something beautiful still, picks dandelions and wears them in her hair with skirts down to her ankles and hair braided down her spine, dancing through fields of grass and giggling into the endless nights when it was a mystery to stay up so late.

I feel like I’ve let her down.

She would be upset to hear of who she’s become, who I am, if she knew, maybe things would be different, maybe there would’ve been a chance for a different outcome, a new scenario, a version of life where I didn’t exist and in my place, some version of that old me would be there.

She wouldn’t be sitting on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night, apologizing to a younger version of herself, world blurring and mind wandering far and wide to the darkest corners of the universe. She wouldn’t sit here like this.

I wonder what she would say to me.

Find the little joys, I think she’d say, focus on the parts you can, you can do anything, I believe in you.

But I don’t think it changes anything.

Why did you start to care? She’d ask, small and young and powerfully innocent in comparison. Why did you change to please others? Why did you stop listening to me? Why did you break our promise to stay young and sweet and wonderful forever? Why did you grow up? What changed?

I don’t think that changes anything either. It’s not like I can tell her the answers. She won’t ever know.

The refrigerator hums as though it understands just as well and the reflection blurs away.

It feels like I’ve had too much to drink.

This floaty, untethered, disconnected feeling is like being drunk except it’s not the warm, giggling, sleepy floating that comes with drinking, this is cold and quiet in a way that’s simply wrong.

Feeling drunk goes farther than just the floating. I’m forgetful to a scary extent. I lose trains of thought more often than I finish them, if I don’t write a to do list every day, things won’t be done, if I’m not reminded, I won’t eat or drink or shower. It’s a part that goes hand-in-hand with the dissociating, the forgetfulness.

I almost forget my old therapist’s name, sitting on the kitchen floor, spacing out.

Craig.

It’s a weird thing to be upset over. I panic for a few moments, searching my head for anything. A pivotal moment in my life deserves a clear memory, I think.

There are little things, like I remember the only chair I sat in and the only sweater I’d wear at the appointments. I remember the window behind his desk, books stacked everywhere. I think I remember him wearing neutral-colored cardigans, but even that’s a little spotty.

I remember two conversations I had with him out of the six hours I spent in that room.

One was when he was asking me questions to determine a diagnosis. He asked me if I had a history of toxic relationships. I said yes, still reeling in the aftermath of Jesse and Dakota and Zachary.

I remember telling him 27 in response to him asking if I’d done anything since the last time I’d seen him.

Craig.

I try to log it away, knowing it’s bad that I nearly couldn’t remember, but it’s fruitless. My head’s too far away to catch, I haven’t felt real and connected in years.

I feel like cough syrup, I send to my friends. It doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of the way I feel, sitting on cold tiles and staring into eyes that I can’t remember or recognize.

It’s a scene in a TV show that none of them have seen, they can’t understand. They don’t.

Okay?? They reply, confused and uncertain by what I mean and what I’m trying to do. What’s up?

I don’t reply. I’ll tell them I didn’t see the text in the morning. It’s easier than trying to remember.

Blurry.

Empty. Floating. Untethered. Blurry. Disappearing. Not Real. Fuzzy. Blurry. Gone. Blurry.

I don’t know.

Things are complicated. It’s impossible to explain exactly what it’s like to be in this headspace, to dissociate to this level for so long, it’s hard to remember how everyone else sees the world let alone being able to discern the differences.

It’s like waking up in a body that isn’t yours and trying to learn the ways of this person that doesn’t feel like you or talk like you or live like you. Every step feels like so much effort, like you have to think about every muscle in your body and concentrate to make sure they do as you want them to. Every breath is like running a marathon, reminding yourself to breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

It’s like dreaming. Everything around you is fake, nothing has consequences, you’ll wake up soon enough, you’re sure of it.

It’s like being drunk constantly.

It’s like being a ghost. Invisible, floating, untethered from the real world, on the outside looking in.

It’s just the way it is.

It’s a part of me, this blurry filter, this untethered mind, this floating soul.

It just is.

Presently, I drag myself up to my feet.

It’s 4:29am.

Another night gone.

#lyss writes #lyss needs to stfu #my memoir #tw depression #tw mental health #tw mental illness #tw dissociation

13 notes · View notes

mauserfrau · 4 years

Text

Mau's Very Silly Headcanon Post

Since I have two pieces of fiction going live this weekend and they’re both going to be late due to butting into each other XD.

I did another one here and there’s going to be some overlap, but less bodily function stuff in this one (mostly spit) (also some vague references to medical trauma).

A lot of this is small potatoes because I didn’t want to spoil anything. How Phaseleech actually works ends up being a plot point in what I have pending, so I actually can’t just come out and say what’s going on. That said, I’m sure there are people here who want to know what’s on my mind, but who don’t want to sit through 50K words with half a dozen squick warnings.

That said: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mauser_Frau

Questions welcome, about this, anything else I think about Borderlands, what exactly is in Chapter 13 of Satellite, if it’s true the one flashback actually happened to Mom...

Both

-Look, the only thing I did that’s appreciably off-canon is let them have emotions. Maybe I drove into left field with what those emotions were, but that’s really all anybody’s got to do to fix this situation. Go with the deity of your choice.

-If I was headed for a Gearbox ending, it would be for the scrapped one, not the one we got. See this and this other thing.

>>>I would still have written the twins as having something resembling a meaningful relationship regardless of whether that turned out romantic or not. As things went and are, them as a couple was something I knew how to write and my mom shipped them (no, I’m not kidding).

-I’m not going for a canon ending. Mercy, did I find a thread I could snap and take the whole sweater out.

-Both had blue siren markings when they were born; Troy’s turned red after they were separated.

--Which was a complicated mess-- they were upside-down verses each other and had several secondary adhesions, the most notable of which was Tyreen’s face to Troy’s thigh.

---Leda never 100% recovered from the emotional or physical trauma, but she put on a brave face for the last sevenish years of her life.

---Troy’s tissue loss was severe and left him with a notable pit in his upper right side.

---Tyreen also has heavy scarring running from her right armpit to her right hip. It’s not as complex, but it is very visible. Missing a fair amount of intestine compared to the average human, but this has apparently never bothered her beyond the fact that visiting the toilet when you don’t eat is not fun.

-Semi-identical twins. Have 82.5% of their genes in common. LSS, neither one is a parasite. They’re two sperm plus one egg and they didn’t divide right.

--Ms. Phaseleech* didn’t know any better. #oops

--If you get them relaxed enough, they will indeed curl up together in their “fish” position.

-Tyreen is the one who would wail first if separated from her brother when they were very small, but they don’t like being apart even as adults.

-Both very well-read, used to recite The Odyssey to congregants instead of scripture (‘cause they didn’t have any scripture).

-Good to excellent hunters. Depends what they’re hunting and if they’re together. Prefer to go barefoot if there’s no one else around.

-The circumstances surrounding Leda’s death are appreciably worse than fanon baseline to the point I don’t think I ought to leave them lying around in a Tumblr post.

-Both have wavy hair if they don’t iron the daylights out of it.

-Prefer to be on the road and around people, even if a fair amount of those people are going to end up dinner.

-Get weirdly soft-hearted around kids, especially little boys with a similar complexion to their own.

-Do they have any concept that they’re horrible people? Yes, but it’s very academic and not something that motivates them. You’d be way more likely to hear them frame themselves as hedonists, which also explains their worldview to a certain extent.

~*~

Troy

-Skinnier than most other Troys. You could put him in a room with every fandom Troy and sort them by muscle mass, you’d find him at the bottom end, partying like this was an accomplishment.

-Has an X-linked connective tissue disorder which is more extensive than he lets on. He really should not do about 90% of the stunts he does because of the vascular involvement.

-Made a categorical decision to treat the associated pain with a lot of cannabis and massage. Has a distinct resin and honey body butter smell because of this.

--Also, if you get him off-hours, there’s going to be a fair amount of “but why are we here, man?” discussion.

-Has a kink in his upper back. His spine tilts to his right. Not super noticeable, but if you were on massage duty, you’d realize something felt out of place.

-Used to get catastrophic nosebleeds, though these have lessened in frequency and severity over the years.

-After a certain point, has a permanent latching socket port installed on his right side, allowing him to switch arms out as he likes.

--Because he has a selection of eccentric ones. What? It’s a challenge to learn to use non-human aspects like claws or feathers or forty joints in a tentacle.

--Still flounces around without one if nobody of consequence is watching and generally won’t sleep with one in.

-The insides of his ear gauges are messy and don’t even get him started on changing the jewelry on any, erm, other piercings he might have. (Nipples and one off-center PA. That was QUITE enough after what it took for his tattoos to cooperate.)

-Will frame any illness or off-day as a migraine, which he does get.

-Had really bad teeth before his mouth mods. After that, has none of his natural teeth remaining. Primarily uses his exceptional bite radius to annoy others, show off, eat sandwiches in a disturbing fashion and do unspeakable things in bed. They’re for show. They’re not functional in any serious way.

-Doesn’t have great control of said mouth mods in the heat of passion or if you get him laughing hard enough. Hope you like spit!

-Still has rather heinous-looking feet, but he’s concerned about losing his calluses if he has them fixed. You’d be more likely to see him open on an operating table than barefoot in public.

-Always wants to be the little spoon. You’re a tink? You’re a third his size? So what. He wants to be the little spoon. Just give in.

-Genuinely likes tea, especially flower-based tea. Favorite foods include grits, polenta, tamales, campfire beefy rice, beef and broccoli layered onto somebody else’s leftover noodles, beef curry, beef sandwiches soaked in jus, steak tips on day-old fries and look just give him a sloppy plate of starch and dead cow if you need him to shut up.

-Drinks vodka so cold and over-filtered it tastes like water, then follows it up with extra greasy, burnt-to-hell texas toast while talking about his mother.

-Lactose intolerant. Please do not feed the rat child pizza. Or chipped beef on toast. No, not even if he begs.

~*~

Tyreen

-Abnormally acute senses, especially hearing/smell and including a form of intuition which targets where things she can leech exist nearby. She’s only aware of any of this in the context of it being different from how Troy’s senses work. She knows where to get food. Don’t most people?

-Doesn’t perceive herself as 100% human. The Leech is part of her and she likes herself. Mama said she was perfect. The details are whatever. You got a problem here? Well, that’s easy to fix…

-Would have been sorted as a tomboy growing up, but had no companions to do so. As is, prefers the company of masculine individuals, loves showing people up in a boyish fashion and is absolutely going to tune you out if you start talking to her about the topic.

-Reeks. You might smell something “off” with her around in a meeting room, but get her sweaty or worked up and forget it. It’s not even a human smell. Petrichor and spray paint, menstrual blood and chlorine, dead leaves and solvent. It’s chemical, it’s uncannily biological. It’s really not OK. She can’t smell it and Troy’s used to it.

-Doesn’t shave. Has fluffy armpits that don’t match her dye job and a rather spectacular bush that extends onto her upper thighs. Does pluck here brows and the witch hairs on her chin, but otherwise, you know what, nah.

-Heavily tattooed, but this is limited to her torso. The viewing of said tattoos, as well as her scars, is a ritual in her particular CoV.

--Not that she cares about being naked. A body is a body. You people are so uptight.

-Will reflexively guard her lower stomach before anything else and sometimes in error. Do not call her on this. You will piss her off.

-Has an eye-shaped siren marking, but it’s on her left shoulder blade and she tends to forget it’s there. More aware of the “pointer mark” underneath her navel.

-Poor tolerance for any drugs.

-Can only ingest salt, sucrose and 80 proof or better clear alcohol without retching.

--Which is to say she doesn’t eat “people food”.

--Fatty or high-fiber foods tend to make her ill faster. She could possibly keep tofu or chicken breast down for an hour or more, but it’s still not going to end well.

--Can and does eat cinder toffee because it’s one of the few things she can chew and digest. Konpeito is nice too, but sometimes the dye upsets her stomach.

--Milk, maybe. Human works better.

-Enjoys swimming or long baths.

-Ambidextrous. Was either born that way or picked up doing certain things left-handed because that’s what her brother had to work with and she had to show him how to do stuff somehow.

-Good with a forearm-mounted crossbow. Either hand is fine.

-Used to drool precipitously when she leeched something “good”. Mostly has a handle on this by the time the CoV gets to be a thing. Mostly.

-Deeply immature love language which might include her actually asking to play with her prospective partner and a good bit of bullying.

-SHE IS NOT SHY ABOUT HER NEEDS AND KINKS. THE HELL WITH YOU. YOU’RE MAKING SOMETHING OUT OF NOTHING. HOW DARE YOU. DO YOU WANT TO BE SKAG BAIT ON THE NEXT LIVESCREAM. UGH. #nottsundereatall

~*~

* The Leech IDed herself as, erm, herself in some stuff I’m not sure I’ll ever post but ANYWAY.

#borderlands 3 #headcanon post #calypso twins #troy calypso #tyreen calypso

8 notes · View notes

chrysalispen · 4 years

Text

xxvii. up half-known roads

AO3 link is HERE Content warning: field medicine. That means needles and bodily fluids for those not inclined to read such things. Chapter is, as always, below the cut.

The interior of the cabin was surprisingly much larger than Ewain’s abode. There was something of it that spoke of years of hard work and improvements made over time. It wasn’t opulent, but she hadn’t expected as much. Familiar fragrances greeted Aurelia’s senses as she slipped across the threshold, lavender and chamomile and - to her surprise - the citrus sharpness of verbena. Rhaya seemed to have noticed her looking, for a humorless smile flickered across the woman’s face.

“We cannot rely on others to help us very often, so we are very self-sufficient out here,” she said, “as Vahne has told you, no doubt.”

“She did make mention once or twice,” Aurelia chuckled. She caught the worried frown on the girl’s face, tilted up to watch the two women like a little blossom searching for the sunlight, and patted her shoulder. “Vahne, if you would, I think I will need my bags back, please.”

Wordlessly the Miqitten nodded and shrugged the straps loose, passing them back in one small fist. Aurelia took them with a small smile and a word of thanks, trying to maintain some semblance of calm, even though the almost ominous quiet of the cabin had not escaped her notice. By all appearances, the only occupants of the house appeared to be Vahne and her aunt- but her tearful outburst back in Willowsbend had indicated in no uncertain terms that there must be at least one other person here.

She cast a quizzical glance at Rhaya, whose scowl had not lessened even slightly since their uneasy truce, and at length, the Keeper huntress shut her eyes and sighed.

“This way,” she said gruffly. “I’ve made a temporary lie-in space down in the root cellar.”

Aurelia would have missed the crude wooden trapdoor if she hadn’t been seeking it. It was partially obscured by the hard-packed dirt of the floor, worn smooth by years of passing feet, adorned only with a large and clearly old iron ring which was itself half-covered in grime. Rhaya knelt with a soft grunt and lifted the ring. The panels began to rise, dust shuddering out of the cracks and grooves in the wood, then fell backward to the floor with a dull thud. A ladder was propped against a set of beams that ran just under the floor, descending into near darkness- save for one weak, flickering light.

“You can come down with me, conjurer, it’s all right. I replaced the ladder just last summer.” Swinging nimble feet onto the steps, she began to descend. “The worst of the forest fires missed this place, gods only know how, but I thank them. Vahne, take the lantern, there’s a girl.”

Before she could speak it was upon her again, the weakness and nausea, combined with the foul chemical taste of ceruleum and bile and the stink of stale water. An inhuman shriek of rage and triumph. The blazing heat of unnatural fire-

A man-made crimson moon cracking to splintered pieces of metal like an egg. She felt her gorge rise.

Oh seven swiving hells, not this again…!

“Conjurer?” Rhaya’s voice, the sound of it a distant echo, as if she were shouting down a well. “Are you coming down or not?”

Aurelia’s hands trembled violently. She squeezed her eyes shut, drew one deep breath, then two, trying to dispel her panic and her frustration.

That was done, she told herself. Carteneau was done. All of it was done, and over with, and for the gods’ sake what was wrong with her? There was no need to be so afraid, it was just a bloody root cellar. Perfectly sound, and people from Eorzea to Garlemald had been building them for ages. It wasn’t going to collapse and it wasn’t going to trap her, she’d be safe as houses down there, she-

When her eyes opened again she saw that Vahne was staring at her in frank concern.

“Are you all right? Have you overtaxed yourself? I must have pushed you too much. You can have the rest of my waterskin if you-”

“No,” she rasped. A wet sigh shuddered from slack lips. “No, I’m- ….I’ll be fine. Just a bit tired, I think.”

If her smile looked as false as it felt there was no way it was fooling anyone, but neither of them chose to question it, and fighting the cold levin prickles of panic crawling up her arms, Aurelia forced herself to descend the ladder. Whatever it was that had Vahne so upset, she knew it must be down here. She had to go.

“Vahne,” she said quietly, “I’m going to need you to pass down my big black bag to me. All right? You’ll need to be careful, it’s very heavy.”

All solemnity and worry now, the girl nodded and watched as Aurelia divested herself of her largest burden and began to descend the ladder. For all that her fear-weakened grip had been tremulous in places, she managed to make it down without slipping and was able to shoulder her bag again when Vahne passed it down.

The lantern was next. Rhaya took it, then gestured with a tilt of her chin. “Over here. We keep pallets down here for sleeping in case there’s an emergency. Spent a near fortnight down here after the moon fell.”

The smell hit her first. It was one she’d encountered plenty of times before: the warm fecal stink of festering flesh, nigh-overpowering in such a close space. Aurelia coughed, lifting her forearm to press over her nose immediately and fighting to hold in the contents of her already unsettled stomach. Rhaya did the same but kept the lantern aloft in one trembling fist.

A Hyuran man lay upon the sleeping pallet, his bronzed skin greasy with a layer of sweat, cheeks rosy with color. Hectic warmth roiled in waves from his prone body as she drew near, much like the ceruleum-powered space heater in her old bedroom back in Garlemald, fighting against blizzards to keep the room comfortable. She saw filthy bandages and streaks of angry red and sweat-soaked linens.

Aurelia winced.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Two days. I sent Vahne out to gather herbs for a poultice. She came back with what you had given her but-”

“What I gave her wouldn’t have been enough to stop the spread of this infection.” Aurelia reached forward and pressed her hand gently against his brow, not that it was strictly necessary. She could already tell the poor man was running a fever and a high one at that. “I’ll need more light so I can have a look at the wound. Do you have more lanterns? I have fire shards if you can spare them.”

Rhaya tilted her chin at her, the suspicious furrow returning to her brow.

“What is it?”

“Thought Vahne said you were a healer. Can’t you just…”

“It won’t do him any good for me to use a curative spell if the sickness is still raging in his body. It would be a waste of aether.” And she hadn’t yet learned the spell that would let her simply excise the infection by magical means, though she didn’t say so aloud. Rhaya was skeptical enough of her presence as it was. “Lanterns, please. I need light. And a washbasin and fresh cloths.”

“But he-”

Rhaya stilled at the deep, cracked groan that issued forth from the man’s parted lips, whistling through them like the wind around the eaves of a house. Eyelashes fluttered, lids opened, and Aurelia found herself staring into irises the color of fresh pine needles, their sclera made glassy with pain and ill health.

“Imanie,” he whispered.

Aurelia shook her head. “Not quite, friend.”

“Where is Imanie,” he attempted to push himself up onto his elbows but collapsed against the befouled bedding with a strangled gasp. “I can’t-”

“Lay still. Vahne, darling, can you fetch a clean bowl?”

Rhaya chewed on her lip for a moment, her dark gaze traveling between Aurelia and the sick man for long moments before she set the torch in her hand upon a nearby crate.

“I’ll be back with another lantern,” she said. “And cloths and a bowl. Is there aught else?”

“If you have any spare pallets, that too will be needful. ‘Tis likely this one will need to be burnt. It’s beyond salvaging, I’m afraid- and I’ll need your help to change the bedding.” She shook her head. “All of this would be better done in the cabin, but he’s too weak to be moved up the ladder. We’ll make do as needs must. And Rhaya?”

“Yes?”

Aurelia grimaced. “Leave the door open for a while.”

She fought to control her own breathing. The air in the cellar was heavy and earthy and uncomfortably warm, and the reek of sickness combined with the crushing horror of her own memory made her want to retch. Only the knowledge that she’d put her patient at even further risk gave her the ability to power through her fear- although as the cooler air from above wafted into the room and began to dilute the smell and the close mustiness of the cellar, she began to feel a little better.

The man on the pallet barely seemed to notice her inner turmoil; he stared sightlessly at the wooden beams overhead, moaning that same name over and over like a mantra on the far edge of his own mortality. Rocking back on her heels, Aurelia reached for her gathering satchel, dug out a spare piece of hemp she sometimes used to protect herself from inhaling pollen from certain toxic plants, and tied it over her nose and mouth.

“Miss Aurelia,” Vahne’s voice echoed from her back. The Miqitten had stuck her head through the trapdoor opening and waved a wooden bowl in one small hand. “Will this work?”

It wasn’t near large enough in point of fact, but beggars could hardly be choosers. “I’ll make it work.”

“Aunt Rhaya’s looking for the spare lantern but wanted me to give you these too.” A shuffling noise, then a handful of neatly pressed hempen washcloths were dangled overhead. Aurelia quickly moved to intercept them before they fell from Vahne’s hands to the dirt floor. “Do you need me to come and help you?”

“I’m managing just fine for now, but what I need from you is to help your aunt find some extra light.”

“All right! I think I know where it is. And the extra wicks if you need that too.”

“Excellent. Thank you, dear.”

Months after her near brush with death and after her own awakening, it was still something of a marvel to be able to work with aether. To be able to draw water forth from a crystal with a thought, then to heat it with another- these were small things the “savage” Eorzeans took for granted, things which were beyond the ken of most of her people, and had for many years been beyond her own.

But try as she might she could not shake the association with the voice that had called to her in the depths of mud and fire and pain, trapped beneath tonzes of metal slowly sinking into the earth. Not quite.

A chill raced down her limbs.

(hear. feel. think)

With a bone-wracking shudder, Aurelia shoved the memory firmly into the back of her mind for further consideration. Ruminating on the source of her newfound powers wouldn’t help her, and it certainly would not help the man whose life now lay in her hands.

So thinking she reached in one satchel for the small bar of soap she kept on hand and set it alongside the bowl, then turned her attention back to the man on the pallet. Rhaya had removed whatever shirt he might have worn to examine and dress the wound as best she could, and she hadn’t done a bad job of it; Aurelia’s own healing experience made her think the woman must have had at least a basic education in field medicine if not botany. Which would make sense, if she had sent her niece into the forest to replenish her supplies.

Taking extra care not to touch the reddened skin she peeled the dressing away and grimaced at what she saw. The wound looked as though it had been partially sealed at one point, possibly through cauterization, but it had ulcerated and was slowly leaking into the bandages and the linens beneath him. Aurelia could more easily see the streaks of angry red down his arm now. She could help him, but-

“Miss Aurelia?” She looked over one shoulder to see Vahne halfway down the ladder with her prize in tow. “I found the torch. Do you want me to light it?”

“Please. And if you would, bring it over here and set it up on that crate.”

The Miqitten’s little button nose wrinkled in distaste as she ventured closer.

“...What in the hells is that stink?”

“Your friend,” Aurelia said wryly. “That is what it smells like when a wound goes bad.”

“Bad? Is… he’s not going to-”

“I’ll know more about his prognosis in a little while, I think.”

“What’s a ‘prognosis’?” Vahne asked, her little brow knitted with a frown that was for once curious rather than worried. She set a trimmed wick into the lantern and struck a match, and a third light flickered to life. “Is that bad?”

“Prognosis means how well I should wager he’ll recover from his injuries. Vahne, did your aunt seal his wound, by any chance?”

“What? Oh, yes. He was bleeding everywhere when Aunt Rhaya and I found him. All over his strange jacket and everything. She was worried he might bleed to death and that was the only way to get it to stop.” She chewed on her lower lip. “I… should she not have done that?”

“I think you and your aunt did just fine under the circumstances,” she replied, and that was true enough. “You might want to go back upstairs with her, though.”

“What? Why?”

“This is going to be very messy.”

“Messy how?”

Another glance at Vahne’s face showed a keen interest in what her new conjurer friend was doing, rather than disgust at the blood and the offal smell. Aurelia bit back a laugh. She should have known the girl’s curiosity might overcome her distaste- she’d harbored the same kind of interest in these sorts of things herself at this age.

“I have to reopen his wound and examine it. If your aunt has cauterized it and kept it clean-”

“She has! We both have!”

“-and it went bad anyway, then there may be something stuck in his body that’s causing the problem. If that’s so, I’ll need to pull it out. Once that’s done, I’ll have to drain out all the pus, and it’s going to smell very bad in here.”

Vahne’s nose crinkled. “It already smells bad in here.”

“Well, it’s about to be much worse,” Aurelia retorted briskly, reaching for the large black bag at her side. “If you have a weak stomach at all, I’d advise that you go back upstairs.”

That small jaw went tight with determination. “You’re going to need an assistant, right? Aunt Rhaya always has me help her when she takes care of things.”

“Vahne, I don’t-”

“I’m not afraid of blood or a few bad smells,” she declared, folding her arms across her thin chest. “I’ll stay and help you.”

Aurelia’s brows lifted nearly to the folds of the kerchief on her head.

“If you stay,” she said, “I’m putting you through your paces and I will show no mercy. There’s no room in an operating theater for those who won’t work. Do you understand?” Without hesitation, the girl nodded firmly.

“All right. First order of business -- wash your hands.” She passed her the soap bar and the bowl of water. “I saw an empty bucket in that far corner. Dump the water in there when you’re done and give me back the bowl.”

While Vahne busied herself with the bowl Aurelia opened the field kit bag and reached into the outer pocket for the small set of chirurgical tools. It wasn’t enough to run a proper operating theater but it had what she required for now. She removed a scalpel, a needle and thread, tweezers, and a set of shears and set them on the crate.

“Where do I put the bowl?”

“Right down there for now.”

Vahne’s eyes flared at the sight of the metal implements. “What are those?”

“As I said -- I have to reopen the wound first.” The penlight was in the back compartment, strapped in just above the reagent and tincture bottles. “If I give this little lantern to you and tell you where to point it, will you do that for me?”

“Yes, Miss Aurelia. How do I…?”

“There’s a little button on the side. Just press it and the light will shine.”

“What- wow! ” Her young assistant tilted the device this way and that, handling it as reverently as if it were some ancient and fantastic artifact. “How does this work? Is there a crystal inside?”

Aurelia had already refilled the bowl to wash her own hands. “Magitek.”

“Magitek?” Vahne’s smile faded. She set the penlight down, frowning at it suspiciously. “...You mean like the sort of thing the Empire uses?”

“The same.”

“Why do you have magitek?”

“It’s just a light. Machina are not always used for ill. Here, dump this out.” She passed Vahne the bowl and drew out several pieces of woven hemp and a long roll of field dressing from the bag next, setting it alongside her tools, then a set of opaque gloves. “So you’ve seen airships, right? Those use magitek.”

“Imperial ships.”

“Well, yes, but also regular transports for flight.” Aurelia shook her head. “Never mind. I need the bowl back.”

Vahne set it back down on the lip of the crate and watched in silence as another handful of crystals was used to refill it, then reheat, worrying at her lower lip with her elongated canine teeth. Distracted by thoughts of what she would need to do, Aurelia paid little heed to it, setting each of the tools in the water and leaving them to heat before reaching into her bag a final time - then recalled that she had an audience.

She paused. “Vahne?”

“Hm?”

“Can you be a dear and go take that bucket outside and empty it?”

Those soft grey eyes narrowed. “You aren’t trying to make me leave, are you?”

“No, but we can’t have buckets of dirty water sitting about. Once you’ve emptied and washed it, you can bring it back.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Vahne heaved a sigh, the sort of exasperation that only young adolescents could voice in Aurelia’s personal experience, but she hauled herself to her feet and picked up the bucket, dragging it to the ladder as if it were tonzes heavier than it truly was. She could hear the girl’s grousing long after her erratically flickering tail was no longer visible over her shoulder.

There was another deep and rasping groan as the man stirred once more.

“Imanie,” he whispered hoarsely. “I have to warn them-”

She set down the syringe she’d drawn as soon as Vahne had quit the cellar and gently pressed her patient’s sternum until he lay prone once more.

“Save your strength, friend,” she said, lifting his hand and dabbing at his sweaty skin with a corner of hemp soaked in a solution of distilled spirits- not the most elegant solution to lacking an astringent cleanser, she would allow, but for the nonce it would be sterile enough for her purposes. “I need you to lay still.”

His head flopped slowly from side to side. Aurelia picked up the syringe and slipped the needlepoint into the contents of the one vial of sedative she’d drawn from her collection: a sickly greenish-tinted liquid that Vahne would definitely have found suspicious. Aurelia flicked her fingernail against the side, and depressed the plunger just enough to dislodge any air pockets. She would have to work quickly. A magitek penlight could be explained, but not a medicine that no Eorzean chirurgeon would have in their possession.

When she drew close to her patient once more his eyes opened and settled, unseeing, upon her face. They were a deep, dark brown, but even without her penlight, she could see they were dilated. His breath came in hot, uneven spurts, and his expression was twisted with terror.

“Rose,” he moaned. “Imanie.”

She slid the needle home and into the map of his veins and depressed the plunger.

“You can tell me all about her later,” the Garlean murmured, gently patting the top of his hand where she’d administered the sedative. “Sleep.”

Vahne returned only minutes after she’d cleaned the syringe and tucked it away, and had started to cut away the old bandages. To the girl’s credit she did not flinch at the man’s cracked moans when Aurelia slowly and carefully wiped the site clean, nor at his strangled cry when the chirurgeon cut into flesh with her scalpel and blood had poured over his chest to soak into the pallet linens, nor the stomach-turning smell of pus. Draining a wound was necessary and disgusting work, and a task not easily done by those with a weak constitution. But despite a series of gagging coughs, the girl stayed.

Aurelia was more impressed than she let on. There was magical healing and there was mundane field medicine, and few had the stomach for the latter. Vahne, she thought with some amusement, might not make a half-bad chirurgeon one day were she so inclined.

“You can turn off the light,” Aurelia said at length. “Well done.”

Vahne exhaled and there was the soft click of the button before the penlight went dark. Aurelia let her gaze roam over the girl’s face, eyes glassy with fatigue but as intensely focused as they had been when she started her work.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“All of this.” She set the light on the crate and tucked a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “Healing is hard work.”

“It is. But I enjoy helping people, and the world will always have need of healers.” Aurelia reached for the field dressing. “Why don’t you go ask your aunt for a stray pallet? This one will need to be burned. We can’t let him sleep in dirty bedding else the sickness will return to his hurts.”

“But-”

“I’m only going to use a bit of magic to help him along before I bandage his shoulder. You really aren’t missing anything.”

Once the girl had retreated back up the ladder steps, Aurelia drew in a deep breath and reached for the man’s shoulder. She still remembered what had happened the last time she had tried to heal someone badly hurt, but… she knew better now, what to do, and the anxiety was little more than a passing twinge as she drew from the land’s aether, channeled it through her own, and watched a soft and watery lambent glow suffuse his skin. He stirred briefly, then settled, and did not move again as she rolled the bandage over his arm and secured it. Despite her words, Aurelia wasn’t overly concerned; the man was young and looked quite healthy.

With a thoughtful frown, she turned to the small object she’d drawn from deep within his shoulder, quite close to the bone. It was a gunblade bullet, and while there was nothing about the projectile that by itself would have distinguished it from any other to her mind-

There was one more piece of cloth left next to the bowl. She used it to pick up the bullet, folded the corners of the fabric to make a pouch it couldn’t escape and tucked the object in her small satchel.

She’d have questions for him, once he awakened.

~*~

The night passed uneventfully. Rhaya had let her have a small cot that she had kept beneath Vahne’s bed, and although there was little in the way of spare bedding now it was comfortable enough. Aurelia slept through cockcrow for the first time in months and found herself sitting up and blinking as sunlight streamed through the front windows. She’d fallen asleep still in her kerchief and dalmatica, and felt rumpled and grimy.

Rhaya was waiting for her with a bowl of frumenty and grilled salted salmon and a mug of-- coffee, Aurelia thought with surprise, real coffee. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had aught but weak tea and water to drink.

“Thought you might want to break your fast before you see to your patient’s needs,” the huntress said. Her ears swiveled back, her tail flicked, and then she added: “I wanted to thank you too. And apologize for my behavior.”

“It’s quite-”

“We’re not… it isn’t that we aren’t hospitable, you know.” She was very pointedly not looking Aurelia in the eyes, turning back to the stovetop. “Gridanians don’t much see the difference between us and bandits, though. So when Vahne brought you back… well, I’ll not draw this out. Thank you for your assistance. I did what I could but it wasn’t enough.”

“You can hardly be faulted for trying to help him.” Aurelia cleared her throat, deciding to change the topic and save the other woman her blushes. “I’ll take him breakfast, but I think he should just have frumenty and some fresh water for now.”

“I’ll take it to him,” Vahne volunteered around a mouthful of salmon. “Want t’see what Miss Aurelia did to patch-”

“You’ll sit there and eat your breakfast first,” Rhaya countered. “Both of you will- unless you’d like to wash first, conjurer?”

She shook her head. “I’ll see to myself after I’ve checked on him.”

The man was awake when she descended the stairs, though it was clear he hadn’t been awake very long. His eyes drooped with fatigue but were no longer glassy, and Aurelia could see by the greasy patina of sweat that covered his skin that his fever had snapped.

“You are very lucky,” she said. “Your friends saw you were ill and the child decided to fetch help from the nearest village.”

“Who are you?” he croaked. “I thought the Keepers of the Moon didn’t like Gridanians.”

“They don’t. Sit up and I’ll feed you.”

He grimaced at the jostling of his wounded shoulder but did as she bid him, letting her tuck several pillows behind his shoulders and back. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. But I’m here because I have questions for you.” She tucked a spoonful of oats and honey in his mouth before he could answer. “Perhaps you might explain how you came by your injury.”

“Did my hosts not tell you? I was attacked in the woods-”

“I dug a gunblade bullet out of your shoulder. ‘Attacked’ is putting it lightly. You were accosted by an imperial patrol- and I do mark your accent.” He stared at her with wide, fearful eyes. “Are you part of the Ala Mhigan Resistance?”

“It wasn’t-”

Aurelia sighed. “Or did you perhaps desert your posting?”

He went very, very still, turning away from her spoon and staring at the patterns the lantern light made against the cellar beams. She paused, then set the bowl upon the crate.

“What is your name?”

“Sewell,” he said. “I swear to you upon my life, I mean them no harm.”

“Who is Imanie?” He froze, his expression suddenly not unlike that of a trapped animal. “And Rose? You were talking about them last night.”

“I can’t-”

“You can’t what?”

He swallowed, visibly, the apple in his throat bobbing up and down. “....I can’t tell you. It’s safer for all of you if you know as little as possible.”

“Will you at least tell me when or where you were shot?”

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

She set the bowl down and went to stand. He caught her wrist.

“Rhaya,” he said. “Would you- would you tell her I asked after her?”

“Since I’m about to ask her to come downstairs, you can tell her yourself,” Aurelia said tartly, and made for the ladder before he could respond.

#reborn by fire #chapter 27 #aurelia laskaris #chrysalispen writes #cw medical

10 notes · View notes

missjosie27 · 5 years

Text

Year 2 Part 5- Quidditch for the Ages

Hey, guys!

Welcome to my 5th chapter for Year 2. Spoiler Alert: it’s my first time writing a Quidditch match so I hope I did it justice.

As a warning, I do hope my readers who are Slytherin can forgive me xD But in all seriousness what happens in the story now is a backdrop for growth and understanding later. Especially for David. I do not intend for Slytherin to be the ‘evil’ house in this story. But it will take time.

Enjoy!

For the second Halloween in a row David found himself in the hospital wing, only this time it was for an injury suffered by someone else, notably his best friend.

Madam Pomfrey had appeared suspicious when he gave the explanation for what happened, which was basically that Rowan wasn’t feeling well and was exhibiting ‘flu-like’ systems. This was definitely stretching his fibbing ability, as common colds and the flu could be cured readily by most trained mediwizards and staff. But though Rowan woke up, he was still shivering heavily, multiple blankets wrapped around his body, sipping hot chocolate to warm his body. Thankfully, the head of the Hospital Wing didn’t ask too many questions, allowing him to stay for a brief period.

“I’m sorry this happened, Rowan,” David apologized in a low voice, so Madam Pomfrey couldn’t hear them. “It’s my fault.”

“D-Don’t worry about it,” the Indian preteen reassured him through chattering teeth. “We both wanted to find this vault, remember? It’s important to you.”

David rubbed his hands together and looked away. Rowan would be fine, but an unpleasant guilty sensation spread through him. Losing Jacob had already been painful enough and that had been his fault too. He didn’t want to gain back a brother but lose a friend.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, honestly, trying to redirect the feelings of shame.

“Like I g-got hit with the Knight B-Bus,” Rowan responded, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. “One made out of pure ice.”

“Madam Pomfrey will have you out of here in no time. She’s never failed anyone.”

Rowan smiled to again assure his friend he was not angry nor sore over the situation.

“I t-told you, d-don’t worry about me. I should b-be back in a day or s-so. Go out and l-learn as much as you c-can in my absence.”

The talk came to an end as Madam Pomfrey gently ushered him out, saying that her patients needed rest (though most simply needed buckets after eating too many sweets). As soon as the hospital wing doors were shut, he was surprised to see Penny standing outside. Her normally bubbly features were colored with worry and even a bit of disappointment.

“David, what happened?” she asked simply.

“Merlin’s beard, Penny, how did you know where we were?”

“You forget, I know almost everything around here. But it wasn’t exactly hard to figure out. You and Rowan didn’t show up for the feast.”

David smacked a hand in the middle of his forehead. He should have known Penny of all people would be the first to notice them gone, given that her group of friends and his were virtually synonymous. She had an eye for this sort of thing.

“I assumed you were going after the vaults again,” she continued when he didn’t respond.

“You caught me, okay?” he admitted, not bothering to lie. “Are you angry or something?”

“I’m not angry, Dave,” Penny told him, taking a few steps forward. “I was just worried and wanted to make sure two friends of mine were okay. I take it Rowan isn’t?”

“He’s fine but it’s still my fault. We found the vault door, and I became reckless. I touched it and it immediately began firing off some kind of freezing spell and one them hit Rowan. Got him here as fast as I could.”

“Well that’s good he’s okay, but wasn’t Madam Pomfrey suspicious?”

“She was, but as far as I know she didn’t alert Dumbledore or any of the other Professors. Told her he was feeling ill and left it at that.”

Penny breathed a sigh of relief.

“That’s strangely fortunate. You definitely don’t want anyone else finding out, there’s enough competition out there as it is. Especially with Merula. I keep hearing rumors about her and none of them good. They say she’s recruiting her own gang to try and find the vaults and still wants you out of the way.”

“What else is new?” David groaned. “Well, anyway, thanks for letting me know about this Penny.”

But she stopped him again as she gazed into him with those sparkling, blue eyes that reminded one of an innocent doe.

“Dave, you can’t keep doing this by yourself.”

“That’s why I have Rowan with me.”

“He’s just one person and he narrowly avoided getting seriously hurt. What if you’re next?”

The twelve year old Gryffindor wasn’t really concerned with his own safety, not in the conscious sense. He had never considered he might become injured or fall victim in the quest to find this vault. Jacob was the main focus, not him.

But then again, Penny also had a point.

“You’re right. I do need to be more careful, but I promise nothing will happen to me.”

“We both know that’s a promise you can’t keep,” she told him seriously. “I’m only asking you one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t keep me out, Dave. Next time you plan on entering a cursed vault, let me know so I can help.”

The offer was so genuine, it overrode his desire to protect her. How could one turn down Penny Haywood? Moments such as these showed why she clearly was a Hufflepuff through and through.

“Okay, Penny. I will.”

An enormous hug and an even bigger smile indicated from the blonde indicated all was well.

“Thanks, Dave! Please tell me when Rowan gets out of the hospital wing.”

Despite the warm and fuzzies from Penny, there were more questions to be asked and many more to be answered. What was inside the vault? Did it have anything to do with the vision he received when he touched the door? And what did Voldemort have to do with this?

Is this what Jacob went through when he tried to find the vaults?

Deciding he didn’t want to know the answer, suddenly realizing he was quite famished David shoved his wand back into his pocket and went to see if there was anything left to eat at the feast. Maybe Tonks had saved him a treacle tart or two.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Tension ran high within the school the next few days, but for once the reason was not due to cursed ice. The first Quidditch match of the season was coming and it featured the two biggest rivals within the interhouse competition: Gryffindor vs. Slytherin.

Anyone who knew anything about Hogwarts knew that the two houses had a history going back to the infamous duel between Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin, which eventually led to the latter of the two leaving the school. In the modern context, students of each house generally disliked each other, and it sometimes graduated to outright hatred. Throw Quidditch into the equation and that animosity often boiled over into war. The bold, brave, athletic lions versus the cunning, calculating, underhanded serpents.

David, being on one side of that rivalry, was not exactly unbiased but he didn’t particularly care. His experience with Slytherin was not a positive one thus far, the primary culprit being Merula Snyde and her constant antagonism towards him and his friends. Being a mere second year, he was not the main target of any of the older Slytherins’ ire but it seemed that no matter what he did, she would never cease in her relentless bullying and badgering. The afternoon potions class Friday prior to the match only served to fuel his own animosity towards the silver and green.

Rowan had still not been released from the hospital wing, so he was left on his own to complete the brew Snape gave them for the day. David was not unskilled in the subject but it was difficult to focus on your potion when there was a constant thorn in your side sitting at your table.

“Where’s Khanna, Grant? I still see he’s noticeably absent.” Merula taunted him through the steam of the bubbling cauldron.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” David shot back, doing his best to ignore her. She was one of only a few people capable of getting underneath his skin and to do so now would be unwise with Snape watching.

“Oh, please. It doesn’t take a genius to know you and that four eyed creatine were off searching for the vaults during the feast. He’s probably still trying to unfreeze himself in the hospital wing.”

“Well we agree one thing, Merula, you’re certainly no genius.”

The Slytherin girl ducked as Snape walked by, adding a pinch of unicorn horn to her potion before returning to her taunting.

“Full of jokes but no substance as per usual, Grant. You’ve found nothing, but I’ve been investigating the vaults myself and you wouldn’t believe what I found.”

“I’m sure it’s quite fascinating. Much like your inability to shut the hell up.”

But true to form, Merula was both stubborn and relentless.

“Khanna is gone but I’ve been working with people to locate and break the vault curse before you. Whatever is inside will belong to me, so you may as well give up now.”

So, Penny was correct in her information that Merula had her own little posse. Of course, the Hufflepuff was rarely wrong but to hear it from the Slytherin herself was more concerning. At the risk of going down the rabbit hole, David took the bait and indulged her.

“What makes you think you’re going to open the vaults before me? I bet you’re no closer than I am.”

“I’m willing to whatever it takes, Grant. That’s the difference between you and I.”

“The difference,” he said, while stirring his cauldron counterclockwise. “Is that I’m merely trying to find my brother. You on the other hand are like every other Slytherin that ever lived- selfish, deceitful, and power hungry. So stick that in your pipe and smoke it.”

Merula gave him her usual nasty leer.

“You’ll be regretting those words soon enough.”

“Or what?”

“Or else,” cut in a smooth, silky, dangerous voice. “I shall have to give both of you detention for not finishing your work on time and disrupting my class.”

Their conversation had gone on far too long, evidently, as the greasy, beaked nose of Professor Snape bore down upon them, his expression far from pleased.

“Sorry, Professor,” David apologize in an attempt at damage control. Snape was not quite as passionate a Quidditch fan as McGonagall, but he never passed up any chance to humiliate or show up the other houses. Non-Slytherins were extra careful not get on his bad side leading up to a match.

“I don’t need your sniveling excuses,” he dismissed sourly. “But what I do need is an explanation. Several ingredients from my private storeroom have been stolen in the last few days and I’ve received word you are the culprit. What do you have to say for yourself?

Dave couldn’t help but deliver a tongue in cheek response.

“And what makes you think it was me of all people?”

“Perhaps it’s in connection to your search for the cursed vaults? Or because you, like your brother, insist on testing the boundaries of this school and my patience? Whatever the reason, I have no desire to know what goes on in your warped, tiny mind. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t give you detention for the rest of the year.”

The rest of the class’s eyes were on them now, Ben looking quite afraid, while Charlie looked on apprehensively (Jae was already asleep by this point). But it wasn’t their reactions David keyed in on, rather it was Merula’s that gave everything away. Her eyes were alighted with malicious glee, a knowing smirk plastered across her face. It was then and there he knew she was the one behind this.

“I don’t know. But I would ask Merula given that she looks as though Christmas came early.”

That threw the second year Slytherin in for a loop as the malicious glee quickly evaporated into a frantic denial.

“Only someone as pathetic and desperate as you would try and pin this on me, Grant! You’re just as loony as your brother!”

Snape looked over at his pupil.

“Is this true, Miss Snyde? What credence do you give this accusation?”

“None,” she said but her response did not meet her eyes. “If I want to see him expelled it’s because he’s a disgrace and a danger to Hogwarts.”

David fully expected Snape, the most blatant in expressing favoritism towards his own house, to simply take Merula at her word and be done with it. Which is why what happened next came as a shock to everyone.

“I genuinely wish you weren’t lying.”

Merula’s eyes looked as though they might pop out of her head.

“Excuse me?!”

“As I have stated before you are an absolutely atrocious liar, especially for a Slytherin. You will stay after class to receive your punishment. The rest of you, finish up your potions, put them on my desk and get out.”

No one needed to be told twice. David, hardly believing his luck, was content to do as Snape instructed and followed the rest of the Gryffindors and Slytherins out of the door while Merula was forced to remain behind. But as he was about to head down the hallway, the preteen gave into temptation and placed himself at the edge of the stone wall close to the door. He needed to hear why he was not assigned the blame, and his rival faced the brunt of the potion master’s wrath.

“Professor,” he could hear Merula use a falsely innocent tone she only used to get out of trouble. “I don’t understand why I’m the one being punished. It was Grant, not me.”

“Save your pathetic explanations for whichever idiot among your posse has the time to listen.”

“But…I-”

“Do you really think I was blind to the fact that this was a scheme cooked up by you and your housemates? Or that when I was tipped off by that gigantic oaf Mr. Lee, I failed to notice traces of Boomslang skin on his hands? No, this was an ill-advised, foolhardy endeavor that was unworthy of even the lowliest of our house. And as such, you will come by every Friday evening to clean the storeroom you stole from until Christmas. Is that clear?”

Evidently, she did not, because Merula continued to argue.

“But Professor! You hate the Gryffindors and Grant! Why do I have to serve detention?”

“That is neither here nor there,” Snape growled, the anger increasing in his voice. “Our house prides itself on cunning and ambition. You possess the latter but not the former, Miss Snyde. Grant saw right through your attempt to frame him and the fact that he did means you didn’t even bother to cover your tracks. Consider today a test, a test that you failed.”

“But-”

“The next ‘but’ to come out of your mouth will ensure another Friday added to your lengthy detention sentence. Now, begin cleaning at once lest you continue to test my patience.”

That was all David needed to hear and the reaction was one of slight surprise and relief. Snape was punishing his own student not out of fairness but for being sloppy, which he supposed made sense. It also meant that he had time to visit Rowan later in the evening and with any luck, they’d be able to watch the Quidditch match tomorrow.

As he exited the dungeon, he came across an unsettling sight, however. Standing in the hallway, chewing some Drooble’s gum was the Slytherin girl known as Ismelda Murk, the one who had attacked Charlie on the train earlier in the year. She said nothing as he walked by, but carried a most wicked, frightening smile and never took her visible eye off him, her other eye shrouded by her shoulder length, black hair.

“Creepy,” David muttered to himself, but gave it no further thought as he made his way towards dinner. There was a Quidditch game to be played tomorrow and now more than ever did he want to beat Slytherin.

The lion did not concern itself with the schemes of snakes.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

At last the day came and the sunny, crisp November morning was pulsing with excitement. Gryffindors and Slytherins alike donned their colors- jackets, jumpers, scarves, gloves, hats, flags, banners- it had all the feel of a classic in the making featuring Hogwarts’ two biggest rivals.

It was all the more surreal for David, who grew up listening to Quidditch but had never seen a match even at the most rudimentary level. It was another activity his mum severely restricted growing up. But there were no parents here to tell him ‘no’ and little to contain his excitement. He was ready for this.

Adding to the general atmosphere was the fact that the Gryffindor Quidditch team had two new extraordinarily talented members in Charlie Weasley and Skye Parkin. True to his word, it was the skill not the broom that earned the second eldest Weasley the spot of seeker. So proud was Professor McGonagall, she ended up ordering him a new comet series for proper matches. David had only heard rumors, but anyone who witnessed Charlie play was floored by the speed, quickness, and precision he possessed. True to his humble nature, his friend never talked much about his own Quidditch abilities but retained quiet confidence. If half of those rumors were true, Gryffindor was in good hands.

The second name among the new arrivals was Skye Parkin and this one generated even more buzz than Charlie. Skye was also a second year and was from the famous Parkin family, a clan hailing from the high hills of Scotland legendary for their long line of successful Quidditch players. So prominent they were, they had even founded their own Quidditch team, the Wigtown Wanderers.

Unlike most of the old families, the Parkins did not belong to any particular house and were spread out evenly at Hogwarts spanning the centuries. Her brothers had been placed in Ravenclaw and Slytherin respectively, but Skye was the only child who had inherited her father Ethan Parkin’s Gryffindor courage. Every bit as talented as her brothers, she was placed as a chaser and excelled in the natural instincts required for the spot- passing, positioning, and speed. So anticipated was her debut that some were saying she was better than her father at the same age.

In David’s personal opinion, that was quite a lot to put on a single twelve-year-old girl but he had seen Skye in class and at the lunch table on numerous occasions. She was truly fearless and did not blink at a challenge, even from older students. Notorious for her poor grades, she was not an academic favorite among the staff, but McGonagall had given her enough tutoring to ensure her grades were adequate enough to join the team, so determined she was to win the cup.

In addition to this good news was that Rowan was finally well enough to leave the hospital wing. Though Quidditch was not his forte, David managed to convince him some fresh air and healthy competition would be good after being cooped up in a ward for three days. Not to mention Bill would also be there cheering on his brother so it provided an extra incentive.

Waking up that morning, David wasted no time in getting dressed and making sure Rowan did the same.

“Ironic. I’m usually the one trying to get you out of bed,” his best friend grunted.

“Yeah but that’s for boring stuff. This is Quidditch!”

“Remind me again, why I should care?”

In a sequel of their first day at Hogwarts, it was David’s turn to throw a pillow at Rowan.

“Because we need to be there when we kick Slytherin’s arse.”

“….”

“Also, Bill’s going to be there.”

“Coming.”

It didn’t take long for the boys to get dressed, fill up on a breakfast of sausage and eggs, then head down to the pitch where the entire student body filed in. They found their seats in the Gryffindor section alongside Bill, Jae, Ben, and a few others.

“Dave, Rowan,” Bill greeted warmly. “Good to see you both. Grab a spot.”

“We’ll be standing up most of the time anyway,” Jae told them. “If this is anything like most Quidditch matches.”

“Or if you want to see,” Ben pointed out.

“Well I’ll certainly be on the edge of my seat given this is Charlie’s first match. He’s been dreaming of this moment for years, so I know how it important it is for him. Plus, I promised Fred and George full details in my letters.”

“Fred and George?” David asked, puzzled as to who he was referring to.

“My younger twin brothers,” Bill elaborated. “Tricky little devils they are, always up to no good. Constantly driving mum crazy,” he added with a laugh. “But they’re also aspiring Quidditch players themselves. They can’t see Charlie in person but it’s the next best thing.”

“Is this really such a big deal?” Ben wondered aloud. “I mean, I know we aren’t friends with the Slytherins but still.”

A half second later, one of the bigger Slytherins from the bleachers parallel to theirs shouted “Gryffindor sucks Abraxan cock!!!” while the rest of his friends laughed hysterically, pointing and jeering.

“Does that answer your question?” Bill asked rhetorically.

“Crushing Slytherin is the only thing that matters,” David affirmed. “Personally, I wouldn’t mind rubbing it in Merula’s face if only to get her to shut up.”

“You and that girl are something else,” the eldest Weasley chuckled. “But in all seriousness, we have the best chance at the cup this year since James Potter last played for Gryffindor. Skye Parkin is quite the sensation and my brother isn’t too shabby himself.”

“He’s that good?” Rowan pipped up.

“You guys don’t know Charlie like I do. Unless dragons are involved, Quidditch is his primary passion. He was zooming around the house with a toy broom from the time he was three. Trust me, he’s very good.”

A tap on the shoulder alerted them to the presence of Penny and her group consisting of Chiara, Tonks, and Diego, all of them donning the Gryffindor red and gold for this occasion.

“Hello you courageous Gryffindors,” Tonks quipped. For this occasion she had morphed her hair into a spiky, red and yellow mullet which was quite the sight to behold.

“Hey guys!” David said cheerfully. “Glad to see you’re supporting our side today.”

“Are you kidding? No one in their right mind would support Slytherin over Gryffindor,” Penny remarked making a sour face.

“Most of our house is supporting you today. As are the Ravenclaws,” Chiara informed them.

Indeed, she was right. Though not all of them chose to wear red and gold, most of the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students were choosing to sit far from the Slytherins, who were congregating in their own little sphere.

“The Slytherins are, shall we say, not well liked among the rest of the school,” Diego shrugged. “They tend not to play fair or with honor, so I am told.”

“You’re giving them too much credit,” Penny replied to him, her normally chipper face again turning disdainful. “Slytherins almost never play fair.”

“Be that as it may, they still usually field a decent squad year after year,” Bill spoke sagely. “And they came in second last year to Ravenclaw. Titus Hammersmith is going to go the extra mile to ensure that doesn’t happen again.”

“Yeah well Titus can sit on a pin. Personally, I’m just excited to watch Skye Parkin for the first time. I’ve heard she’s amazing!”

That caught David’s attention as he gazed over at the blonde.

“I didn’t know you were such a Quidditch fan, Penny.”

“Are you kidding? I know everything there is to know about it! And the Parkins are legends. That’s another reason I’m supporting Gryffindor today. Her dad is incredible, and I know she will be too.”

David laughed before glancing over at Rowan who looked noticeably uninspired.

“Cheer up, will ya?” he said while elbowing him playfully. “Match hasn’t even started yet and you already look as bored as I do in History of Magic.”

“I’m sorry, Dave. I guess sports just aren’t really my thing, you know? I’m more of a thinking kind of person when it comes to fun.”

“Just you wait, Rowan,” Bill encouraged. “By the end of the day you’ll have an appreciation for this. Quidditch is like nothing ever experienced before.”

Just then a loud, booming voice cut across the chatter, so loud in fact, it echoed across the pitch.

“Ladies and gentlemen I’d like to welcome you all to the beginning of the 1985-86 interhouse Quidditch season! With the first of the six matchups yet to come I can guarantee a 98.7 percent chance of excitement! Especially with these two notorious rivals, Gryffindor and Slytherin!”

Peering up into the booth, David saw a burly blond boy seated next to Professor McGonagall, megaphone in hand, the Sonorus charm in full effect. The enthusiasm espoused was only matched by the look of pure joy in his face, as though talking Quidditch was just as exciting as playing it.

“Who’s that?” Ben asked aloud.

“Murphy McNully,” Bill answered straight away. “Third year in our own house. Absolute nutter when it comes to Quidditch. Don’t get him started or he’ll never stop talking.”

“Why doesn’t he just play himself?” David joked.

“Because that chair isn’t just for kicks.”

Diego handed him the binoculars and indeed Murphy was not merely seated in a common chair, rather it appeared the chair was his main method of transportation as it was coupled with wheels on each side.

“Why does he need a wheelchair?”

“No one knows,” Jae said, tossing up his yellow hoodie to keep warm. “The way I heard it, if you ask why he clams up. Just about the only thing that gets him to shut his hole.”

“Rumor it was dark magic during the war,” Tonks whispered.

The speculation ended as a sudden whoosh alerted them to the arrival of the first team from the lockers.

“And here come the Gryffindor squad!” McNully announced with gusto. “Parkin, Barrett, Blishwick, McLaggen, Weasley, and Brown. Captained by Orion Amari!”

Cheers went up from seventy five percent of the stadium with only the hisses and boos from the Slytherins spoiling the unanimity. For David, the sight was amazing as he awed at witnessing actual Quidditch players race around the pitch. The red was quite distinctive, even in the glistening sun, the seven starters flying in an impressive V formation.

Another whoosh of wind announced the arrival of the infamous opponent which Murphy wasted no time in pointing out with almost equal gusto.

“And here are the Slytherins! Radcliffe, Rowle, Rosier, Chapman, Fernsby, and Burke. Captained by Titus Hammersmith!”

The cheers and jeers reversed this time, as the boos became louder while the screams of support were largely drowned out.

“This Orion Amari bloke looks like he already got hit with a bludger,” Tonks snickered as she passed the binoculars to Chiara and Penny who also giggled.

David couldn’t deny that she had a point. Upon closer inspection, the Gryffindor captain had the face of someone who was ready to soak up sunshine at a beach, not an intense, grueling Quidditch match.

“Orion is a bit eccentric; I’ll give you that,” Bill laughed. “But looks can be deceiving, he knows the game and he knows how to get the best out of people.”

“So how come we only won a single game last year?” Rowan asked.

“He was only made captain halfway through his fourth year. Plus, they didn’t have my brother or Skye Parkin,” the eldest Weasley added with a confident smile.

The referee Madam Hooch approached the center of the pitch to release the bludgers and the snitch while simultaneously giving warning to each team.

“I don’t need to remind you I want a nice, clean game. Captains, shake hands.”

Orion and Titus did so, though the latter definitely looked like he was trying to crush the former’s hand. However, if Orion felt anything, he did not show it, his mellow expression unchanging. For the lanky, blond Slytherin, his face turned to a scowl indicating his displeasure and dislike.

Without further delay, Madam Hooch threw the quaffle into the air and the match was on.

“And there goes Slytherin in their main line of attack with the three R’s, better known as Radcliffe, Rowle, and Rosier, a top of the line chaser squad from last season who nearly set the record for the most goals in a single season with fifty seven. Rowle ducks and passes it to Rosier, dodges the bludger and flips it to Radcliffe, she shoots...!”

Thankfully, for the Gryffindors, the keeper Liam Brown punched the ball away and into the hands of Orion who headed up the field.

“Spectacular play by the Gryffindor keeper, and there was only about a 37 percent chance of a save there!” McNully continued to ramble. “And there goes Amari and my word folks, he’s broom surfing!”

Indeed, it was an impressive display of skill as Orion smoothly navigated his way past the Slytherin defense despite their attempts to knock him off his broom. But instead of taking a shot on goal, he feigned a throw, cutting back around and tossing it back to a wide open Skye Parkin, who took the quaffle and put it through the main hoop for the first points of the game.

“And there you have it, folks! Rookie sensation Skye Parkin, daughter of the world famous Ethan Parkin, with the first points of the game and of her career here at Hogwarts!” McNully shouted excitedly. “Gryffindor leads 10-0.”

David and company cheered loudly while Penny jumped up and down screaming, “I told you she was good! I told you!”

And that wasn’t the end of the scoring. Bill had proven correct about Orion and his methods. Though he was unorthodox, the sheer unpredictability of his moves meant that the Slytherin beaters were constantly missing their mark and the chasers could move with ease. Before long, he and the other Gryffindor chaser, Ruth Barrett, had scored another goal apiece, making the score 30-0 in the Lions’ favor.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?” David yelled over the noise to Rowan.

“Orion and Skye are amazing,” came the agreement.

Indeed, the fireworks only continued from there. Slytherin did manage to put a goal past Liam Brown to get on the board, but the celebration was short lived as Skye managed to punch the quaffle out of Rowle’s hand, snag it, and race single handedly towards the goal. Dodging the attempted bumps from Deanna Radcliffe, Skye slipped underneath her resurfacing on top and scored on the right-hand hoop for her second goal.

“Did you see that?! Merlin’s beard did you see that?!” McNully exclaimed. “By George what a move that was!”

It was so crafty, no one on Slytherin had any time to react. And judging by the look on Skye’s face, David knew she was loving every second of this. She was truly in her element.

The Gryffindor defense continued to remain solid throughout the game with the beaters McLaggen and Blishwick scattering Slytherin’s three Rs time and time again. But the real story was Skye, Orion, and Ruth, who as a collective were nearly impossible to stop. Seeing a live game for the first time, David began to get a grasp of what made this unit so incredible. Orion was fluid and freelance, but always aware of where his teammates were, his passing skills exemplary. Ruth Barrett was a model of efficiency, there was no aspect of her game above the others, rather she was simply consistent at everything- passing, scoring, and flying. And then there was Skye. Just twelve years old, she was running circles around the Slytherins, too fast to catch and too agile to hit with a bludger. Together, the three were making their opponents look silly. It wasn’t until the first dirty play of the game that Skye’s one weakness was exposed.

After scoring her fourth goal to make the score 90-20 in favor of the Lions, she failed to notice Hammersmith coming straight towards her whilst she celebrated.

WHAM!

“Look out folks! The Slytherin captain has just attempted to knock Parkin off her broom and into next week! That’s an obvious foul which no doubt Madam Hooch will be quick to call!”

He was on the money as the hawk eyed referee began to berate Hammersmith for the foul while Skye attempted to stop herself from careening off the pitch. Eventually she managed to hang on and right herself, flustered, but otherwise unharmed.

Boos rained down on Hammersmith, who snarled at his detractors.

“I told you they don’t fight fair,” Diego remarked.

“Crawl back to your hole, wanker!” Penny screamed down at him, causing some of the boys to raise their eyebrows.

“She really is a fan,” Jae muttered.

But she wasn’t the only one. David was yelling insults too and even Rowan got in on the act at the blatant attempt at sabotage. Some of the Gryffindors began throwing food and other objects as Madam Hooch tried to wrest the situation back under control.

Though Skye was not hurt, her teammates did not take kindly to the insult. In retaliation, Henry McLaggen crushed a bludger at Hammersmith while the penalty shot was being set up, catching him painfully in the stomach. Rowle then flew up and punched him in the back of the head while Liam Brown rushed over and caught the Slytherin with a right hook.

At this point, things were getting out of hand and Hooch was screeching her whistle for the ruckus to cease, but it was an unlikely source who stepped in to prevent an all out brawl. Orion flew down to the commotion and put himself in the middle, separating Gryffindor and Slytherin alike. David couldn’t tell what was saying but it had the desired effect as his teammates eventually backed down, as did their opponents.

“What on earth could he have said to diffuse that?” Ben asked, shocked as everyone else.

“I have no idea, but whatever it was, he deserves a medal for special services to the school,” Bill observed, grabbing the binoculars from Diego.

“Are the Slytherins always this dirty?” Rowan asked him.

“Not always. Sometimes they’re so good they don’t need to. But Hammersmith doesn’t fool around. If he can gain a psychological edge, he will.”

“I just hope Skye is okay,” Chiara said quietly for the first time.

“She better be,” Penny growled. “Or else I’m going to pay a personal visit to the Slytherin common room tonight.”

David, however, looked up at Skye and saw that not only was she fine, she was glowing. Far from being angry, she gave a laugh and took the quaffle for a penalty shot. Calm and collected, she easily punched the ball past the Slytherin keeper Jessica Burke to make the score 100-20.

“Seems fine to me,” he said aloud.

Nothing confirmed this more than what Skye did next. A confident smirk plastered across her face she rushed past Hammersmith, causing him to flinch which garnered a laugh from the crowd.

“She’s more than fine,” Tonks snickered. “She’s got the whole Slytherin team eating out the palm of her hand.”

Play resumed and with Madam Hooch on the lookout for any more shenanigans, both sides did not attempt any more roughhousing. However, the Slytherin defense seemed to double their efforts as Hammersmith and his counterpart Malcolm Chapman kept hitting bludgers furiously at the Gryffindor chasers to keep them at bay. This paid off in the end as Felix Rosier snuck a goal past Liam Brown putting the score at 100-30.

“We’re up by seventy but I’d feel better if this ended soon,” Rowan groaned.

“Are you still not enjoying yourself?”

“Are you kidding? Of course! I want to win this thing!”

David and Bill shared a knowing smile, quite pleased they had converted their friend.

“Well don’t hold your breath,” the eldest Weasley told them. “Quidditch matches can last for days if need be. No one goes home until the snitch is caught and Gryffindor’s lead isn’t large enough to make up the difference if Slytherin gets to it first.”

“They’d need to be up by one hundred and fifty points,” Penny explained to Rowan. “Personally, I could watch Skye score goals all day.”

While that was true, David had a feeling that Charlie would have to come up clutch. Lost in the hoopla of the scoring and scrappy play was the fact that the snitch had not been seen once over the course of the match. The second Weasley patrolled the skies, tailing Douglas Fernsby, the Slytherin seeker now and again but there was no luck so far.

“You think he can pull it off?” he asked Bill, who was scouring the field for his brother.

“Trust me, he can,” came the confident reply. “Once he spots that little golden ball, it’s game over.”

Suddenly, the roar of the crowd rose a few decibels as people began pointing.

“And here we go, the first attempt to end the game!” McNully boomed into the microphone. “Charlie Weasley, the promising Gryffindor seeker has gone into a full long sprint for the snitch!”

Seekers occasionally feigned going after the snitch to throw off their opponent, but this was not one of those times. From a distance, David could see that Charlie had a determined, hungry look on his face. A tiny glint of light confirmed that was indeed after the snitch and closing in fast.

“He’s going to do it! He’s going to do it!” Bill yelled over the noise, grabbing onto David in excitement. “Come on, little bro!”

The snitch was notorious quick and difficult to see, but the young Gryffindor seeker was not to be deterred. Fernsby of Slytherin was on the other side of the pitch and had no chance whatsoever. It was simply a matter of seconds.

“Look out!” someone yelled.

Out of nowhere the the Slytherin chaser, Rowle, came in like a bullet with the clear intention of knocking Charlie off his broom. But in a stunning display of broomsmanship, the Gryffindor simply slipped underneath his broom, hanging upside down as Rowle crashed into the ground. Righting himself, Charlie regained his focus, stretched out and caught the little golden ball in his right hand, ending the match.

“WE WIN!” Bill screamed to the heavens as the rest of the Gryffindors began jumping up and down like maniacs.

“And the match has ended!” McNully said hoarsely into the megaphone. “And what a stupendous display from the young Gryffindor seeker! Simply amazing I don’t think I’ve seen a move like that in all my years watching Quidditch and I’m thirteen years old! Gryffindor wins, 250-30 in the biggest route of Slytherin in fifty years!”

The commentary was soon drowned out by the increasing tidal wave of cheers and roars from the crowd. Many Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws joined in the celebration, Penny chief among them, who was almost as ecstatic as the Gryffindors.

For his part, David whooped and hollered in the celebrations, being engulfed in a tidal wave of hugs and high fives, food smuggled from the Great Hall raining down on his head. The solemn faces of the Slytherins were long forgotten as the stands began to clear out and the party headed back to the Gryffindor common room.

Victory did indeed feel good, and for a short time, it was enough to overlook any complications involving Merula, the vaults, or Slytherin in general. They could hide in the grave of Salazar himself. Fortune favored the bold.

It was time to celebrate, courtesy of two brave Gryffindors in Skye Parkin and Charlie Weasley.

17 notes · View notes

ratchetsboyfriend · 5 years

Note

If it's not too much of a bother can I have RID2015 Fixit, and TFP Ratchet, Wheeljack, Knockout, and Predaking taking care of there S/O for the day? (You can decide on a reason like illness or because they asked. Whatever is easiest for you.)

Fixit

He’s by no means a doctor, especially not a human one, but when you roll up to the scrapyard bundled up in 5 layers, shivering, coughing, and radiating enough heat to rival the sun, it’s easy to tell that something’s wrong.

He’s quick to usher you into the command center and by the time you settle yourself onto the couch he had put in for you and the other humans, he has already researched your symptoms extensively.

The best thing for you to do would be go home and rest but you’re far too stubborn to leave so he settles for making you as comfortable as he can.

Denny offers to make a run for some cold medicine and soup since Fixit can’t exactly walk into a store, and in the meantime Rusty helps him scrounge up some extra blankets and pillows and Fixit does his best to swaddle you and surround you with cushions.

He settles down next to the couch, working on his datapad with one servo while the other rubs soothing circles on your back. He shushes the other ‘bots when they get too loud so that you can rest peacefully until Denny returns, reassured by Fixit’s presence.

Ratchet

The second you walk into the base, Ratchet knows you’re sick. Please, he may not be a human doctor but he is still a medic and you can’t fool him into thinking you’re fine when you’re very clearly not.

He grumbles under his breath about how stupid it was for you to have been out and about while ill, but his touch is gentle as he lifts you up to the bed they’ve set up in the human section of the medbay.

Fortunately June had started stockpiling some medical supplies at the base and Ratchet is quick to identify which medication would help and even quicker to make sure you take it.

He’ll deny it if anyone points it out but for the rest of the day he hovers over you, glaring at anyone who might disturb you and every time you stir he immediately moves to look as if he’s busy doing something else.

It’s night by the time you finally wake up from your much needed sleep and to your surprise Ratchet volunteers to take you home. It’s late so no one is likely to notice the fact that an unmarked ambulance is driving by and you live on the outskirts of Jasper so you have few neighbors anyways. You don’t mention the fact that you could just as easily take the groundbridge home and you definitely don’t comment on the fact that Ratchet takes the scenic route. Instead you just curl up in the passenger seat and let the rumble of his engine lull you back to sleep.

Wheeljack

He’d noticed that you’d been sluggish lately, especially since you were normally far more enthusiastic whenever Wheeljack took you for a ride on the Jackhammer yet you were struggling to keep your eyes open as the two of you cruised through the skies far above Nevada.

He’s no stranger to fatigue, he’s seen plenty of ‘bots worn down by a lack of rest, so he doesn’t think twice about setting the ship on auto pilot and scooping you up with one servo.

You snap awake and protest at being manhandled but he just chuckles and points out how tired you are and he takes you to the berth in the back of the Jackhammer. There’s already blankets and pillows from a previous trip and with a tenderness most wouldn’t expect from him, Wheeljack tucks you in.

He sits on the edge of the berth, content for once with staying still and enjoying the moment as you finally drift off into sleep.

He returns to the controls and does a few more laps in the Jackhammer before he reluctantly returns to base. You’re still asleep and Wheeljack could use some rest himself so he carefully curls his body around yours and slips into recharge, one servo shielding you from the rest of the world.

Knockout

Knockout’s medical expertise is quite good but he doesn’t need training to recognize how poorly you’ve felt lately.

You’ve been running yourself ragged but fortunately for you, you’ve got a giant alien robot who won’t hesitate to snatch you away from your responsibilities for a little R&R.

First things first, you need to eat and just this once Knockout will let you eat your greasy fast food in his alt mode.

Once you’ve gotten the food, he rolls into the drive in theater so the two of you can enjoy some films together. The two of you make fun of the cheesy special effects and whenever something startles you enough to make you jump Knockout laughs and teases you relentlessly until something startles him and you start teasing him mercilessly.

Finally he takes you for a drive through the desert, silent as you stare out the window at the landscape rushing by, until you eventually nod off and he turns to take you back into town. He wakes you up when he reaches your home and you sleepily thank him for everything. You can’t see his optics at the moment but you can practically feel him wink when he purrs out that you’re welcome to play hooky with him anytime.

Predaking

He is extremely attentive so when your movements are strained and slower than they normally are he picks up on it immediately.

He promptly asks for an explanation and when you tell him that you’re sore from falling rather hard he checks you for other injuries, irked that you hadn’t told him about the fall in the first place. He may come off as harsh but he just wants to make sure that you’re safe.

He disappears briefly, returning with a variety of items to help you, and while you are curious about how he got them you decide that it’s simply better not to ask.

You had told him once before that heat could help soothe aching muscles so he cradles you against his chassis, in the hopes that his considerable warmth will provide you with some comfort.

He is far larger than you and strong enough to tear through metal, but he is also capable of being gentle, and he is gentle with you, running a single digit down your back while you doze. You lean into his touch, sighing happily as you shift and Predaking rumbles in content, pleased to have you so near.

#rid2015 #tfp #fixit #ratchet #wheeljack #knockout #predaking #transformers headcanon #transformers reader insert #transformers imagines #transformers x reader #transformers #my writing

242 notes · View notes

atsixesandcevans · 5 years

Text

Dear Jake

Summary: Numb. Everything was numb. But, at the same time, everything hurt. He needed a miracle right now. But she'd needed a miracle for so much longer. The miracle that never came.

Two weeks after Amy's death, Jake receives a letter.

Pairing: Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: angst to the MAX, I can only apologise

A/N: partly inspired by P.S. I Love You by Cecelia Ahern, but other than that I really can’t remember what was going through my head when i wrote this. Again, I can only apologise

Read on AO3

Numb.

Everything was numb.

But, at the same time, everything hurt.

He had become numb to time passing – how long had he been sat there, on the couch? Hours? Days? Weeks? He couldn’t be sure.

He was numb to the once warm sunlight pouring through the open curtains – he could almost hear her voice now, chastising him for leaving them open at night.

He wasn’t numb, however, to the all-too-familiar ache in his chest, the gaping hole in his heart that he didn’t know how to fill – okay, that was a lie. He knew exactly what would fix him. But she was gone.

He wasn’t numb to the burn in his eyes from the seemingly endless supply of tears that had now miraculously dried up – the burn was now the need, but inability to cry any more.

Miraculous. Miracle. He needed a miracle right now.

But she’d needed a miracle for so much longer. The miracle that never came.

Jake wasn’t sure how long he’d been sat like this. How long he had been alone. The hours and days had blurred together, warped increments of time punctuated only by trips to the bathroom every now and then.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. He supposed it must have been at the hospital, sat at Amy’s bedside. His mom had cooked for them, not trusting hospital meals and vending machine snacks to be wholesome enough to sustain them.

If Jake had known that that was their last meal together, he would have savoured it. He would have memorised every detail about it; the warmth in his stomach from the first home cooked meal in who knows how many days, the evening sunlight playing upon the sterile floors.

The way Amy managed to still look beautiful to him, despite the tubes extending from her body like extra limbs or the greasy shine of her unwashed hair or the paleness of her face. Her beauty didn’t seem to fade and deteriorate as she had done.

The silence of the apartment – their apartment, the one they had chosen together – meant that the noise from the streets outside appeared to be amplified, especially since Jake had emerged from his stupor. He wondered, then, how it was – how it was fair – that the world around him was still turning, still moving, still living, when his world had gone – shattered, taken away from him in the blink of an eye.

He stood and went to the bathroom, without really feeling the need to go, but instead feeling the need to move around, to do something to relieve the ache in back that he still wasn’t sure if it was connected to the ache in his chest, or the result of countless nights spent sleeping – or not sleeping, as the case had been for the vast majority of the time – on the couch.

He hadn’t been in their bedroom since he returned home. He makes the excuse to himself that he hasn’t had any real reason to go in there yet, which he tries so hard to believe, but know that deep down, it’s because he’s scared. Scared of seeing her things everywhere, each one holding a particular memory or moment from their lives. Scared of everything in there smelling of her and reminding him she’s not there. Scared of her scent eventually fading, leaving him with nothing to comfort him. Scared that, if he goes in there – if he opens the door to this time capsule of their lives, everything still the way it was when they left together for the last time – he won’t ever be able to bring himself out again.

He walks down the hall towards the kitchen, trying in vain to ignore the way the throbbing in his chest intensified ever so slightly as he passes the bedroom door.

Feeling the relief that walking brings to his back, he continues to wander aimlessly around the apartment, wishing he knew what to do with himself.

He realises, belatedly, that he also can’t remember the last time he drank anything. He could almost hear Amy’s voice telling him that he should drink more water – the imagined sentiment taking him back to that one terrible day in 2017, the day he was found guilty for the bank robbery. Then, when that wouldn’t work, imaginary Amy would tell him to please just drink something, even orange soda.

Orange soda. Even that was tainted by bad memories. Their first real fight as a couple. The mattress. The promise of commitment, of I want this. I want us.

He walked into the kitchen, searching for the cans of soda he was sure he had stashed in a cupboard somewhere. When he couldn’t find any, he tried the fridge, only to find that there was no orange soda, but was instead filled from top to bottom with various mismatched Tupperware containers, each one labelled. He wasn’t sure who had put them there – or how, for that matter – but he recognised the handwriting of his friends. Jerk Chicken written in Terry’s, Baked Ziti in Rosa’s, Chicken Noodle Soup in Gina’s – Nana’s recipe, no doubt – Meatloaf in the Captain’s and Clam Chowder in Charles’ – which, Jake realised, must have taken a lot of restraint – along with a whole host of others in the same writing, with some that he didn’t recognise.

He felt a sudden swell of affection for his friends – no, his family – and wondered how they were coping. He wasn’t the only one who loved Amy, after all. Loves. Present tense. He didn’t stop loving her as soon as she was gone. He never will stop loving her.

An hour later, Jake was back sat on the couch, a finished bowl of soup – courtesy of Gina – on the coffee table. He had no real desire to eat, but heated the soup anyway. But, as the smell filled the kitchen, Jake’s hunger made a comeback and he felt the absence of food in his stomach.

Something was playing on the TV, though it was muted, and Jake watched it without really paying any attention, looking through the faces on screen rather than at them.

Once again, he fell into a stupor, only coming back to the present when he heard something push through the letterbox and land, address-side down, with a quiet thud on the doormat that had the word Alohomora emblazoned across in in gold text.

Jake reluctantly hauled himself off the sofa, presuming the letter to be a bill or similar, something he did not want to think about right now, but was surprised to see that it was a plain white envelope, not the brown ones official letters normally come in.

When he picked it up, Jake felt the weight of the quality envelope, and no doubt the paper inside, curious as to what it might be. Just as he did so, he felt his stomach grumble, clearly unsatisfied with his earlier meal. He left the letter on the dresser by the front door and made his way to the kitchen, reasoning that the letter could wait and that if it had been urgent, they would have just called him.

Jake didn’t open the letter until two days later.

He no longer found himself in a constant daze, and managed to engage his brain and limbs just enough to move his empty dishes from the coffee table to the kitchen, finding he had significantly more energy than he had two days ago, but still not enough to do anything particularly noteworthy.

He had also managed to coax himself into the shower, reasoning that there was no way it could be healthy – or sanitary – to go this long without one. He took a clean t-shirt and sweatpants from the drier and put his dirty clothes in the washing machine ready to wash, thankful that he didn’t have to face their bedroom just yet, though he knew he would have to eventually.

He was just walking past the front door towards the kitchen with some empty dishes when he noticed the envelope, still sat on the dresser, though he struggled to remember when or how it got there.

When he did remember, and realised how long it had been sat there, he hastily put his dirty dishes with the rest – they were starting to pile up now, but he had no desire to clean them – and grabbed the letter from the side, turning it over to read the front for the first time.

What he saw there made his heart beat faster and caused him to drop it, like it was a hot coal that had burned him, and it fell to the floor.

There, on the white paper, was the perfect cursive handwriting that he had become familiar with in police reports, in Christmas cards, and at the bottom of their marriage contract; Amy’s.

With aching hands and trembling heart, Jake retrieved the letter and made his way back over to the couch, never once taking his eyes off the address written there, scared that somehow if he does, it will change and he’ll realise that it wasn’t Amy’s writing, but someone else’s.

He turned it over in his hands multiple times, battling with himself as to whether he should open it or not, not wanting to damage or tarnish one of the last this she would have touched.

Taking a deep breath, Jake slid his finger along underneath the flap and pulled out and unfolded the letter, relieved to find more of Amy’s handwriting covering the several pages within.

He took another breath, wiped his eyes that had, at some point, become blurry with unshed tears, and began to read.

Dear Jake,

He could almost hear her voice, feel her presence beside him as he read.

I know that if you are reading this, it is exactly two weeks since I… Well, you know. That.

Jake almost laughed at her avoidance of the actual words. Death. Dead. Died. Even through her illness she maintained her sense of humour, as well as her social awkwardness.

I also know what happens to you when you’re grieving. When you’re hurting. I saw it not long after we met, when your mom got sick. I saw it when Gina was hit by that bus however many years ago. And I have no doubt that it’s happening again right now.

Jake thought back to these events, and realised how much having Amy there helped him through. Her patience and undying love for him gave him strength whenever he felt weak, and she always knew exactly what to do to make things better. Or, at least, more manageable.

You probably don’t know of or realise your habits, but I do. In the same way that you have the Amy Santiago Panic Scale ™ and the Amy Santiago Drunkenness Scale ™ down to a science, I have the Jacob Peralta Grief Scale ™. If my calculations and estimations and however many other –tion words there are are correct, you’re still in phase one; complete shutdown.

Admittedly Jake had never really thought about it. Whenever he was grieving, he was able to focus on little else but that and Amy. He had never really considered the fact that it was the same every time, just as Amy’s panics and dunkennesses were, at least not to the point where she had a name for it and could actually calculate which stage he was in right now.

But, when he comes to think of it, she’s not exactly wrong. After all, two weeks had apparently passed without Jake noticing, and he found he didn’t have the energy he would usually have – though he put that down to the shock of losing his wife, his True Love, his soulmate, all of those words and phrases that are used to describe two people who are just meant to be together, who love each other with every single fibre of their being.

I know that this stage of your process is difficult. Even the simplest of tasks seem impossible, seem pointless, even, but there are things you’ve got to do. That’s why I wrote this to you. To help you and guide you through them.

Jake is suddenly overwhelmed with a wave of love and adoration for his wife, and feels a sharp pain replacing the ache that had been in his chest for the last several weeks. His eyes burn with fresh tears, the supply clearly replenished after the past few days when Jake has begun to eat and drink again. He lets the tears fall, holding the paper close to his chest so as not to get it wet and smudge the ink. Once they subside a little, Jake continues to read.

What I want you to do, right now, is eat something. I don’t know how long it would have been since you ate, but judging by how little you did when you stayed with me at the hospital, I’m sure it could have been weeks.

I also want you to drink something. Even if it’s orange soda, I just need you to be at least remotely hydrated.

Once again he is surprised by how accurately she has managed to predict his habits, remembering that the first time he ate in the past two weeks was the very same day the letter arrived.

Although the familiar pang of hunger was not present, Jake did what Amy said, but bypassed the meals in the fridge, deciding to save those, instead going to the cupboard where Amy kept a seemingly endless supply of crackers and tinned foods. We need to be prepared, Jake, she had said when he questioned her about it, in case of natural disaster or no electricity.

Jake had always admired her preparedness, and was thankful for it when, just two days later, New York was hit with the worst thunderstorm they’d had in years, and the power shut off. He was sure, as they huddled with blankets and nibbled on crackers and soup that they heated with a backup gas burner Amy had bought “for when we go camping,” that Amy sported a smug smile. That particular cupboard was now kept exclusively for emergency foods.

Jake pulled a few half-stale crackers from an almost-empty packet, poured himself a glass of water, and returned to his seat on the couch, smiling fondly at the memory.

You’ll find a ton of meals in the fridge, courtesy of our friends and families. Please make sure you eat at least two a day, if you can’t manage a full three.

You don’t have to do these right now, but I want you to do them today. First, take a shower. It’s the kind of meaningless task that is easily forgotten or bypassed, but it’s also the kind of thing that can make a world of difference to your mood.

Then, do the dishes. However many there are. The longer you leave it, the more they will stack up and the more difficult it will be to motivate yourself to do them. Same with the trash. Take it out today – god knows how long it’s been sat there – before it gets too full and the smell gets too bad.

He made a mental note to himself to do these things later, not yet able to tear himself away from her.

Finally, get some sleep. I know it must be hard, but there’s no way you’ll be able to function without it. A good night’s sleep always used to make you feel infinitely better.

Please take care of yourself, Jake. For me.

I love you, Pineapples.

Amy xx

Jake let out a shuddering breath that he didn’t realise he was holding and carefully re-folded the paper and slid it back into the envelope.

He held it to his chest, his eyes screwed tight against the onslaught of tears he can feel emerging, and whispers, “I love you too, Ames.”

#b99 #Brooklyn nine nine #b99 fanfic #Brooklyn nine nine fanfic #b99 fanfiction #Brooklyn nine nine fanfiction #jake x amy #jake peralta x amy santiago #jake peralta/amy santiago #jake/amy #peraltiago #peraltiago fanfiction #peraltiago fanfic #dear jake #beth writes #my fic

14 notes · View notes