#and that its said he was only recognized afterwards by his purple boots

[darabeatha]

/  I talked before about the paralels of the myths that surrounded king A.rthur and C.onstantine XI in a post before, but it has never crossed my mind to think about how his design could reflect this; basically tsun sent me a post on reddit where someone gave a possible explanation for the drastic change of color on C.onstantine’s outfit in his final ascension (going from black+magenta to white/marble-ish color + magenta) and the way it makes s o much sense has me y ellin g tbh-

(r.eddit post)

[eternlle]

in 1897, evelyn was killed in the bazar de la charité inferno, alongside 125 other high - society women.     it was her worst death, and the most egregious injury she ever sustained.    without a doubt,  this was the most horrific experience of her life.

under the cut for a literal short story   (1,700 words, whoops)  about that one time evelyn died in a fire.   graphic description of burning included, so read at your own risk.

evelyn wasn’t actually supposed to be in paris in may 1897.   she’d planned a trip to brussels, which had been abruptly cancelled   ;   and, despite having plans to travel to cairo at the start of the next month, she felt like resting for a while.   the plan was to visit the city for a few days, then move south, on to langeais, where she could rest in her childhood home for a while.

she stayed because of the bazaar.   it was too great an opportunity to pass up.

amidst the sea of finely dressed ladies, tiny evelyn, without a title or an overflowing purse, didn’t stand out much.   she browsed the stands of trinkets and jewelry, had her picture taken, and watched a magic show in awe.   finally, her arms laden with new purchases, she was eager to see the cinema, playing a moving picture   ---  she’d never seen one before, and her heart raced at the very thought.    it should have been a perfect day...

until flames began licking up the walls.

everything happened so fast.  later, evelyn would not be sure when the panic started, or how people realized the danger  ---  only that she did not realize it fast enough.    the first thing she heard were the screams   ---   a game, surely, it must just be a game  ---  but people were running, shouting au feu, au feu  ---   and one woman suddenly crashed through evelyn’s corner of the tent, smashing into a stall, her dress aflame.    then everyone was running, crowding towards the building’s lone exit...   and there was no way out, no way to push through the crowd.

the blaze spread like hellfire.   at once, it was everywhere, sweeping along the walls and ceilings.    the smoke was choking, and she could not escape it   ;   the band was still playing to tranquilize the crowds, but it only added more chaos.   when the lights when out, a tortured wail rose up from hundreds of dying people, and panic increased threefold.

lost in the crowd, evelyn was jostled at every side, nearly swept off her feet.   her only thought was of the exit, now so hard to find in the dark...  but when someone pushed her back, evelyn stumbled back, into a towering man in a silk waistcoat.   he threw her away roughly, slamming her into a jewelry stall. when she tried to get up, the crush of people held her down   ;   she was pinned to the floor, kicked and trampled.   a boot caught her in the head, and she saw stars.   somehow, she was able to pull herself beneath the stall...   but that was only enough to escape the crowd, not the blaze.

evelyn was too injured to try to escape, even when there was no longer a way out.   with the exit overcome by fire, all the trapped souls remaining were left to huddle like rats in darkened corners, shielding themselves beneath tables and behind stages, awaiting salvation that would never come.   through half - opened eyes, evelyn watched people flee for their lives.   women collapsed in pillars of flames mere feet away, and she could only watch, unable to offer help.     one of her legs was shattered, her hand crushed to a pulp   ;   blood dripped down her face, running into her silent scream.

without warning, insistent hands hauled her up, pulling her from beneath the stall.   evelyn emerged into smoke - filled air, unable to hold herself up on her own   ;    only when she looked back did she realize her sanctuary had caught fire, and was burning just over her head.    singed and reeling, she braced herself against the arm of her rescuer.     ( that would be her clearest memory afterwards   ---  wide blue eyes, a purple coat, a grip that would not let her collapse, and a lady’s low voice encouraging her   ---   you must keep moving!  you must!  in the name of god, don’t give up now!   evelyn never even knew her name. )

they nearly made it   ;   they nearly found a spot free of fire, where the air was thin but not choking, where they might have survived a few seconds longer.   flameless darkness was in sight, and evelyn reached for it   ---   but a sudden collapse above their heads brought down upon them a curtain of flame.   something hard struck evelyn’s back, but she could not register that pain over the burning  ---  burning suddenly, burning everywhere, agony unlike any she’d ever imagined.   her companion let out a terrible wail   ;   evelyn shoved herself away from a flailing pillar of flame, crashing backwards into a stall of mirrors.   glass shattered around her   ;   she fell in a heap, still engulfed in flames, screaming until her tongue burned in her mouth and her throat burned to a crisp.

it took too long to die.   she is not sure how quickly death came  ---  maybe minutes, maybe seconds  ---   but it was far too long.

and so, she died.

and so, she awoke.

it was very cold.  that’s the first thought that crossed evelyn’s mind.   she didn’t...  feel cold, exactly, but she didn’t feel right at all, and cold was foremost on her list of concerns.   when she opened her eyes, it was dark as well...  and an unbearable stench hung in the air.   it choked her, and she tried to gasp, but her throat exploded in agony.    for a while, that was all she could manage  ---  the gasps of a dying thing, whimpering and moaning as though the very life itself were being drained from her.

in actuality, it was the opposite.   life was flowing back into her.   evelyn’s body ached, the majority of her body raw and vulnerable, like an open wound...   but the skin was closed, flesh tender where it was healing.   she still sported burns, but they were not as severe as they should have been.    her body was unrecognizable   ;   she’d been burnt to a crisp.     now, half - healed after more than two weeks of sleep, she was like a newborn bird, vulnerable and delicate, and a funny shade of purple.

within minutes, a strange man was hovering over her   ;   his hands prodded her, forcing her to bat him away with a moan of fury.   he raised a cup of water to her lips.   she gulped the liquid eagerly, and after a few moments, was even able to hold it on her own.

the rest of the fire victims had already been buried.   a few bodies   ---   the ones too burnt to be recognizable   ---   went unclaimed, and were set to be disposed of.   instead, the young man   ---   guillaume fleurot, a mortician, as he proudly stated   ---   recognized something strange in one of the bodies.   by the day, she seemed to be...  healing, with no assistance, no aid.     every time the sheet covering wrapped around her was pulled away, she’d regained a little more of herself.    by the time her chest began to rise and fall on its own, the man realized he had something more than death on his hands.    he spirited the body away from the makeshift morgue when it was liquidated, and brought evelyn instead to the mortuary for observation.

“observation”, he said.   more like a game of twenty - hundred questions, none of which evelyn cared to answer.

coming back from the dead is nasty business.    evelyn recovered slowly, returning to herself by the day.    for the first week of awareness, the pain left her insensate half the time.   medication did nothing for her, so she tried to sleep   ;   in her delirium, she sometimes rambled, and was even grateful for the attentions of her unwanted saviour.   she asked often, as guillaume told her later, after the lady in the purple coat.    if her body had been recovered from the fire, he replied, the purple coat was too burnt to be recognized.

there were moments when evelyn truly didn’t want to go on, when the agony was so overwhelming that she prayed death would just claim her...   but each time, she remembered that voice   ---  you must keep going!  you can’t give up now!   ---  and somehow, she found the strength to go on.   it wasn’t as though she had any other choice.

a month after the fire, every burn was healed.    her skin still felt tender to the touch, extremely sensitive to temperature, but it could as well have been a nasty sunburn.    she was able to speak, to stomach food, to move around on her own with ease   ---   it all may as well have never happened.

that was what she told guillaume when she finally insisted on leaving.   in typical evelyn style, she was able to laugh it off.   she’d survived  ---  what did it matter?      ( never mind that she could still taste smoke, and saw flames every time she closed her eyes.   never mind the dying screams which would ring in her ears forever. )     all she really wanted, after so long in hell, was to return home.   the young mortician, his eyes opened to an unprecedented world of scientific possibilities, did not want to let her go.    evelyn stole away in the night, escaping from under his watchful eye as he dozed in the next room   ---   if he wanted a case study to obsess over, he’d have to find some other immortal girl.

instead, evelyn returned to the woods.   the journey took her over a week.   when she finally found her childhood home, long since uninhabited and slowly being overgrown by nature, she spun around in its empty halls.   her first action afterwards was to run barefoot into the woods   ;   she ran and ran until coming to the lake, where she and her brother splashed so often as a child.   evelyn stripped herself of every shred of clothing, down to the very bone, and submerged herself in the waters.

it was cold.   it was blissful.  she felt reborn.

for the first time, when evelyn closed her eyes, flames didn’t lick the blackness of her eyelids.

[softyhyunjin]

first ⌲ bang chan

Description: You always come first.

⇥ genre: bestfriend au, college au, love triangle, angst, fluff                       

⇥ pairing: chan x reader                                                                              

⇥ word count: 9.7k

a/n: @changbeanie  are you happy now lmao

i. 

“Hey, remember how we met in English?”

The campus was semi lifeless and you were both late to class. It was a bad idea to get ice cream during the passing period because Thursday was the busiest day of the week for the both of you. You had just came out from your chemistry lecture while Minho had just finished his contemporary dance lecture. You met him at the usual spot: the ice cream truck by the bell tower in the middle of campus.

Knowing Minho, he would want to get ice cream right after he got out of dance, and make you wait in line with him. You guess it wasn’t too bad since you wanted some too…

“How can I take the time to remember how we met when we’re late for class? You could’ve waited to get ice cream after we finish math,” you stressed, taking another bite of your vanilla ice cream.

“Says the one who’s almost done with their ice cream,” Minho chuckled, nodding over to your ugly bitten waffle cone.

Actually, you could recall your first encounter with Minho. You remembered bumping into him on the first day of class last year, but it was his fault for not paying attention. Minho had his schedule in one hand and the campus map in the other. You were prepared for your classes because you took a look around campus a couple days prior to when the term began. Minho just liked to do things very last minute.

Minho happily licked the creamy pink swirl in his sugar cone, taking his sweet time to indulge the milky strawberry flavor. He chose to prioritize food over changing into clean clothes. His outfit wasn’t bad. It was just a black t-shirt along with a pair of black sweatpants, but there was no point in carrying a duffle bag filled with clean clothes if he wasn’t going to change into them.

You noticed how the beads of sweat on the sides of his face were slowly making its way down to his jawline. Your attention was suddenly on his neck. When Minho spoke, you watched how his adam’s apple would bob up and down. How insanely attractive, and he’s a dance major, you thought, eyes widening once you realized what had just happened.

Those kinds of thoughts never came to your mind, and they shouldn’t at all.

“Something on my face?” He questioned, pointing at himself. Bothered with what had just happened, you pulled out the napkin you were saving in your pocket for later but gave it to Minho instead.

“Just wipe your stupid face.”

ii. 

“Have you ever tried fried chicken with vegemite?”

“Just because I’m Australian doesn’t mean I put vegemite on everything, Y/N,” Chan stretched from his seat, “I think it’s time for a study break.”

“Can you-“

“Yes, I’m going to order chicken in a minute. Just let me grab my phone and we can have it with Sprite, okay?” He chuckled at your eagerness.

Your brain was fried from all that studying. Chemistry is no joke. The midterm was coming up, and you couldn’t take the chance of putting off your academics till last minute. When you were feeling lazy, you realized how lucky you were to be stuck with Chan for another four years so that he could push you to do work. Also, he’s always hard working and on top of his shit. That means you could always go to him when you needed help, and he could never refuse when it came to you.

“Okay,” he said after getting off his phone, “They said it would take up to forty minutes, and I ordered extra radish cubes too.”

Bringing your palms to your cheeks, you pressed them and stared at Chan with so much adoration in your eyes. “Thank you, Chan,” you whispered.

Grimacing, he said with disgust written all over his face, “Don’t do that, it’s gross.”

You scowled at your best friend. When your stomach growled loudly, Chan laughed at how pitiful you looked. “Chan, what do we do for forty more minutes?” You pouted.

“What else, Y/N? Study, duh.”

You pretended to not hear that, asking again, “Huh? What should we do for forty more minutes?”

Chan placed his hands on his hips and gave you a hard eye roll. Then, he waddled into the kitchen and came back with a miniature sized jar known to be the most despicable spread on earth. “Why don’t you spread some vegemite on toast and just eat it?”

You crossed your arms, refusing to look at him and the jar of vegemite, “You’re disgusting, get that away from me!”

“You’ve never even tried it. Stop basing its taste off of shitty reviews from Youtubers. Aren’t you bored?”

“Yes.”

A light bulb lit in Chan’s head. He snickered at the creative idea he came up with, “I’ll put the spread on different foods in my fridge and pantry. Then, you guess what I combined the vegemite with. How’s that?”

That was actually not a bad idea. It’s either studying until the chicken comes or fool around, and you really did not want to look at chemical equations anymore.

“Fine, but don’t go easy on me,” you grinned.

“Don’t count on it.”

For the next half hour, you both took turns blindfolding each other. You regret going too easy on him with the combination of chocolate and vegemite, apples with vegemite, and kimchi with vegemite. On the other hand, Chan had no mercy when it came to feeding you his disturbing concoctions. He was having the time of his life when he combined the spread with a slab of American cheese, a dried anchovy, and a banana.

They weren’t even paired separately, he combined them all at once.

“You’re lucky I didn’t get sick from your disgusting combinations,” you said angrily with a mouthful of chicken.

“If you didn’t feel well, I could’ve had this all to myself,” he waved a piece of chicken that was shaped like a fat boot.

“Hey, can you do me a solid?”

Taking a huge gulp from the Sprite bottle, Chan cocked an eyebrow. “What is it this time?”

“Can you help my friend and I study? We’re a little rusty with calculus, but I promise you that it won’t be as tiring as it is with chemistry.”

“Do I get paid?”

“I’ll get you a whole fried chicken, all yours Chan. How’s that?” You know for a fact that he could not say no. A whole fried chicken was on the line and free of charge. An addict like him would do anything for chicken, even if it meant suffering for a couple hours with you. Licking off the grease and crumbs on the edges of his lips, Chan hummed. You knew he caved in the moment you mentioned something free.

“You really know how to do business. Throw in some radish cubes and it’s a deal,” Chan raised his hand to shake, but you swatted it away because it was oily and covered in crumbs.

“Deal.”

iii.

“I thought I was going to get some hot chick’s digits by the end of this study session, but I guess not.”

Snorting over Chan’s disappointment, you propped your chin on the table with your palm. Today was different. It was different because Minho joined the study session. Minho was waiting in line to order while you and Chan were gossiping in the corner booth of the coffee shop. People would assume the place would be packed at this time since it was only a ten-minute walk from campus, but it was surprisingly not. “Did you really think I would introduce you to a girl?”

“Why not? You’re passing chemistry because of me,” he shrugged, rummaging his backpack for his agenda and laptop to take a look at his due dates for the week.

“No. I’m passing because I’m staying focused and working hard.”

“Yeah, due to the study sessions you insist on having with me. Y/N, just admit it. Your success will be credited to me,” Chan smugly boasted. Taking a look around the coffee shop, your eyes were drawn to the hipster neon sign behind Minho.

You giggled at Chan while reading the neon purple font, ‘wake up and smell the coffee’. Turning around as if on cue, Minho made eye contact with you, raising his brows, then, playfully sticking his tongue out before turning back to move forward in line. That definitely caught you off guard. Even Chan noticed when he saw your smile falter after looking away from Minho’s backside.

Minho’s small, playful gesture made you feel uncontrollably giddy. When he came back to the booth, you had trouble maintaining eye contact when he asked you a question. Recently, it was more difficult to converse with him than usual since you were bothered by the thought of him being more attractive. As cheesy as it sounds, your heart was pounding against your chest, and it felt more powerful than usual.

When Chan said something that seemed amusing to Minho, Minho would lightly chuckle and glance at you from the corner of his eye. As you thought about it more and more, you’ve come to a realization that Minho was definitely cuter than before. When he gently shook your wrist to ask a question, a fluttery feeling sprouted in your stomach. It was hard to concentrate on your work because his smile was distracting.

There were several moments where Chan caught you staring at Minho. You were more quiet than usual and he knew something was up. Chan recognized your symptoms, and you were starting to as well. While you were in denial, Minho excused himself to use the restroom, leaving you with a fully aware Chan sitting across from you. Before you could admit to what you were thinking of, Chan had already beat you to it.

“Someone’s developing a crush,” he teased softly while surfing the web.

iv.

Several weeks have passed since Minho’s joined your study group. Surprisingly, Chan and Minho got along with each other just fine. In the beginning, you were actually a little worried since it took some time for Minho to get comfortable with you back then. Luckily, those two shared common interests in video games and dance.

“Let’s call it a night. I think we’ve studied enough,” Chan yawned, closing his laptop afterward. He’s developed some dark circles from staying up all night over these past couple of days. Thanks to him, you and Minho are fully prepared and ready to take the math final.

Blinking slowly, Chan decided to cross his arms on the table, using it to cushion his head. You packed your laptop and notebooks, stretching when you got off the chair. You nudged his elbow, “Chan, go brush your teeth and wash your face. You can sleep on your bed after.” Chan mumbled something incoherent before getting up to use the washroom. You and Minho said goodbye, and you reminded Chan to lock the door.

It was almost 4 am, and you still had to walk back to your apartment. Thank god Minho lived a block away from you or else you would have to walk back by yourself. It was tempting to sleep over at Chan’s, but you didn’t want Minho to feel left out since he wasn’t as close to Chan like how you were. You didn’t mind walking back with Minho either. It just meant you had fifteen minutes with him all to yourself.

Even though it was extremely cold outside, you both walked slowly. Minho and you were both wearing black windbreakers over hoodies. He cupped his hands, blowing warm air into them and rubbing intensely to heat his cold fingers. Then, Minho used the hood from his gray Thrasher hoodie from underneath the windbreaker to cover his head. You silently watched, amusing yourself by breathing out a small cloud in the cold air.

“Can I ask you a question?” Minho suddenly asked.

You chuckled, giving him a look, “You’re asking one right now, aren’t you?”

He shook his head lightly, chuckling at your smartass response. “Yeah, and I’m going to ask another one.”

“Hit me,” you raised your eyebrows.

Minho cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Do you like anyone?”

Your stomach dropped because you didn’t know how to respond. Yes, you did like someone. Were you willing to tell him though? No, because he was the person you liked. “No, does it seem like I do?” You cooly responded.

Minho rolled his eyes, “If you didn’t, do you think I would’ve even asked?”

“Yeah, because you’re nosy!” You joked.

“Are you sure you don’t?” He asked again.

“Who do you think I like then?”

Minho shrugged with puppy eyes, “Dunno, maybe you like Chan?”

You laughed at the mention of Chan. No way, you could never. You didn’t see him in that way, and you don’t think you could ever. Although you and Chan were very close, you never saw him romantically. “No, never. He’s only a friend, always.”

“Hmmmmm, that’s what they always say.” Minho teased, leaning in to show you his wiggling eyebrows.

You nervously gulped at the unfamiliar close proximity with Minho. As you leaned away, he leaned in further to mess with you. Losing your balance, your left foot slipped on the wet pavement, causing you to grab a hold of Minho’s arm. You yelped, grabbing onto him tightly. His hand caught the small of your back, and you were suffering. You were lucky that he was unaware of your crush on him.

Minho broke into a grin, helping you get back on your feet, “I’ve cracked the Da Vinci code haven’t I?”

“I don’t like him,” you said. Flustered with what had just happened, you walked ahead, leaving a laughing Minho behind you. Just a block away from your apartment, and that was it.

“I swear I won’t tell him, Y/N!” He yelled at you. You picked up your pace, leaving him behind even more.

“DON’T EVEN BOTHER.”

v.

“Why do you keep smiling creepily on your phone? Are you dealing with the Black Market or something?” Chan looked from the television screen with a confused expression.

“Mhmmm,” you brushed him off, finishing your text to press send.

He rolled his eyes, “She’s not even listening.”

You immediately got up from the couch while keeping your eyes on the screen of your phone. Chan stared at you with wide eyes. Something was odd and you were starting to scare him. “You’re not meeting with a client, right?” He asked.

“I have to go home and get ready. Chan! He asked if I wanted to get food with him,” you paced back and forth between the couch and coffee table.

“Ahhh, I get it now. She sold herself in the Black Market. Who would want to buy that?” Chan shivered at the image of you providing escort services. He was only joking though, he wanted to see how long it took you to actually start listening to him.

“You’re so annoying, I did not sell myself on the Black Market. I’m selling you,” you whacked Chan with the nearest pillow you could grab. “But… I need to go home and get ready because I’m going out soon.”

Chan flinched and grabbed the pillow from you, “Are you out of your mind? It’s Christmas Eve right now, there’s nothing opened at this time. It’s 10.”

“I’m sure at least one place is still opened around this time. Now, take me home, please. I need to get ready,” you were quick on your feet, approaching the door in a second.

Sluggishly removing himself from the couch and trudging past the counter to grab the car keys, Chan groaned as he passed by you. While slipping his sneakers on, he complained, “It’s Christmas Eve, Y/N. I just wanted to stay in and watch Christmas movies.”

“You didn’t even have any in mind,” you rolled your eyes, following him shortly after putting on your shoes.

You both walked in the hallway, and the sound of his keys jingled as he spun them around his finger. He turned back and said, “I had A Christmas Story in mind.”

“Boring, I’ll pass.”

Chan shook his head and pressed the button for the elevator once you two reached the end of the hall. He yawned while hitting the parking lot button with his index finger. When you arrived at the parking lot, Chan aimed his keys at the white 2015 Mercedes Benz SL550 at the corner of the parking lot garage. After hearing the car beep, you rushed to the car and hopped in the passenger seat.

During the drive, you bumped up the Christmas playlist Chan made on his Spotify account. As you jammed out on Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas Is You, he interrupted you. “Who are you going out with so late?” He asked.

You turned down the volume and sheepishly smiled at him, “Mmmmmm… Minho?”

“Ohhhh boy,” he rolled his eyes, “So how's this crush going? Do you like him a lot?”

You thought about it for a moment before telling Chan your honest feelings. “At first, I didn’t want to like him, and I was in complete denial. But eventually, I guess I finally accepted it. The more I spend time with him, the more I grow to like him even more. I feel comfortable around him,” you blushed, feeling embarrassed to tell Chan these kinds of things.

“I guess,” Chan shrugged and then put on a salty face to scold you, “Don’t stay out too late, and Merry Early Christmas since you wanted to be with Lee Minho instead!”

He pulled over to the sidewalk in front of your apartment. You shook his arm roughly, laughing at him for being such a child. “Merry Early Christmas Chan! I’ll see you around.”

“See you around Y/N.”

vi.

“Ugh, there’s nothing opened at this time. Not even McDonalds is open,” you pouted as Minho drove away from the fast food restaurant, staring at it more longingly than you’ve ever done in your whole life.

“Hey,” he teased, “You’re the hungry one, not me. You were the one who insisted that we go out at this time.”

You sighed in defeat. He wasn’t wrong though, you were the one to suggest going out at this time. As your mind wandered to the idea of binge eating hot tteokbokki and kimbap, your mouth was slowly watering. Frowning over your disappointment, you mumbled, “Tch, you offered.”

“You’re lucky I did some grocery shopping yesterday. Do you want to come over to my place?” Minho asked.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. It wasn’t like it was your first time coming over, you’ve been there countless times. But the thought of spending Christmas Eve with him had this romantic mood to it. Honestly, it was just you overthinking the scenario and you needed to stop yourself. You were fully aware of how much you had just over thought this situation and toned it down by 99 percent.

“Okay.”

Luckily, the drive back to Minho’s place didn’t take too long. As you punched in the digits, 1004, you slightly cringed at your friend. You’d understand if his passcode was his birthday: 1025, but 1004? Angel my ass, you thought. His features were blessed to look like an angel’s, but he sure did not act like one.

You walked in before he did and took off your shoes. The first thing that came to your mind was finding yourself something to eat, and if you couldn’t, no problem. You would make Minho cook you something up.

“Oh, hey! I have some instant tteokbokki. Want me to make that for you and add cheese and sausage with it?” Minho held up a frozen pack of rice cakes after fishing in his freezer.

Your mouth went agape and you nodded excitedly. Minho chuckled at your reaction, thinking it was pretty cute for a moment. Then, he began to take out the other ingredients as you stood there looking at the nutrition facts on the back of the package. “It’s worth two servings, are you going to eat it with me?”

“If I don’t, then something is obviously wrong with me,” he cocked an eyebrow.

Minho just loves food. Nothing could ever get between him and his love for food. Throughout this semester, it was pretty much a routine to treat yourselves out by the end of the week. Most of the time, Minho was the one suggesting new places to try out while you almost always greed since you weren’t much of a picky eater. His favorite foods consist of jjamppong, tteokbokki, and buldak. Literally, anything spicy was his go-to option.

Your face scrunched in a teasing manner, “Who knows? Maybe you don’t want to get fat.”

Minho turned around with wide eyes and scoffed, “Who am I making food for at 11 again, and you’re calling me fat? Y/N, me? Fat? Have you seen this face? Maybe you’re the fat one.”

You grabbed the roll of paper towels on the counter, pretending to threaten to hit him with it if anything else came out of his mouth. Minho flinch and pretended to be very scared at your sudden change of movement. You lightly tapped the roll on his head and he grabbed your wrist to secure you from bopping his head with it again. When he took the paper towel roll from your hand with his free one, he placed it back on the counter.

Minho grabbed your other wrist, pulling you in closer to him. “Now you’re threatening me in my household? You have some guts, Y/N,” he teased, raising an eyebrow as you blinked at him like a fool.

Your flustered self would’ve been done for if you two were any closer to each other, but your stomach saved the day by loudly growling out loud. Minho broke eye contact by looking at your stomach. He let go of your wrists, letting them drop to your sides and laughed.

“Alright, let’s make some tteokbokki.”

Cooking with Minho was probably one of the most annoying things you have ever done with this man. He was so picky when it came to preparing foods, especially if directions were written on the package. You have to follow everything it says, or else it wouldn’t taste good.

“Finally! We can eat,” you peeked over to Minho for a thumbs up.

He shook his head, “Nuh uh, not yet. I need to add the garnishes.” Grabbing the small shaker on the kitchen table, he sprinkled some roasted sesame seeds on top of the tteokbokki. “Okay, now we can eat,” he chuckled.

You didn’t know what it was, but instant tteokbokki somehow tasted better than before. As you kept struggling to pick up the rice cakes with chopsticks, the corners of Minho’s lips quirked upward. It was hard to notice since they were covered in sauce. Minho easily stabbed a rice cake, bringing it up to your mouth. “Maybe you need training chopsticks, Y/N,” he cooed, mouthing at you to open your mouth wide.

You glared at Minho but leaned in for the rice cake since it was already in front of you. You slowly chewed at the glutinous rice cake covered in that the thick, spicy sauce Minho loved. Your eyes watered at the spice level, but Minho was totally fine. “I have strawberry milk in the fridge,” he nodded towards the fridge.

“I’ll drink it once we finish, can’t be a pussy now, can I?” You huffed.

“Certainly not, oh! Five more minutes till Christmas,” Minho said while scrolling through his phone. When you peeked over, he was on Snapchat and responding to his streaks.

“What’s Jisung doing?” You asked about his best friend.

“Making cookies with his girlfriend. I told him to add walnuts in there.”

“Isn’t he allergic to walnuts?”

“Mhmmm,” Minho nodded.

Minho received another notification from Jisung on Snapchat. When he pressed on the red square icon, it was a picture of Jisung flipping him off, saying ‘hope you fucking eat ass once you give Y/N her gift’. Minho sighed, remembering to slap the shit out of Jisung the next time he ran into him in the cafeteria. You looked at Minho, blinking in shock. “What the hell did you get me?”

“Nothing,” he laughed nervously, but you weren’t buying it at all, “Okay, fine. Wait here.”

Minho came back with a small, gold gift bag that was filled to the brim with tissue paper. Placing it on the table, he slowly slid the present to you, nervously anticipating your reaction. The bag was no larger than a bag of regular sized chips and was very lightweight. You removed the tissue paper, enjoying the crisp ruffling sounds it made. When you reached into the bag, you felt something hard and roughly textured with bumps. Once you pulled out the mystery gift from the bag, you were ready to use it to smack this man in the face.

“Thanks for the rubber drumstick dog toy, I’ll be sure to put it to good use,” you said, pretending to inspect the chew toy by holding it near your face.

Minho smirked and chuckled at your reaction. He just loved to mess with you, and he did the trick by buying a plastic dog toy from the dollar store. Minho knew you were going to throw it at him soon, so he reached into his pockets.

Bringing out a small, flat square box, Minho slid your actual present onto the table this time. The white gift box tied sealed with red ribbons didn’t really make you hope for much. If it was a shock toy, you wouldn’t be surprised.

As you slowly undone the tiny ribbon star, Minho impatiently drummed his fingers against the table. “You’re so slow,” he mocked.

“Let me be,” you huffed, “Besides, it’s going to be another gag gift anyways.”

“That’s what you think,” he mumbled.

When you finally removed the lid, Minho couldn’t help but smile when you gasped at the gift. It was a simple necklace with a thin silver chain and small, aquamarine gemstone pendant. To think he was even capable of thinking of getting you something like that was truly shocking. “Wow,” you said, startled.

“Do you like it?” Minho subtly rubbed the side of his neck. Although he was satisfied with your reaction, he was worried that you might reject his gift. He had trouble finding a gift for you, but he stumbled across this necklace. There was a meaning behind the necklace, but Minho wouldn’t bring it up unless you did. It was too cheesy for him, but it seemed to fit you, and he just stuck with it.

“Y-yeah, I do,” you stuttered.

When the clock struck 12, it was finally Christmas. Several fireworks went off and both of your phones were buzzing with notifications from friends and family. Minho sighed in relief when you said you liked the necklace. When he was going to reach for the necklace, you beat him to it and easily put it on yourself without the help of a mirror or him. Great, because it would be weird if he was the one who put it on you.

The little gemstone drop represented the little things in life. Little things included studying together, going to the movies, staying up late to Skype each other, having drinking contests at parties, and pigging out after a long week are the memories that always made him smile when he thought of you. To Minho, little moments like this mattered to him the most.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

vii.

“Chan, I left my wallet at home,” you whined.

Chan shrugged, laughing at your bad luck, “Guess you’re not eating today.”

“No! Buy me food, I’ll buy you chicken tonight.”

“A whole chicken?”

“A whole chicken is expensive, so no.”

“Sorry, I guess I don’t have enough for you,” he scratched the back of his head.

You slapped his shoulder and Chan hissed at the annoying pain. While Chan rubbed his shoulder, you began to accidentally eavesdrop when you recognized a familiar voice, two familiar voices actually.

“Hey, is that her?” One said.

“Yeah,” Minho said.

You turned around and spotted Minho walking towards you with Jisung beside him. When you made eye contact with him, he waved to you and picked up his pace. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you blushed.

Chan frowned at your unusual feminine side and began to cough obnoxiously, “Oof, I think I’m getting sick Y/N.”

You ignored Chan and continued your little conversation with Minho and Jisung. Jisung recently lost a bet with Minho so he had to treat Minho out for the whole day. Knowing the ridiculous amount Minho can eat in one sitting, Jisung’s wallet would be nearly empty by the end of the day. Poor kid, this is why you never make bets with Minho.

“Y/N, we’re next,” Chan interrupted the conversation. You said goodbye and went to order your meal with Chan.

“See you later.”

Chan ordered a burger combo whereas you ordered a chicken sandwich combo. Once you two found a spot to sit, he remembered to grill you into buying him a whole fried chicken for tonight. Normally you would say no and tell him to suck it up, but you were distracted this time. You kept glancing over to Minho unaware that you agreed with Chan. Your body was physically present with your best friend, but your mind was not.

Minho sat on the other side of the cafeteria, facing you. When Jisung said something hilarious, Minho’s eyes morphed into crescents, bringing out his cute eye smile. From time to time, Minho would make eye contact with you, pretending to taunt you by nodding his head and mouthing ‘wanna fight’. Jisung would stop midway into his conversation with Minho and turn around to see the culprit distracting his friend, you.

“Your crush on Minho is so obvious,” Chan rolled his eyes.

“Don’t say his name out loud, we’re in public.”

“Y/N, he’s all the way across the cafeteria. You’re overthinking it,” he rolled his eyes again.

“It’s not obvious. You just think it is because you know,” you glared at him.

“No, it’s because you never act that way around me or anyone else. That’s how I know it’s obvious,” Chan said, getting a little annoyed.

“How would you know?”

“Because I just do, it’s not hard Y/N.”

viii.

“I’m so full! Thanks for the meal,” Chan burped.

You whacked the back of his head but linked your arm with his shortly after. Chan was unfazed by your sudden skinship because you always did this during the coldest days of the winter. He usually complains and shakes your arm off, but this time he didn’t.

“You’re eating my wallet, you fatass,” you stuck your tongue out to tease him.

“What’s the point of saving money when its purpose is solely used for spending?” Chan wisely said.

“Spending money on you is the worst. You literally eat my wallet like a garbage shoot.”

Chan chuckled at your insult and offered to buy you a hot chocolate. You were unable to refuse his offer because he was actually paying for once. You excitedly jumped up and down while holding his arm, causing Chan to be shaken back and forth repeatedly. “If you don’t stop that, the offer will cease to exist,” he blinked hard after feeling a little dizzy from your rough movements.

“Okay. Let’s go to Cha Cha Cafe, I really like their peppermint hot cocoa.”

In order to get to Cha Cha Cafe, you had to walk one more block further and cross on your left. Chan was ranting to you about his lab partner and how she pretty much screwed him over the other day. When he spoke, the fog breathed out looked like dragon’s breath. Oh my god, he was so angry.

“Why don’t you tell your TA?” You suggested.

“You know what? Maybe I just might do that.”

When you spotted the cafe, you groaned at the line inside. Luckily, it wasn’t too packed inside. You quickly crossed the street, dragging Chan like a raggedy doll, and walked into the cafe. Once you stepped foot inside, the aroma of roasted coffee beans went into your nostrils. It smelled really good and the thought of hot cocoa on a cold Saturday night made you excited.

“Hey, isn’t that Minho?” Chan pointed to the corner of the room.

You followed the direction of his finger and spotted Minho talking to an unfamiliar person. “Yeah?”

Minho briefly made eye contact with you and looked away. Usually, he would come over to say hi, but he didn’t. You were curious and snapped out of it when Chan tugged on your sleeve. It was your guys’ turn to order. After Chan paid, you both waited by the pickup counter since all the seats were filled.

“Who’s he with?” Chan asked, peeking at the person sitting across from Minho. You were confused and became more nosy the longer you stared.

When you looked over, a girl with a chocolate brown shoulder-length bob giggled at something Minho said. She wore a red chiffon long sleeve blouse and dark see-through leggings under her black shorts. It’s freezing around this time of the year, wow, just wow. As your eyes trailed down her legs, you eyed the black patent leather ankle boots that must have costed a fortune.

You looked at your own wardrobe choice, suddenly feeling self-conscious at your denim jacket, distressed jeans, and worn out Vans. You never dress up.

“Order 165!”

You unlink your arm from Chan’s and grabbed your peppermint cocoa. Chan looked up to see if there were any free spots, but still no luck. When you two were about to walk away, Minho called you over. “Y/N!”

You saw him walking towards you with the unfamiliar girl. Eyeing at you from head to toe, she tried to subtly link arms with Minho but obviously failed when both you and Chan glanced at her at the same time. “Hey,” you said slowly.

“We were just about to leave, you can take our seats,” Minho offered.

You looked at the stranger beside him and reached a hand out to her, “Hi, I’m Minho’s friend, Y/N. And that’s Chan.”

She glanced at Minho before going in the handshake, finally introducing herself which satiated the bubbling curiosity in your system, “Yeri, nice to meet you.”

“How do you know Minho?” Chan asked, beating you to it. You were glad though, you didn’t want to ask, it seemed too much out of your way to do so. Minho sighed, a little embarrassed but laughed at the question. He was finally caught red-handed by you and he couldn’t lie. He unlinked Yeri’s arm from his and entwined his fingers with hers.

Giving her a soft smile before he looked over to you, he said, “She’s actually my girlfriend.”

The way she tightly held his hand and intensely eyed for your reaction seemed like she was taunting you.

What the fuck.

Chan was fully aware of your feelings towards Minho so the atmosphere was suddenly uncomfortable for himself and you. You were speechless and tried your best to keep a poker face. “Since when?” You asked. “I mean, congrats. But since when? You never told me.”

“Mmmm,” Minho looked at the ceiling, thinking to when Yeri became his girlfriend.

“Two weeks ago,” Yeri laughed. Minho’s eyes widened as he nodded at her.

“That’s right,” he agreed, “Long story, but it’s getting late. I have to get Yeri home, but we should meet up later this week.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you guys around then?” He waved, “Have fun on your date!”

“Nice meeting you guys!” Yeri said.

You watched as they left, feeling more frustrated when you replayed the whole scene in your head over and over again. Once you felt the tingling sensation from your nose, you closed your eyes to try fighting back tears from forming in your eyes. Chan noticed and led you away from the cafe.

There was a park nearby and it was completely empty at this time of the night. You walked to the swings and seated yourself on one and Chan sat on the other. You gently kicked the sand and stared at it as it fell into a small pile in front of you. You didn’t care if your shoes were ruined with sand all over them. You didn’t care if they seeped into the holes and cracks of your sneakers.

Tightly gripping onto the swing’s chain, you felt a hot tear roll down your cheek. Soon, you were sniffling. Chan stayed quiet and watched the whole time. He sighed in frustration, still bothered by the situation just as much as you were.

The ringtone notification went off. After buzzing in your pocket multiple times, you patted your denim jacket, removing your phone from one of your inside pockets. Quickly wiping away your fresh tears, you saw a couple notifications from Minho.

What was supposed to come out as a sigh came out as a whimper from you. Chan abandoned his swing and came over. He grabbed your phone, quickly skimming through Minho’s texts and then put it in his pockets. His arms wrapped around you, and he rubbed your back to soothe your heartbroken state.

Minho: sorry if telling you to have fun on your date with chan made you both feel uncomfortable

Minho: yeri gets super jealous easily

Minho: if she knew you were single, she’d suspect that you like me or something

Minho: LMFAOOOO that’s funny and I always talk about you to her

Minho: but I know you’re mad because I didn’t tell you right away but I’ll make it up to you with whatever you want to eat and tell you everything from the start

Minho: okay?? Pls don’t be too mad Y/N ): I’m sorry

Nothing made sense to you anymore. You really had your hopes up for Minho. To think that you were the only girl he was close to was absolutely your the biggest downfall when it came to liking him.

“Y/N,” he sighed, “Just let it out, it’s okay.”

You cried and leaned in to hug his torso. When Chan felt your tight grip on his jacket, he hugged you closer with one hand on your back and the other behind your head. Chan began to caress your hair to try calming you. Once he gained enough confidence, he gently placed his chin on top of your head. By the time you started sobbing, the center of Chan’s white shirt was wet, covered in your hot tears and fresh snot.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

An unusual feeling began to stir inside of Chan. It’s happened before. There’s no denying that, but it always went away. This time, it really hit a home run. As you cried, burying your face deeper into his stomach, Chan felt his heart aching yet uncontrollably pounding against his chest.

ix.

Minho: what’s up?

Minho: Y/N

Y/N: What?

Minho: you’re being off

Y/N: Wdym

Minho: you’re ignoring me

You paused and stared at your phone’s screen. It wasn’t like you were fully avoiding him. Even though you didn’t have any classes with him this time, you still met up at your usual spot when he asked. Maybe he noticed when you kept rejecting his offer to hang out.

You weren’t lying, you were actually busy. Well, you were finding ways to busy yourself.

Y/N: No I’m not

Minho: let’s hang out on saturday then

Minho: sound good?

Y/N: I have to help Chan go grocery shopping

Y/N: sorry

Minho: i know you’re lying y/n, i literally ran into him at the market the other day

Minho: tell me why you’re being like this

Minho: is this about not telling you about yeri first?

Minho: i told you i was sorry many times but i still need to make it up to you and tell you everything

Y/N: It’s not that Minho

Minho: then what is it???

You sucked in a deep breath, burying your face into your pillow before screaming into it. Out of all the people you had to develop feelings for, it just had to be him, but you needed to get over him.

The last time you cried about Minho was the other day. You planned to meet Chan in the cafeteria and bumped into Minho and Yeri. They both passed by and Minho made brief eye contact with you. You walked slower, expecting him to do the same and say hi, but he didn’t. He acted as if he never saw you, walking away hand in hand with his girlfriend.

That night, you were forced to stay at Chan’s. He didn’t want you to stay at your place because he knew you would cry in bed. You’re really lucky to have him around though. Chan kept you occupied with whatever he could think of and persisted when you said you weren’t feeling like doing anything.

You were too tired to cry now.

Minho: y/n

Y/N: I’m not acting like that because I want to, Minho. It’s just hard to be around you lately

Y/N: I don’t hate you and I’m certainly not mad at you. I’m just upset and sad

Minho: is this because of yeri? that’s why i wanted to hang out with you and explain everything

Minho: i’ve apologized countless times, what more do i have to do?  i really do mean it

Y/N: I like you and I found out you were dating someone out of the blue

Y/N: That’s why I find it so hard to be around you lately

Y/N: I don’t want it to get in the way of our friendship, so I’m putting these feelings aside and going to forget about them. I’ll get over it, so please give me some time. I’ll be fine by next week

*incoming call*

You swiped the call button to answer Minho’s call.

“I’m so sorry Y/N, I-I wasn’t thinking straight enough,” he stuttered on the other line.

“It’s okay, you didn’t know,” you said feeling a slight ache in your chest.

“I had no idea… I literally had no idea, I’m so sorry. I’m so-” Minho whispered dejectedly, but you cut him off before he could apologize again.

“Don’t Minho, I’ll get over it soon.”

After that night, your relationship with Minho was never the same.

You began to distance yourself in the span of a couple of weeks. At first, it was difficult. You didn’t want to make it obvious and hurt Minho’s feelings. It’s something you had to do in order to help resolve your feelings. You believed it would benefit you while you were getting over him.

In the beginning, it seemed out of place to not have him around anymore, but it worked out in the end. Minho was more occupied with Yeri nowadays and seemed to have forgotten about you. Instead of spending your Friday nights with Minho, you treated it like a resting day, spending the day to focus on your wellbeing and beauty routine. Lately, you were with Chan most of the time.

“Stop it! It tickles!”

Chan laughed as you struggled to get out of his choke hold. He knows your neck is sensitive, so it was funnier to him. Although he was less rough on you today, you still wanted to knee him in the groin for being so annoying.

“No,” he cackled at your misery once again.

“I’ll smash and throw away that useless keyboard in your room,” you threatened.

Chan let go and frowned, “It’s not useless, I actually use it to make songs during my free time.”

“Do you even have any songs for me to listen to?” You cocked an eyebrow.

“Y/N, they’re still in the making. Please,” he defended himself.

You stifled a laugh because you know that wasn’t true at all, but Chan only scowled at you. When you laughed at his face, he broke into a grin. You both continued walking from the campus’ food courts to get to the parking lot.

On the way, Minho instantly recognized you once he saw your familiar neon orange Hydro Flask peeking out the side of your backpack. “Hey Y/N!” He greeted you, breaking eye contact the moment you looked at him.

You gave him a small smile and watched as he walked away with Yeri. Chan nudged your arm with his elbow, “You okay?”

“Actually… I’m getting there Chan, slowly, but I’m getting there.”

Chan raised his hand slowly, closing his fingers out of hesitation. Today was different though. You didn’t stare at Minho’s backside as he walked away with Yeri, and Chan didn’t have to snap you out of it. Instead, you were scrolling through IHOP's online menu and daydreaming about their chicken and waffles.

Chan thought to himself, Fuck it, before gently ruffling your hair. When he stopped, you raised an eyebrow, but all he did was give you a cute smile. Pouting at Chan’s soft gesture, you ruffled his hair in return. You were making progress and doing more than well.

“Let’s go, I’m hungry.”

x.

“I’m thinking about breaking up with Yeri.”

Startled by Minho’s abrupt confession, you choked on your jasmine green tea. Minho was spilling his tea, but you were choking on yours. His eyes widened and he repeatedly pat your back to help you settle down. “You okay?”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and nodded, “Yeah, I’m fine. What made you think of that all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know… “ He feigned a smile, “I don’t think I would be happy if I stayed with her.”

You frowned, “Then why did you get with her in the first place?”

“Please refrain from hitting me,” he chuckled.

“I won’t,” you said seriously. You only hit someone when you liked them.

“I actually liked Yeri’s friend, Irene, but she transferred out this year. But Yeri asked me out, and I thought, why not? She seemed cool and she’s a good person, but I don’t know anymore.”

You placed your drink on the step below the one you were sitting on and rubbed your hands to warm them. After listening to his story, you sighed deeply. “If you don’t see yourself growing with her, then don’t stay with her. You’ll just be unhappy and lead her on in the process. I mean… Do you love her?”

“No, I don’t. I’m just so frustrated at this point,” he groaned, combing his bangs with his fingers.

You checked the time, and it was almost 9:00. Shoot! You had to be back at Chan’s place by 10 because you had promised to drop by to pick up your laptop and backpack. You can’t believe you left it there the other day, all of your homework was just sitting at his apartment. “Let’s start heading to the train station? I have to be back soon, but we can still talk,” You stood up from your spot, stretching your arms and legs after sitting down for so long.

As the two of you approached the train station, finishing your homework was on your mind. On the other hand, Minho’s unsatisfying relationship with Yeri was on his. The train was unusually packed tonight, and you groaned the minute the train doors opened. Barely five people exited the cart which meant you had to squeeze in with Minho.

The ride was rocky and uncomfortable. For several stops, you could smell a hobo’s body odor from the other side of the cart. As more people kept trailing in, there was less space for you and Minho. At some point, your chest was only an inch away from his. If Minho was tired, he could’ve rested his head on top of yours.

The closer you were getting to Chan’s, the slower Minho walked. During the walk back, he didn’t talk much. From time to time, he would give you a chuckle or smile if you commented on something random. When you mentioned something about his relationship with Yeri, he only replied with short responses.

You were worried because he seemed so dejected. You wanted to help, but it was up to him to make his own choices. You didn’t want to dictate anything, but you knew for sure that if he wasn’t happy with his relationship, then it was time to say goodbye.

When you finally arrived in front of Chan’s apartment, Minho asked for a hug. Back then, you would’ve initiated the hug because you liked him, but now you’re over him. He tugged on the sleeve of your hoodie, pulling you in for a tight embrace. “To be honest with you…” He mumbled, “I’ve been thinking about breaking up with Yeri for a while now.”

He pulled away to scan your face for a reaction, but you just blinked at him with tired eyes. Minho nervously sighed, preparing himself to say the douchiest thing ever. “After you confessed, I realized that I like you and I have since we first met, but you’re over me now. Aren’t you?”

As ridiculous as it seems, you knew you were over Minho but a small part of you wanted to say no.

Little did you know, Chan was listening to the conversation this whole time. He went to pick up his mail because he forgot to check the mailbox after unloading groceries from earlier. By the time Minho finished confessing, Chan was fuming. After closing his mailbox shut which resulted in a loud bang, he stepped out to intervene. Gripping tightly on the monthly advertisements and statements he received, he almost crushed them in his hands.

“I-” You said, but Chan cut you off.

“Don’t Y/N, because you goddamn know that you’re not a second choice.”

xi.

“I’m going to be super mad if you drop your phone on my face.”

Chan chuckled at your cute comment. After you said that, he purposely hovered his phone over your face. His couch wasn’t big enough for the two of you to lay down, so you made him sit. That way, you could lay your head on his lap. His legs were very hard and muscular from swimming, but that didn’t stop you from using them as a pillow. Chan was still playing Trivia Crack, but it wasn’t fair for you. He’s been beating you in every round, but he still insists on challenging you to another one.

After he acquired another category, the familiar theme played in the background and you groaned. “I don’t want to play this game anymore.”

“What do you want to play then?” He asked.

You shrugged, “I don’t know, just not that stupid game.”

“Then what do you want to do?”

“Just talk,” you blinked.

“We’ve been talking,” Chan teased.

“You know what? I don’t want to talk anymore,” you huffed childishly.

“Get out of my house then,” he retorted.

You slapped his chest, breaking into small fits of laughter because you knew he would never kick you out. Chan’s threats were always lighthearted, and he knew it too. He laughed along, helping you sit up as you removed your head from his lap.

Lately, your growing feelings for Bang Chan scared you.

In the process of getting over Minho, you didn’t want to admit your growing feelings towards Chan. You knew you weren’t fully over him yet, but you were afraid of making it seem like you were using Chan to get over Minho. You didn’t want him to get the wrong idea, because you genuinely liked him.  

At some point, Chan was scared too.

He used to be scared shitless at the thought of developing feelings for you, but nowadays, he could care less. Ever since that night where you discovered Minho’s relationship, Chan knew he liked you. It’s been really tiring to deny afterward, and he had no intention of hiding it anymore. Ever since senior year of high school, he’s been putting his feelings to the side.

Tiring, wasn’t it?

Chan teased you even more and you tried smacking him again. He always found you predictable, catching your wrist in his hand before yours could come in contact with his chest. “I don’t think so,” he leaned in, laughing at your struggling state.

“Not fair, you’re way stronger than I am,” you whined as he got a hold of your other wrist.

As he held both of your wrists in his hands, you leaned your head onto his shoulder. Chan looked down, feeling nervous yet happy at the close proximity while you were a queasy mess. It was nice to be physically and emotionally closer to someone. Whether it was giving you a comforting hug or holding on to your wrists to keep yourself from attacking him, Chan always wished for one thing: he wished it lasted longer. When you pulled away, he gently let go, feeling a little disappointed.

“Y/N, can I ask you something?” Chan asked.

You nodded, “Go for it.”

“Do you still have feelings for Minho?”

Startled by his question, you sat up, bringing your knees up to hug. “I wouldn’t know, Chan. As of now, I feel like I’m over him completely, but you never know. I can’t guarantee anything.”

After Minho confessed that one night, you told him how you felt the next day. You knew he was only confused, and it would never work out with him. It took you long enough to realize, but you finally did it. You knew you were better off with someone else, and Chan was right.

You are never a second choice. 

“Ah, I see,” he said, suddenly becoming quiet.

“I just can't see myself liking him all over again, I’m happy at where I am right now. I don’t want any more emotional baggage, really.”

“That’s good.”

You sheepishly smiled, “I also like someone else too, so … Yeah.”

Chan’s heart raced. He felt all sorts of emotions at the moment. He felt hopeful, surprised, and disappointed, all at the same time.

He was hopeful that your crush could be him since you’ve been spending most of your time with him nowadays.

He was also surprised because it meant you were doing well, and most likely over Minho.

Lastly, Chan felt disappointed at the scenario that played in his head: you being with someone who wasn’t and most definitely better than him.

“Who?”

You shook your head, giving him a teasing smile. “Only time will tell.”

“Because I like someone too.”

“Who?”

“If you paid attention, time would tell you,” he laughed, combing the waves of his hair with his fingers. Your face scrunched in confusion as you were still unaware of what he was trying to tell you. “Time?” You asked.

“Time,” he nodded.  

xii.

And time most certainly did.

One moment you were sitting on Chan’s couch. The next, you were on his bed, straddling his lap during a heated kiss. Chan parted his lips slightly, slowly increasing the pressure to deepen the kiss. He was the first to pull away, chuckling at the sight of your swollen lips. While maintaining eye contact, he dominantly flipped you over, changing his and your positions, causing you to squeal. Chan placed a knee between your legs as he gripped on your waist to keep himself up.

While biting your lower lip, you flirtatiously glanced down at Chan’s. His lips were smudged and swollen with your favorite lip balm tint. He leaned in, gently cupping your cheek in his hand. His hands were soft and warm. You didn’t want him to feel unreciprocated from your lack of contact, so you wrapped an arm around his neck and placed your other hand onto his chest.

Chan missed the feeling of kissing you and leaned in to capture your lips once more. He took over, using his tongue to part your mouth slowly, then playfully caressing yours with his. You pulled him closer to you, enjoying the churning feeling that was growing inside of your stomach. When you stopped feeling his chest and moved your hands to run through his dark waves, Chan used less tongue and began to tease you. While catching your bottom lip between his teeth, he gently nibbled, finishing off the kiss with a long tug.

He plopped down beside you, feeling more lighthearted than ever. You both breathed heavily from making out, chests heaving and eyes on the ceiling. Your heart pounded against your chest, and Chan combed a hand through his hair before sighing in content. When he turned to face you, you turned your head and smiled.

Bang Chan was cute when he was smiling because his eye smile was more prominent. They formed into crescents, making you want to hug and kiss him even more. He took one of your hands in his, bringing it up to his face. After rubbing circles, Chan kissed the back of your hand. It was your turn to cup his cheek, and you poked the center of his chest.

You flicked his nose with your finger, laughing when he fell for your prank.

“I think it’s time for me to go home,” you suggested.

Chan sighed but didn’t object since it was getting late. He would love for you to stay and cuddle till you both fell asleep, but it was his little sister’s birthday tomorrow. He had already planned to go home tonight and surprise Hannah in the morning.

When Chan pulled up in front of your place, he neatly parallel parked and exited the car at the same time as you. Even if it meant walking five flight of stairs because the elevator was out of service for maintenance, he still wanted to walk you all the way to your door.

When you arrived at your door, Chan promised to bring cake after Hannah’s birthday party finished. You didn’t believe him, so he cutely reached for your fingers, giving you a pinky promise. You grew soft at his gesture and said goodnight to him.

But not without giving a quick peck on his cheek.

“Y/N,” he called out, giving you a lingering kiss on the lips before letting you go. “Goodnight.”

[frogocado]

A Golden Labyrinth of Noise Part 2 (Damien Haas au)

I hope you’re all having a swell week. Regardless of where this story goes or how long it takes me to write, I really love the direction it’s going. This turned out to be around 3,300 words and who knows how long other chapters would be but this is also the first long-term fiction work I’ve written since graduating college. Thank you to everyone that’s read it, shared it, or given me feedback! I was wondering if anyone wanted to be on a tag list for when I post new chapters? My inbox is always open. Read the previous chapter here, view the whole tag here.

2. Sailing or Drowning

The only sounds in the tunnel were Damien’s breathing and his boots cutting through grit and dirt and mud. He had never felt so alive. He couldn’t believe that everything had actually worked, even if it wasn’t the original plan he had settled on. He was stumbling through the dark, bumping into the stone that seemed to catch him in its arms. The tunnel smelled of musk and piss and rotting food, but there wasn’t another place the prince would want to be—not the labyrinth, not his royal bath with the little waterfall, not near the stables with the royal horses, but here. He couldn’t believe the guard had not only informed him of the passage through the tunnel, but had actually allowed him to leave.

Damien suddenly felt a joy so large in his chest that he began to laugh, the tunnel filling with excitable vibrato. It was as if the rock around him was vibrating. And then, suddenly, he had reached a metal gate. His laughter stopped and he exhaled, listening hard. There was a moment of quiet and then… A drip of water ahead of him, landing in a small puddle just beyond the gate. And, beyond that, the sounds of people and steps in gravel above him. His heart thumped so loud in his chest that he barely caught the sound of clanging chainmail in the tunnel behind him.  He had to leave and he had to leave now before he was found out.

Taking a deep breath, the prince put his hand on the cold, dark gate and pushed. It opened with a screech that reminded him of his tutor whom had ground his teeth so hard during their lessons that the healers were attempting to craft him a new set of teeth. He took a few careful steps forward, feeling with his hands in front of him. His fingertips brushed what felt like a metal shelf. He stood still, raising his hand to what felt like another shelf. He grasped it and lifted himself, going up, up, up. The crunching of rock above him as his guide, Damien climbed the ladder until his hand brushed a much sturdier shelf above him. Around what had to be an edge appeared a dim and inviting orange glow. Bracing himself against the narrow wall, Damien pushed his shoulder against the metal weight. It groaned as it lifted and Damien nearly fell down the ladder from the sheer force back at him.

He clutched at the top step of the ladder, breathing hard. Then, with a shaking hand, he climbed out from underneath. His hands were clutching cobblestones, curated nails now lightly stained with mud. Pulling himself up, he was thankful Knight Topp had given him the sack to protect his clothes. He was now standing in a narrow, stone room, candles alight in each corner.

Below him, he heard a clatter. Damien glanced back down into the hole, cursing when he saw Knight Topp beginning to climb the ladder. “You said you wouldn’t try to stop me!” He cried, grabbing the metal cover.

The guard looked up toward the prince. Damien noticed Knight Topp wasn’t winded at all, even with his iron boots. “I’m not trying to stop you,” he replied, looking away again as he began to climb.

Damien roared, pushing the heavy metal cover back over the opening. It wouldn’t be a permanent fix, but it could buy him some time. With that very thought, Damien searched for an exit out of the room. Hands moving along rock and mortar, he finally found a break in the pattern and pushed. The door groaned, stone grinding on stone, as he pushed his way out. When it opened, he immediately recognized his surroundings. He took a careful step out of the stone mausoleum, turning in his place to see his house name carved out of stone above him.

He stumbled backwards in shock, nearly falling down the short steps into the rest of the cemetery. The last time Damien stood in this spot, in this place, he was six years old, his uncle’s body being carried into the stone room underneath a draped piece of sapphire velvet cloth. The sound of Knight Topp pushing on the metal cover forced Damien out of his thoughts. He would have to ask his father about it later—where his uncle really was if Damien had pushed his way out of what was supposed to be his family’s resting place.

Damien left the cemetery and turned into the streets, following the dull orange hues of candle light.  Despite the sun having set a few hours prior, he was surprised to see the city’s people still in the streets. He adjusted the canvas hood and took a deep breath, walking to join the crowd.

Damien’s heart felt like it was in his throat as his boots carried him over gravel. Although he had entered the city streets almost a dozen times, each was from the back of a horse during one of the parades celebrating his father’s reign. He had been so busy waving and forcing a smile so hard his cheek muscles would hurt for days afterward, he never actually took any of it in. Without the walls of noise, the city seemed to sigh as it welcomed him inside.

Candles were alight in upper windows above shops and through the flame flickering in the glass, Damien could observe people writing in journals, preparing for supper, or simply lounging with their pets. In the square, only three establishments still had their downstairs lights on. The bakery where the Queen had gotten him his third birthday cake, serving evening cakes and teas to patrons before they headed home to drape coats across the mantles or across the street to the pub. The iron and ore smithy was next to it, candles down to the base of their wicks, where a man the size of a black bear was shouting a harsh baritone at three boys smaller than Damien.

The prince strayed off of the gravel closer than most would dare to the shop. The man’s eyes flicked over at him and he immediately stood still as their eyes locked, frozen. He couldn’t fucking believe it, he hadn’t even been out of the castle an hour and his curiosity had already gotten him caught. “Oi!” The bear bellowed. Damien thought he could see the hair of his beard nearly leap when he yelled. “We open tomorrow at nine! Piss off, old man.”

Damien’s heart swelled deep in his chest and he turned away from the man, grinning like a madman. Maybe he could ask his father to give Knight Topp a pardon for his intelligent suggestion of a potato sack, he thought as he began to cross the square toward the pub. As his feet were falling into the yellow glow basking from the windows, he watched the movement of patrons inside. People were open mouthed, whether from yelling or laughing, the prince couldn’t be sure. He had never seen a gathering so active, even the small politicking parties his cousins occasionally threw whenever Damien drifted by for a visit.

Drawn, the prince stepped forward, pushing the heavy oak door open. Noise spilled through the open space like a dam breaking loose and free and Damien found himself being swallowed inside. Chandeliers hung from iron rings, candles alight and dancing. Plush couches and pillows were in front of a fireplace with a small, makeshift stage off to the side. People were lounging on the couches or draped across tables. Two men pushed past the prince and for the door, jostling him as his hood nearly fell off his head. Mumbling an apology, Damien held onto the canvas of his hood and kept his eyes on his boots and the wooden floor, pushing his way toward the bar.

Slipping into a spot in the corner, Damien finally raised his gaze. The bartender nodded toward him as he approached. “What’ll it be?” The man wore a frown and a scowl, something Damien wouldn’t have expected from a man with such bright orange hair. He hadn’t even realized he was staring until there was a shift in the man’s eyes. “Do we have a problem?” He asked in a gruff voice.

“No, I was just…” He was just wondering what he had used to get that sort of color. Blackberries, upon squishing between fingers, always produced the kind of purple that was reasonable for Damien to blot under his eyes or around his mouth to fake a bruise.  Boiled carrots, perhaps…

The man looked at him expectantly. Damien sat up and cleared his throat, trying to drop it half an octave into his impersonation of his father. “I’ll have a mead, sir.”

The bartender clicked his tongue as he turned away, grabbing a pint glass before moving to a barrel in the opposite corner. Damien thought he could hear the man grumble about a mead to the face, but he couldn’t be sure. He glanced back around the pub, an agile creature moving picking up glasses as it danced between tables. His glass landing on the table pulled him back and Damien reached into his pocket for his coin.

“Ten silvers,” the man said, his voice like dark smoke curling out of an oven.

“Ah, just… one second, then.” Damien dumped his bag on the bar, realizing it might have been much more than he had originally planned. He began to count out his silver pieces before a hand slammed down onto the bar, covered his coins. Alarmed, he looked up.

“David, you have never once served mead so sweet it was worth anything more than five silvers and a bronze.” Knight Topp’s eyes were locked on the bartender. He wondered when the knight had time to ditch his armor and still catch up with the prince. Damien rolled his eyes nearly hard enough to make himself dizzy. There was a silence that fell between the three of them that was thick enough to block out some of the noise, like someone had stuffed cotton in his ears.

Then, the bartender glanced toward the prince again. Slowly, he said, “five silvers for your mead, sir.” Each word seemed to give the man the feeling of chewing on glass because he cringed harder and harder as his sentence continued. Knight Topp pushed the coins toward the bartender before sweeping the rest into Damien’s coin purse. He gave him a light smile, offering the velvet clutch of fabric to the prince.

Damien grabbed it angrily before sighing, looking down at his pint glass. “You’re going to blow my cover,” he said, turning away from the bright smile of the man next to him as he faced the rest of the bar. His eyes glanced across heads and tables, finally settling on a corner table tucked close to a staircase.

“You’re going to blow your own cover,” Knight Topp said over his shoulder as he followed the prince closely.

Damien scoffed as he slipped onto the bench, hand tightening around his mug. “I’ll have you know I saw the smithy outside before and he didn’t recognize me,” he said coolly, raising the mug to his lips to take a sip. He had felt like Knight Topp was just showing off with knowing the bartender earlier, as if trying to prove to Damien that he was second in command for a reason.

But as Knight Topp pulled up a chair, the taste of his drink had Damien’s eyes closing, features contorting into a scowl. “My… prince?” Knight Topp implored with some hesitation, but when Damien opened his eyes, the man was fully grinning. “You alright, then?”

“Are all drinks outside the grounds this putrid and horrible?” Damien asked, wiping his mouth on the canvas of his disguise. He took another sip anyway.

Knight Topp shook his head. “No, just at David Moss’s place.” He was quiet for only a moment (a moment too short and Damien considered asking the knight to be quiet for longer, since it was such a nice change) before he began to speak to the prince once again. “The only reason why Raub didn’t recognize you is because the fires in his stables were too bright to see you. Do you truly not realize that a king has never dared to walk amongst his people the way you do? Your stunt, my prince, while ill-planned and executed—“

“Thank you.”

“—Is incredibly risky and… I beg your pardon, dangerous?”

Damien scoffed again, pointing at the knight with a napkin that was discarded on their table. “You’re beginning to sound more and more like my father, Sir Knight. And don’t call me that in public.”

Damien could see the knight’s frustration that he had ignored everything he had told him, but then the knight raised an eyebrow. “Then how shall I address you, sir?”

The prince took another sip of his mead, which was becoming easier to swallow the more he forced it down his throat. If anything, from this evening, at least he had the possibility of gaining a buzz. “By my name.” He sat back, folding one leg over his other knee. He felt quite proud of himself. “And I shall address you as the same, since we’re just two acquaintances sharing a drink.”

Knight Topp sighed, defeated. “I shall go get myself a drink.” He stood from the table. “And then you and I, Damien, will head for home.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Knight Topp stood there for a long moment and Damien rolled his eyes, waving his hand at him. “You’re dismissed.” The man left and Damien reveled the moment he had alone and away from the other.

From his spot, he felt confident enough to examine the pub more closely. Knight Topp, at the bar, now laughing jovially with the bartender and a blonde waitress who seemed to know the knight well enough to punch him twice in the shoulder. His eyes lingered for a moment before he was caught by your shape moving amongst the tables again. His lip quirked from the way you seemed to dance and flit between the patrons, easily stepping over drunken men even before they began to fall from their stools towards you. A tray balanced in your left hand and five mugs caught in your right, you moved to deposit dishes behind the bar before you immediately entered the dangerous fray again.

When Knight Topp returned, he, the bartender, and the waitress were all still grinning. Damien studied the man, who, despite admitting how overpriced and shitty the drinks they had both purchased were, was suddenly chugging half of his ale. “Do you come here a lot?” Damien asked him, lowering his feet to the floor as he scooted forward on the bench.

“It’s the only pub in town,” Knight Topp answered, which wasn’t really an answer. “There’s a few good ones in the village neighboring ours but the walk is nearly thirty minutes longer and that’s about how long it normally takes me to finish an ale after an easy day.”

Damien was only half listening at this point. His eyes strayed to you again and Shayne drained the rest of his mug, setting it down on the table hard enough the prince nearly jumped. “I’ve finished my ale,” he announced. “Time to leave.”

Damien narrowed his eyes at the knight, shaking his head. “But I haven’t finished my mead.” Knight Topp narrowed his eyes in return and tried to swipe at Damien’s mug. Having tried a similar tactic on a distant cousin who wouldn’t let him have any of the good wine at a family event, Damien saw the move coming and held the mug high into the air.

He slapped lightly at Knight Topp’s hand. “Stop,” he warned, switching hands when the man tried once again to yank the mug away. “I order you to stop. You’re going to make me spill my very expensive drink!”

Knight Topp settled back down into his chair, slumping back. “It’s fine,” he said, sounding slightly more defeated than Damien had expected. “Either way, I’m sure your father will have me hung for treason by the afternoon ‘morrow.”

Damien’s mug was halfway to his lips before he paused at the word. “For treason?” He repeated, taking another slow sip. He considered the implications of the evening and the way the patriarchy would see it. “I’ll have a talk with him if he raises any concern.”

“If?” The knight gave a laugh and Damien wasn’t quite sure what was funny. He dropped his voice, leaning over the table to keep the conversation between the two of them. “M-my prince… Damien… I was given strict orders by the King to bring you to your quarters for the evening and then I was an accessory in your escape.”

Damien hadn’t thought about it that way. He had forgotten that this was all a risk; that his plan had dumbly interfered with someone else’s livelihood. “Then why did you stay?”

“Because you are my prince and it’s my duty to protect you. I kept you from being overcharged like a tosser, didn’t I?”

Damien found himself looking this man in his eyes and grinning like a fool. His father would have a cursed fit if he could see his son making eye contact with civilians. The thought twisted his gut and Damien sat back quickly, eyes wide. “Sir Knight, you can still follow orders. You will bring me to my quarters for the evening.”

He began to drain his ale and Knight Topp began to laugh and then suddenly you were approaching their table. You caught the prince’s attention immediately, not just because of the way you seemed to dance as if surrounded by pix, but from the way all of the noise seemed to be swallowed up in just the movement of you. Walls of noise were falling away and Damien found himself sinking into the waves again, an undertow hitting him in the gut and pulling hard. And then… you smiled. You, someone who was supposedly lower than Damien simply because of family and gender and status, looked him straight in the eyes and smiled.

You were gone as quickly as you were there, collecting both mugs from the men before you were behind the bar again. But Damien was stuck in his seat, even when Knight Topp rose from his place and clapped him on the shoulder. For the first time, Damien felt like he had actually been seen by someone.

“You’re drunk already? Really?” Knight Topp’s snotty remark pulled Damien back into the stream of sounds. “Let’s get you back home.”

Damien stood from his seat on the bench and nearly swayed. “I’m not drunk. You should see me at family gatherings,” he tried to defend himself as Knight Topp led him out of the pub.

Damien didn’t tell Knight Topp to move his arm off of his shoulder even as they entered the street back toward the cemetery. The man eventually stretched both arms toward the stars before shoving his hands in his pockets as they climbed the hill and Damien turned to him a moment later. “Listen, I know you’re worried about treason and all but… if it’s any consultation, you’re a really good friend.”

Knight Topp stopped from picking up his chainmail next to the mausoleum, looking across the open space at his new friend. “Thank you.” They both smiled at each other before Knight Topp ducked into his armor, suddenly regaining all of the composure of the royal guard. “Since I’ve already committed treason thrice this evening, I hope you’ll pardon me when I say that you’re an ass.” He pushed the iron gate to the stone resting place open to the prince and bowed.

Damien scoffed before walking into the mausoleum, already planning his strategy to see a glimpse of you again. “You’re pardoned, my friend. Promise.”

[shit-i-write]

Mors Tua Vita Mea

Request: For my anon who wanted an AOS fic

Pairing: Reader x Quake (slightly), !platonicreader x Veddie

Warnings: Language

Summary: AOS mixed with Venom

Notes: ik i said there would be tongue but this is like 3-4 months late, and I really wanted to give it to my anon, its also a lot longer than I do for regular fics

“Eddie?!” You shout out, your mouth agape.

“Yes (Y/N). We are sending you and Agent Johnson to watch out for Mr. Brock, and his new ‘friend’” Agent Coulson says, sliding out of his seat and coming to stand next to you.

“Eddie as in Edwardo Brockton? Edward ‘Gonna get the Crap™ beat out of him’ Brockton? As in the Eddie I haven’t seen or heard from in almost 7 months?”

Coulson lets out a short chuckle at your “nicknames” for Eddie, and hands you a file. It contained profiles on both Eddie and Venom separately, some documents of their abilities together, and a small picture of them.

“We have reason to believe that they are being targeted by HYDRA, and we want to send both you and Daisy in to do a threat analysis of their current situation,” you look up at this, almost incredulous, and begin to open your mouth, but he cuts you off with “We understand that they are capable of taking care of themselves, but we need you there to just—“

“—keep an eye on them?” you interrupt, understanding where Coulson was going.

He gives you a small, soft smile, and replies, “Exactly.”

“If this is a mission for both Daisy and I…… where is she?”

“Daisy is on another, shorter mission, and will meet up with you a couple of hours after you arrive. We have already contacted Mr. Brock, and he will be waiting for you at the airport. I suggest you start getting your bags packed, you leave in….about….45 minutes.” Coulson looks up from his watch, and you give him a small nod.

Turning to leave for the door, you begin to walk away. As you get ready to walk out, you suddenly turn around to give him a hug, whispering a small ‘Thank You’ in his ear, and running out before he can react.

~~~~~

San Francisco was warm in September.

Warmer than you thought.

You weren’t gonna be phased by the weather, so you continued your way through customs. Even though you were a SHIELD. Agent, for this mission you had to pose as a civilian, which included going through the airport. Skipping the crowd for baggage claim, you walk out into the warm air, and look around, looking for the mop of brown hair you remembered.

The fucker’s nowhere to be seen, knew I should’ve called a cab.

As you continue to curse Eddie out in your head, you pull your phone out to find the nearest Uber or Lyft driver, not noticing the person approaching you from behind.

You did, however, feel the hand on your shoulder.

As an agent, you’re trained to be lithe and ready for any form of attack, which was how you ended up flipping this stranger onto his stomach, on the floor of the airport. You had his arm drawn behind his back, your knee on the small of his back, and a small knife dug into his shoulder. You were ready to yell at the man, interrogate him for getting too close, when you recognized the beat up black leather jacket, and the short crop of hair he had.

“Eddie fucking Brock?” You question, just to be sure. You had not seen him in a while, it was only natural that you were a little cautious.

“Yea, it’s me, I promise! Now will you get off of me, dumbass?” He says, although it’s muffled due to the fact that he’s still on the floor.

“Oh shit! Ye-yeah. ‘M sorry, shitty, I really am”

“It’s cool, truly. As long as you stay over there,” he says, getting up and dusting himself off. When he looks at you, he gives a slightly upset look, but bursts out laughing a few seconds later. You laugh along with him, and jump into his arms, not caring about the people who were watching the altercation as if you were both crazy.

“Is he here? Where’s my venom-babe?” You question, only here for one reason.

“Yea, he’s always here. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you like him more than me,” he says with a slight chuckle, ready for you to disprove his theory. You only give him a blank stare in return, waiting for him to catch on. His face falls as he realizes, and you burst out in laughter, not able to hold it in any longer.

“I’m joking, love. I came for the both of you, just a little helping out. We can talk more about it later, but not here, Ok?” You fix the duffle on your shoulder, and turn away, “Now….where’s your bike?”

~~~~~

Arriving in front of his apartment, you hop off the bike, and stroll up to the steps. You had been on the back of Eddie’s bike before, so you never rode with a helmet, letting the wind whip through your hair, and feeling the breeze brush against your face.

Even though you had gotten to his apartment complex, you waited till you were sat in his living room before saying anything about your fast arrival. Instead you make light conversation about his living situation.

“Damn bitch, you live like this?”

Eddie gives you a bewildered look, and lets out a loud sigh, “I swear, I leave you alone for 5 minutes, and the internet completely destroys your brain.”

He moves to grab something out of the fridge, while you get settled on the couch. As he walks over and hands you a bottle of water, what he had said registers in your mind.

“5 minutes?! Eddie you haven’t contacted me in 7 months. You’ve got a lot of nerve, Brock. You’re just lucky that I missed you so much, otherwise I would be beating the shit out of you right now,” you say before taking an angry sip of your water, “I bet you Venom wouldn’t even stop me until you were on the verge of passing out.”

“That’s so not true, right V?”

Venom pops his head out at being questioned, then looks from Eddie to you. Instead of answering, Venom crawls down Eddie’s arm, over the back of the small couch, and onto your shoulder. “We would allow it Eddie. You have left (Y/N) alone for so long, they deserve retribution, “ he says, with a wry smile, laughing at Eddie’s bewildered stare.

“You know what, you’re not allowed to be alone with each other. You and the parasite might just plan to cut my dick off in the middle of the night,”

You let out a loud gasp, and cover V’s ears (if they even have them..?), “You take that back now, you heathen! Take it back, or else!”

At that same time, Venom growls out, “Parasite?! Take it back, NOW!”

“No. Or else what?” He says with a grin, believing you wouldn’t do anything.

You let go of V and slide your phone out, ready to pull out the big guns. Eddie’s smile drops a little, but doesn’t leave his face. Clicking on your contacts, you easily find the name you’re looking for, and press the call button. The other person picks up after the third ring, and begins to yell your ear off, talking about how you fell off the face of the earth.

“Hey Anne--” you begin as realization dawns on Eddie’s face. In a flash, he jumps towards you, ready to grab the phone and hang up. You spin out of his way, and continue the conversation, “--I was just calling to tell you--” you leap to the side, place the phone on speaker, and use your strength to keep Eddie at arms length, “--that I’m gonna be staying with Eddie for a few days, maybe a little longer. I just want us to catch up sometime before I leave.”

Allowing Anne to respond, and finishing the conversation with her, you hang up and throw a shit eating grin Eddie’s way.

“You little sh-” He starts.

“Uh uh Brock, we wouldn’t want Anne to get involved now, would we?” The grin never leaving your face.

“Why are you here, anyway (Y/N)?” He drops himself down heavily into the couch, throwing his feet up onto the small coffee table, “I know you’re not here just to catch up.”

Before you could answer, the doorbell rang. Eddie gives you a confused look, not expecting anyone else. You give him a shrug, and hold a hand up to him, to stop him from going towards the door.

“This one smells different,” V pops up and says, then disappears back into Eddie, understanding to stay out of sight.

You hold onto the gun you have hidden at your side, and slowly move towards the door, not wanting the person on the other side to hear you. Looking through the peephole, you let go of your gun and pull the door open, throwing your arms around your girlfriend.

“Wha--well, shit love, I missed you too,” she said to you.

Daisy is good at anticipating many things, but you jumping her in the hallway of a rundown apartment building was not one of them. Although she wasn’t expecting it, she still manages to catch you, and prevents the both of you from falling.

In the midst of your endearing hug, Eddie cleared his throat, looking expectantly at you, hoping for what you guessed was an explanation.

~~~~~

After introducing Daisy to both Eddie and Venom, you explained the reason why you had shown up so unexpectedly. To say V was just a little insulted would have been the understatement of the year. He had nearly thrown a temper tantrum at the insinuation that he couldn’t handle a few humans, and it took everything you and Eddie had to get him relatively calm.

You tried hard to get Venom to understand the severity of the situation, the only luck coming when you managed to bribe him with the incentive of chocolate and tator tots as a celebratory dinner, afterwards.

The plan was set.

You were gonna take them out, tonight.

The information that Coulson gave you about Eddie, also included information about a nearby HYDRA base that was gonna be invaded soon. Your “team” just decided to speed up the invasion, and get Venom and Eddie in the clear.

Daisy’s SHIELD gear consisted of her black and purple catsuit, black combat boots, and her gauntlets. Since you had no powers of your own, your gear was a normal SHIELD catsuit, combat boots, and all the weapons you normally used, including your guns and knives. Eddie, unlike the two of you, only wore regular blue jeans, a plain white T, and his black leather jacket.

“Nice supersuit, dumbass,” Daisy says to Eddie, eliciting a snort from you, and a small growl from Venom.

“At least I don’t look like a damn….”

“A what? Cause I know that you don’t have anything ready to say back” Daisy has a smile that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame, and she aims it at Eddie. Before anything could happen, however, you grab their attention, and tell them that it’s time to start to move out to the warehouse.

Why is it that the bad guys are always holed up in a warehouse?

The warehouse is small, only two stories. The plan was to have Venom come in from above, while you and Daisy made your way from below, and then meet in the middle.

That was the plan you had came up with. The execution of that plan was almost nothing like you envisioned. Yes, Venom came from the roof, and you and Daisy came from the back, but there were barely any HYDRA agents in the building.

Something was definitely wrong.

“There are others” V says, looking around, then promptly looking to the floor, “under us, frightened….but more….noise?”

You strain your ears to hear what Venom was hearing, and what you heard was a low, steady beeping. Daisy looks at you at the same time you realize what the noise was.

“Bomb” you both say simultaneously.

“V, I need you to listen carefully. Those heartbeats below us, yea, they’re most likely hostages that HYDRA had taken. Good guys. You and Daisy need to get to them out of this building, while I find the bomb and deactivate it.”

“No! I’m not leaving you to the bomb alone, Venom can get them out, while--” Daisy starts to say.

“--Daisy, I love you, but it’s just one bomb,” you interrupt her. “There are multiple people that Venom is gonna need help with, please babe, just go help him. I’ll be right out behind you.”

Daisy thinks about what you said, and gives a short nod. Then she grabs the back of your neck and brings you in for a kiss, “I love you too.”

With that, they ran off to find the hostages, and you turn in search of the bomb. It takes you almost 1 full heart pounding minute to find it inside one of the crates.

0:47, not too bad, but I gotta hurry.

This would have been so much better if you actually knew how to defuse a bomb. What you did know how to do, however, was take off the faceplate just below the timer and stare, determined, at the wires underneath.

Fuck it, I’m gonna die.

The timer was now at 0:31, and you still haven’t made any progress with the interior of the bomb. Pushing into your ear, “How’s it going with the hostages?”

“We’ve got all of them together, and we’re moving away from the building….the bomb?”

“I’m working my way through the wires, I should be done before it hits 0.”

“Understood”

Before you could continue, you feel a slimey pull at your feet. Looking down, you see Venom attaching to your leg, and moving up your body. Looking behind you, you see Eddie standing there, waiting.

“The actual fuck are you doing, Brock?” Venom was moving up your body faster, and the bomb was counting down steadily, currently at 0:24.

“I know you don’t know what you’re doing, (Y/N),” Eddie says “And I also know that your girl is out there waiting for you, along with the rest of your team, it would be a real shame if you didn’t make it back to them, wouldn’t it?”

“Eddie, please, Venom can take us both out of here, right V?” Venom surprisingly stays silent at that, “Venom, please, tell Eddie that we can make it out alive, together.” Again, nothing.

“V and I have already talked this over, and this is what we agreed to. You can merge with Venom as well as I can, and now you get to be the hero, like you’ve always wanted.”

“Eddie, please don’t do this, I don’t wanna--” Venom overtakes your face before you can finish, and jumps out the window, without Eddie.

Once outside, Venom retracts into you, and you fell to your knees, tears flowing down your face. The building blew.

“Eddie!” You shout out, your mouth agape.

[whittynovels]

juliette & nazeera fic

My suggestion for this fic is to give it absolutely no context. It’s set in NZ, and somehow Nazeera is there, but that’s all I’ve got for world-building. But after Restore Me I think we can all agree that Juliette is bi and Nazeera is a lesbian, and if this scene hadn’t been written, I don’t think I could’ve survived it. So, here we are.

I don’t need to turn around to recognize her footsteps. I hadn’t quite been anticipating them, but my indifference at being disturbed doesn’t shock me. My eyes had blurred from staring in the same place so long, so lost in my own head I had nearly forgotten where I sat. The noise of boots crunching on sand recalibrates my pulse, and my vision clears. It clears to lavender and ash mountain peaks dusted in snow flurries coral the landscape in a semicircle. The peaks climb so tall that the secrets and friends and societies beyond them are lost to their jagged tips and the clouds. The gentle, lapping waves of the lake look the same as they have for the past three hours, the foam leaving a rim of froth just inches from my feet. Sitting on the shore, arms wrapped around my knees, it still shocks me to revive my senses and remind myself where I am. The numbness in my limbs recedes a fraction, just to climb back under my skin as soon as the footsteps stop beside me. Neither of us speaks, and she doesn’t move to sit next to me, either. If I embed myself into this earth and become a tree, she’ll go away. Solitary and life-bearing. It must be nice to a tree. I can hardly suppress the chuckle. “Here,” she finally says, and a beige flutter enters my peripheral vision. My fingers have been clasped to my knees for so long, they must have become stone by now. When she realizes I’m not going to turn to her or accept whatever she’s offering me, a gentle sigh erupts from her chest. I wait for her to turn and retreat; instead, she joins me on the sand. The warmth of insulated nylon falls over my shoulders, the empty sleeves of a jacket draped across my back flapping in the breeze. Afterward, it’s graciously silent between us. I hadn’t noticed how much I must have been growing colder in the sinking sunlight until tickles of warmth runs its fingers down my back and some numbness lifts. For a long time, the gentle caress of water occupies the only noise between us. And then-- “I wanted to tell you,” Nazeera says. “So much.” I try to laugh with what little bitterness I can spare her, but the sound erupts from me like a scoff nevertheless. But it’s this, this admission that finally makes my spine crack, my head turn toward her. Nazeera doesn’t meet my gaze. She’s staring solemnly at the water with just the barest wrinkle in her brow as if trying to decipher a message written at the bottom of the sand. Her brown face is creaseless, devoid of a single ripple of emotion. “You knew,” I finally whisper. The words pummel into my heart like rocks tumbling down a storm drain. My ribcage expands and aches with the invisible wound, the betrayal. For the first time, her chin snaps in my direction, her face already transformed into misery and her lips already parted. “El—Juliette—” “Please,” I protest, my voice catching. I have to turn away back to the water again, counting and breathing and digging my fingernails into my palms. Nazeera quiets dutifully, but her face is still turned to me. Waiting. I’m hardly breathing. My head, my heart feels heavy. I don’t know how to walk away from this. I don’t know if I can. I look up at the mountains, at their ferocity and imposing stature. “Do you remember it?” She asks, her voice low and mournful. “At all? Do you remember me?” And I want to close my eyes to savor the few images that surface with spotting like frayed edges of a photograph, but I don’t trust myself to decipher what’s real. And yet, I don’t want to lie to her. “I don’t know,” I admit helplessly, perching my chin on top of my knee. My eyes grow unfocused again as they gaze across the water. Nazeera shifts, not quite closer to me, but somehow more angled toward me than before. I don’t know if she’s looking at me or away when she next whispers, “Do you want to?” The answer to this question takes me more seconds to find. I think of the photographs in my pocket, the relics of a past life that is still so new it doesn’t feel real. The sundresses and bikes and smiles all belong to an imaginary girl, although I’ve seen the dress hanging in the closet and the bike in the garage. I’d been too afraid to verify if the smile remained the same. I now allow myself the clearance to marvel over Warner’s propensity to avoid mirrors. For the first time, I think I understand. A smile can’t possibly be hers and mine simultaneously. I spend so long contemplating this that Nazeera must assume I’m declining. She must have been watching me, then, because the sun catches the gleaming folds of her burgundy headscarf as she turns her face away. I stand abruptly, the jacket nearly slipping from my shoulders before I remember to slip my arms into the sleeves. Nazeera stands beside me, brushing errant sand from the back of her leggings while watching me cautiously. I dig in my back pocket. Her eyes study the movement, calculating my nerves. Calculating me. Calculating the photograph I produce. I bite the inside of my cheek instead and stand up straighter, though Nazeera is easily four inches taller than me without the heeled boots. When I produce the little stack of pictures, I select the third picture without needing to shuffle through them.   I turn it to her, hating my hands for shaking. Nazeera only glances at it briefly, however, before returning her gaze to my face. Her eyebrows are pulled together. Concern for me, not for the contents of the photograph. My lungs collapse. “What is this? When was this?” I ask, the words spilling from me. “Do you remember this? Is this—here?” I gesture wildly to the trees and diameter of purple peaks around us, and the louder I become, the firmer Nazeera’s lips settle into a grimace. “Maybe you should discuss with—” “No,” I interrupt, emphatically shaking the picture at her to recapture her attention to it. “I need you to tell me. I need you.” She looks down to the polaroid once more, but her expression stays the same. She doesn’t take the time to inspect its creases and the smiling expressions of the girls and the way their eyes lit up as they regarded each other. My arms fall to my sides in defeat, the revelation slamming over me like a weighted blanket: she doesn’t just remember, but she’s also seen this picture before. None of this is new for her. “I—” she begins, seemingly unable to decide between staring at my watering eyes or my shaking hands clenching the pictures at my sides. She seems to take a moment to collect herself before locking her eyes onto my face. “I refused to forget,” she finally finishes. I slide the polaroid back into place among the others. Though I’ve been successful at refusing to look at the pictures constantly, especially the ones I know I shouldn’t be carrying, an unnamed instinct reaches for the final picture in the stack. My eyes have traversed its contents for so many hours that each dust mote in the air and grain of wood in the stairwell bannister are imprinted behind my eyelids. I turn the picture to Nazeera, but still hold it close to me so that she doesn’t try to take it. “And him?” I ask. She shakes her head and backs away a step. “It’s . . . complicated. I think it’s best he tell you in his own time.” “If he’s alive!” I shout, incredulous laughter lacing fingers with my strained vocal chords. As her light brown eyes assess me, the diamond of Nazeera’s lip piercing sparkles in the setting sun. Nazeera watches me watch her, and when I return the pictures into my back pocket, her gaze lingers there for a second too long. “This is bullshit,” I continue with a choke, abandoning the numbness and solitude, damn sounding like a petulant child. “Everything’s been a lie. Everything. I don’t even know who I want to be anymore. Which girl am I? The Supreme’s daughter or the Supreme Commander?” Tears are overflowing freely, and my boots are creating deep treads in the sand where I’ve begun pacing. “I don’t know if I can be both and I don’t know who would let me and, God, I don’t even know if my entire staff is alive and—” “Hey,” Nazeera interrupts, and before I can turn and wipe my eyes, her hands are clasped against my cheeks. The suddenness of the touch startles me, her unflinching resolve to touch me bare-handed even more so. My eyes are freshly watering, warm tracks of tears navigating in rivulets down my cheeks. I wait for her to continue speaking, my chin quivering between her thumbs, rapt. She’s silent. Instead, her fingers slide up my cheeks so that her thumbs sweep away the chill of fallen tears. The panic that had risen in me is dulled to the sensation of her warm hands cradling my cheeks and the comforting shadow of her nearness. Her fingertips, damp with the evidence of my misery, caress the edges of my face. You’re so strong and so pretty, I had said to her. So strong and I want to be like you. Up close, she’s every bit as otherworldly as she had seemed when I was half-dead. Radiance uncontained. Her skin, the shade of the sand beneath our feet, only warm, and smoother than a coat of paint. In this heart are stampedes, I think. My pulse beats beyond my control, swept up in an inevitable tide. My feet move with the momentum of my racing nerves, my weight rising onto my toes, and through the blurriness of my own emotions I can only hardly register the anticipatory parting of her lips as my mouth seeks hers. For a moment, the taste of her is so debilitating that I can only breathe her in. The intoxicating sweetness of her mouth coats my lips and the tip of my tongue. I wait for her to still, to push me away, for my heart to realize this is not what I want, but she steps closer and parts her lips against mine, and I’m captured again by the sweetness of her. Those candies, I realize. How she always offered one to me. Always seemed to have one on her person. Sure enough, as I slide my arms around her waist beneath her jacket, I hear the crinkle of wrappers through the inner fabric of her pocket. My hands are so unaccustomed to the new curves they encounter, I can’t help but marvel at the shape of her. She is the precise balance of softness and angles; the soft dip of flesh before the hard ridges of ribs; the sensuous dip of lower back before the hard ridge of her spine. Her mouth is eager against mine, insistent and prying in a way that isn’t at all invasive. I keep waiting to be overpowered, but every new incline of her head is mutual, reaching new depths in my capacity for exhilaration.  She breaks away to breathe, inclining her forehead against mine and letting me sink back to my heels. I don’t realize I’m clinging to her, my arms wrapped around her in a tight embrace until her own slide around my shoulders. “I missed you,” she whispers, her voice crackling like static on a radio. “I’m so sorry.” I lick my lips, savoring the aftertaste of sugary sweet strawberry staining them. Even her breath makes my mouth water anew. I feel so dizzy, the hollowness in my chest feels for a moment without a source. Intoxication drives my fingers to caress her ribcage once more. “You found me,” I murmur, opening my eyes. Hers are looking back into mine, our faces so close that our eyelashes are practically skimming. Nazeera runs a single hand from my shoulder blade to the base of my neck, cupping my face close to her. A laugh escapes her, incredulous, and as her lips navigate across mine again, the pull of our smiles slowing the tempo our heated embrace.  She finally pulls away to press a kiss to my forehead, and I breathe in the herbal undertones of the scarf wrapped beneath her chin. “And now,” Nazeera says with a note of finality that signals I should drop my arms from her. I’m quickly growing colder with the absence of her body heat, but she extends a hand to me, an unwavering hardness in her gaze. “We have to find Emma.”

[writerleo86]

Armor Champions Super R - Episode 139 (Do Not Copy Please)

   During the late evening in Sentina City, the team of armored heroes led by Jede of the CosmicFire all stood at one side of the sandy ground while the other group led by Agis Basileus remained at another.

   Meanwhile, Kody of the HardRock floated in the sky as he held the hand of the scared boy named Nemo Roth. And the young mother of the child had watched the confrontation from the porch of her small house.

   "Surrender the chosen child to us now," Basileus told his opponents. "And we will leave you in peace. Or you, Armor Champions, shall die where you stand."

   Jede of the CosmicFire informed the villain "We will not let you have him. Nemo Roth has us as his guards as of now."

   "Ya not gettin' yer hands on da kid!" yelled Desoto of the BlackShadow. "Ya gonna have ta kill us!"

   A male voice soon asked "So, they know how to play?"

   Someone walked toward the right side of Basileus as they said "These little mice had no manners at all, do they?"

   And there stood the deranged man named Damian Spade. He folded his arms and answered in a childish voice "Let us play Everyone."

   Both Desoto and his cousin -- Joey of the EnergyTree -- watched in disgust as the newcomer placed his right hand on the left hand of Basileus which held his straight sword.

   "It's okay Agis," Damian whispered. "You can kill them."

   After that, a being dived toward the battlefield from the dark sky.

   "Great Hera!" Jede shouted. "What is that?"

   It was a large creature resembling a bird. It had three long tails and large wings. And its body was surrounded by a fiery purple light.

   The creature landed at the middle of the battlefield and transformed into another being as Nina of the GreatRose cried "By Mars!"

   It turned into a male human with fair skin and cold purple eyes. He had purple hair that was short and wavy. And he had a well-built figure. He wore black robes along with black pants. He had on a pair of long black boots and black gloves. And he had a small golden treasure placed on the front of his collar.

   Once the fiery light around him faded, the man stood before the villains as his arms were folded back.

   The shaken Gei of the RedPlanet popped up his head and cried "Brother?"

   Then Jede of the CosmicFire called "By the Gods of Olympus! Mr. Sastro?"

Armor Champions Super R -- Episode 139:  The Arrival of the Grandmaster

   Next, Kody of the HardRock joined the other champions. He faced the man in black as the boy Nemo remained in a shaken state.

   "Lord Sastro?" Kody called.

   A circle of wind quickly blew from his body as the man faced the group of villains with determination. Then one of them walked toward both Agis Basileus and Damian Spade.

   "Who is the new weakling?" Muiten questioned. "Another challenger, I presume?"

   "Withdraw at once Muiten!" Basileus responded. "He is beyond any of us."

   "You are but a coward Vampire," Muiten told him. "And this... This person is nothing compared to me. He appears to not carry the wild instincts that we of the Terlanium people possess. He is harmless!"

   "No!" Basileus informed his comrade. "He is anything but. His body I do not recognize. But his eyes... Yes, there is no mistake. That man is none other than the God of Fighting himself. We all must not contend with him for the fact that he wields powers greater than ours."

   Muiten faced the scared Basileus and asked "Are you speaking of Sastro Allazar? You say that this mere being is the Great Master -- the one who was feared by even my great kings?"

   Basileus lowered his sword and answered "Indeed. That is indeed He, the legendary Grandfather of the Arts."

   Suddenly, Damian gave out a loud laugh. After that, he placed his right hand forward and responded.

   "I don't care who this guy is! Even the Great Lord Allazar can be beaten!"

   "Don't do it, you fool!" yelled Muiten.

   First, Damian fired a pair of black wires from a small globe of pale-blue light on his right hand. At the tip of each wire was a sharp blade. His opponent pushed his hands forward which caused a strong wind to blew from around him. And the wind had forced the two projectiles into the air.

   Afterwards, Damian tossed an item high into the air with his left hand. This was a large black umbrella that opened and spun around as thousands of long needles were released to his opponent as well as the young champions.

   "Die, Die, Die!" Damian yelled.

   Desoto of the BlackShadow raced forward and protected himself and his team by forming a large barrier of black energy around them. Meanwhile, sand rose around Kody of the HardRock from the ground. And the sand formed into small balls of orange fire that burned more of the needles.

   "Earth Release..." Kody called. "Volcanic Horn Blow!"

   Next, Muiten fired a long ray of red energy from his eyes to the champions as he gave out a loud yell. Billy of the IceDome threw from his hands a long beam of light-blue energy that was followed by white smoke. And Muiten rolled away as the projectile from Billy had turned his into small blocks of ice.

   Then Billy spotted a quick Turbo running toward him. That was when Joey of the EnergyTree blew from his hands a large stream of green energy that took the form of leaves.

   "Lightning Release..." Joey whispered. "Great Oak Stream!"

   And Turbo dodged the assault by rolling to the left side.

   After that, the champions hurried to Sastro as the villains gathered together at the other side. Then Damian blew a large wave of red energy from his right point-finger as he gave out a vicious laugh.

   Sastro slowly spread his arms out as a large bird of fiery purple energy formed around the entire team. And the wings had negated the dark projectile from Damian.

   After a large explosion faded around the land, piles of sand slowly rose from the ground to the front of the villains. A large pile of sand soon started forming as a large gust of wind blew from around the villains as well.

   "What is that?" questioned Kody.

   "Ya mean dat's not you?" yelled Desoto.

   More sand gathered as the large pile formed into the muscular leader, Ronan. The sand around him began to fall. And Ronan opened his cold brown eyes as the wind around him faded.

   "Stay away from this," He told Sastro. "I do not wish to soil my hands with the blood of my former teacher."

   The emotionless Sastro lifted the back of his right hand as a small ball or sand formed before him.

   Then Ronan gave out a stern look and said "It appears that we have come to a stalemate, the two of us."

   And Sastro informed him "The Devil's Blade wishes to exterminate all mankind as we know it along with the entire universe. That is why I will not let you Ronan do what you please any longer."

   "Ferrumdiaboli wishes only for the Golden Eye of Hypnos," Ronan replied. "I beg of you to reconsider and let me continued to search."

   More sand rose around the champions as Sastro told Ronan "Your master wishes to eliminate all that draw breath on this plane. He has driven you into madness Ronan. The lords of my planet have chose to place their faith on a force greater to face the Deceiver, and win."

   Then Sastro turned his head to the young heroes and said "Our lives are all in the hands of you all."

   And the happy Jede of the CosmicFire shook his head.

   "And He will not have the heart of an innocent to use in his scheme," added Sastro.

   "He?" questioned Ronan.

   "It is not the sword that brought a curse upon you Ronan," Sastro implied. "But it is the force that haunts the tool. The Golden Eye of Hypnos is wanted by another being that wishes only destruction -- a force that has been long forgotten."

   "Of course," Kody responded. "I had a feeling that was not the sword itself pulling the strings of Ronan and his army."

   "Someone else is controlling everything from behind the scenes?" asked Relena of the CosmicFire.

   Kody shook his head and answered "I have suspected this for a while now. And now Lord Sastro has confirmed it."

   Sastro told the champions "My planet has been investigating the events of the Nightmare Pirates for some time. We gathered small sums of information and have come to the conclusion that a person more deadly than the Pirates have been commanding from underneath this entire time."

   Suddenly, a large globe of sand formed around the startled Nemo. Meanwhile, the sand floating around Ronan had changed into hundreds of long spears. And a red energy shined around his entire body.

   "I had the highest hopes for you Ronan," Sastro replied. "But his evil has tainted your very soul. I am afraid I have no choice but to end you."

   And the spears flew directly for the stern man. The red energy covering Ronan had burned each spear into pieces. After the last spears were destroyed, the quiet Turbo hurried to the front of him. And Ronan yelled "No! Allazar is mine!"

   The dark light of Ronan quickly rose as if it was a flame. Then Ronan pushed his left hand forward which blew out small balls of the dark energy. And the sand around Sastro formed into a large wall which blocked every projectile.

   Meanwhile, Muiten leaped toward the expecting Sastro. So, Kody of the HardRock shot a long chain covered in orange energy from his right hand. The front part of the chain had wrapped around his waist and threw Muiten away from the area.

   As a black cloud gathered around Damian, Desoto of the BlackShadow blew a small ball of purple energy from his palms.

   "Gotcha!" Desoto yelled. "Mega Boomer!"

   And the body of Damian Spade vanished into thin air as he gave out a loud cackle.

   His projectile blew through the vanishing cloud and Desoto yelled "Damn it all!"

   The others -- Basileus and Turbo -- had vanished into thin air while Ronan stood against the combined efforts of Jede and Sastro. Jede blew a large wave of black energy from his palms that emitted red flames. And Sastro fired more spears that were made from the cloud of sand. Ronan created an X with his wrists in front of him and blocked every projectile thrown at him.

   After that, Ronan threw his right hand forward and blew a small ball of red energy toward Sastro.

   "Die!" He yelled.

   Jede hurried toward Sastro as he held his long katana with both hands. He placed the red blade of the sword forward and it shot small red glass that was followed by a bright red light.

   "Sastro!" He cried.

   The projectiles from both opponents collided and created a large explosion with the smoke covering the entire area.

   The smoke slowly cleared and the emotionless Ronan flew into the air as Jede of the CosmicFire stood while carrying his long weapon. Then Sastro walked toward Jede's left side and Ronan shook his head as he vanished into a cloud of red smoke.

   The sand protecting Nemo had fallen as his mother ran to him. And she wrapped her arms around Nemo as she gave out a relieved smile.

   Sastro walked toward them as he said "Ronan will return. And he will come stronger than before. I must take the child in order to keep him safe."

   The worried woman held her son as she cried "You found me after all these years Brother? And the only thing you have to say is that?"

   "Brother?"

   Gei hurried to them and asked Sastro "Is this our sister, Sastro?"

   Sastro lowered his head and answered "This is Eiri... Eiri Allazar, our cousin."

   Nina walked toward the group as she responded "I remember that you had a relative that fled to Planet Earth. This must be his offspring."

   "That would make this girl our second-cousin," Gei implied.

   The woman stared at the boy wearing mahogany armor for a moment. And she asked Sastro "Is that Gei?"

   Nemo soon spotted Kody standing among the other champions that walked toward them. The emotional boy ran toward him and wrapped his arms around Kody as he gave out a large smile.

   "I can't believe it's you Mikey!" He cried. "You saved us! Thanks!"

   The smiling Kody wrapped his arms around him and said "This is like a dream. I see you. But I still cannot believe it. You have been alive the entire time. And in hiding?"

   "Kody?"

   Kody spotted Eiri who had her hands wrapped together. And the boy in orange armor bowed down as he greeted "Hello Eiri."

   Then tears came down from her eyes as Eiri said "I never thought I would see you again, Kody Perez."

[that-girl-at-the-corner]

The Royal Engagement

A/N: Written for SoRina/SouEri Week Day 2: Royalty

You can now read it at ff.net here

Chapter 1: THE BEGINNING

Next Chapter 

*********************************************

She was a princess.

He was a nobody—a mere traveler by the looks of it.

But for the life of her, she cannot fathom how on Earth had this low class citizen entered the castle and managed to get permission from her grandfather to have an audience with her.

An audience with her.

Her. Princess Erina Nakiri. Heir to Totsuki Kingdom. Bearer of God’s Tongue. The most sought out princess throughout the world.

Princes and chefs from kingdoms far and wide were fighting over to get a chance to present themselves or their dishes to her. The castle she was in was heavily guarded to prevent any unwanted intruder to even have a glimpse of her hair. And yet this man was able to get inside the Nakiri castle with only short notice.

*

He came to the palace two days ago.

She had just left from the Royal Library after finishing her studies and was about to get her snacks from the Royal Kitchen when she saw him. His dirty outfit was so out of place inside the room full of clean and neatly organized cooking tools that her head immediately screamed in alarm.

“Thief!” she had cried then called for the guards.

The man abruptly faced her in surprise and she quickly grabbed the nearest thing within her reach (which was a rolling pin) then pointed it at him in defense.

“Who are you? What are you doing here? And how did you get in here?” she asked as threateningly as possible while trying to calm herself. She glared at the intruder, refusing to display any more signs of fear aside from her panicked scream earlier.

The intruder raised both of his hands and attempted to slowly inch his way towards her but she held her weapon higher in warning, effectively halting his movements.

“Whoa, easy there princess.”

She heard the hurried footsteps of the guards and though she was relieved, she didn’t dare avert her eyes from him. That is, until Julio, the palace chef, entered the kitchen from the adjoining room.

“Princess Erina!” Julio exclaimed, bowing his head as he got between her and the stranger.

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but this man meant no harm. I assure you that he is not a thief or an intruder. He was interested in culinary so the King place him under my care and gave him permission to observe in the kitchen.”

Despite Julio’s explanation, Erina couldn’t help but narrow her eyes in confusion. Why would her grandfather, the King, let this man inside the palace? She returned her gaze over Julio’s shoulder and the man gave her a tentative grin in which she returned with a glare.

He was wearing a simple brown tunic, black trousers with black boots under a rag (a brown cloak, but she saw it as a rag nonetheless). Strapped around his shoulder was a black satchel and nothing more. If she were the one that saw him in front of the palace gate, she would have sent him away without a second thought for daring to come into her castle without bothering to dress formally. She was wondering why the guards didn’t do exactly that but the only reason that she had fished from them afterwards was because ‘he made the most delicious food’.

She was disgusted. To think that the most elite guards of the Nakiri Empire could be bribed by food. Her grandfather just laughed when she requested for those guards to be fired. He said that their claims were verified.

This only increased her terrible mood. She had no doubt in her mind that whatever ‘that man’ had served was drugged because there was no way that her grandfather would let any stranger get close to her.

She angrily made her way towards her quarter, her shoes clicking on the marble floor.

Her maids efficiently helped her out of her morning dress and into a comfortable night gown before showing their way out of her room to give her privacy.

The sky was getting darker and the air was getting chilly. If she was in a better mood, she would have opened her glass window that leads to a balcony and watch as the sky turns to orange.

She didn’t know how long she stayed silent when a knock was heard outside her door.

“Come in.”

A maid entered the room carrying a tray with what she presumed to be her dinner.

“What is this?” She asked incredulously when she saw what her maid had set up on the small round table at the center of her room.

There were two bowls on the table, one contained white rice while the other contained what appeared to be scrambled eggs. If she didn’t know any better, she would assume that the dish in front of her was a Japanese Fukikake Gohan. But there was no way that Julio would serve her that kind of simple dish. No way.

“Umm, this is the food that was prepared for you, Princess Erina,” her maid replied nervously.

She eyed the table dubiously before flipping her hair and dismissing the poor servant. If Julio prepared this, then there is surely something special behind this ordinary looking dish, right?

She picked her chopstick and was about to have a bite when another knock was heard. Thinking that it was one of her maids, she called out her consent only to be surprised when ‘that man’ entered her room.

She stood up and crossed her arms, glaring the man in the process.

“And what do you think you’re doing here?”

The man was not deterred. “Your Highness,” he greeted with a bow.

“Forgive me for my earlier rudeness, princess. I hope you’re enjoying my little token of apology.”

“I received no such thing,” she said coldly. She wasn’t going to accept anything coming from him.

“Sure you have,” he answered excitedly. “You were about to eat it if I hadn’t arrived.”

With this admission, Princess Erina was quite sure that the dish was indeed Furikake Gohan. With him on the room and his dish sitting atop her table, there was no denying that it made her blood boil.

“How dare you. First, you infiltrated my castle, then you almost dirtied my kitchen, and now you dare to serve me this-this plebian dish? I am Princess Erina Nakiri and my tongue can only be satisfied by the finest cuisine. Did you really think that something like this is worth my God’s Tongue?” she stated coldly and proceeded towards the door to get the man out of the room.

“Who’s to say that this is just an ordinary Furikake Gohan?”

Pleased that he had caught the princess’s attention, the stranger with red hair picked up the bowl containing the scrambled eggs and gave the heiress a smirk. She narrowed her eyes at him but couldn’t stop her curiosity. How could he possibly improve that kind of dish?

“I present you, Yukihira style Transforming Furikake Gohan.” He stated proudly as he poured the contents into the rice bowl.

Erina watched as golden cubes fell into the rice, morphing its white color into gold. Not being able to resist the temptation of an undiscovered dish, Princess Erina unconsciously returned to the table, not noticing her companion’s victorious smile. She picked her discarded chopsticks and, without making her curiosity too obvious, took a tentative bite of the so-called Transforming Furikake Gohan.

The moment it entered her mouth, Erina felt like her legs were about to give out. She felt like she was floating to the clouds, with angels singing a beautiful melody while her body relaxed. She felt divine.

She wasn’t even aware that she have taken a couple of bites and it took all of her remaining self-control not to moan out loud from the sensation she was feeling from her mouth.

“I told you.” The man said, successfully breaking the spell that momentarily bound the princess. As Erina opened her eyes, she couldn’t help the frustration bubbling inside her chest at seeing the smug smile that was thrown in her way.

“It was good, wasn’t it?” The excited glint in his golden eyes told her that he already knew the answer.

She was embarrasses and angry with herself for losing control.

“It was…“ she stopped. She couldn’t finish the sentence. Embarrassment, mortification and uncertainty warring inside her head but a quick glance at the shit-eating grin of red head made up her mind.

Cold purple eye met the hopeful gold ones.

“It was disgusting.” She spat. “Get out!”

He was too stunned to argue.

When she was left alone in her room, she angrily stared at the bowl.

How dare he?  She angrily thought as she finished eating.

*

Now here she was, sitting in a velvet chair at an elevated part of the Audience Chamber while glaring at ‘Yukihira’ who was standing in front of her.

He eyed the young man warily. She was wondering why he was still here.

He was wearing a fancier attire— a blue and white prince’s outfit. Probably provided by the palace. She thought disapprovingly.

Although he was dressed accordingly—or as regal as one can be, she begrudgingly thought—she couldn’t help but find a flaw. His red hair was not gelled and a little messy; his smile was polite but had a hint of mischief; his left eyebrow was scarred; and was that a bandage on his wrist? How sure are they that this man was safe?

Before she can throw any insult or criticism to man in front of him, the huge doors opened to reveal his grandfather.

“I heard that there was a bit of a commotion yesterday?” Her grandfather boomed as he made his way towards the center of the room. His tone wasn’t angry or patronizing. It’s not even threatening, which means that he doesn’t have a slightest care on that matter.

“Forgive me, you Majesty.” ‘Yukihira’ knelled down in front of the King but Erina recognizes the tone in his voice. It was the same one he used while addressing her last night and now he was also using it to address the King. He spoke with a hint of familiarity as if the presence of the royal family doesn’t bother him at all.

“It was only a little… misunderstanding” he said playfully while looking directly at her, his eyes saying that he knew something that she didn’t. This time, Erina didn’t hide her scowl.

“Doesn’t matter,” his grandfather cut in, ignoring the interaction between the two, and motioned for Erina.

Confused, she rose from her seat and slowly made her way towards the two men. Yukihira made a small bow of acknowledgement before turning his attention to the King, and Erina (though reluctantly) doing the same.

“My dear, as I know that you are very much aware that in a few weeks you’ll be turning 18.”

Erina felt her stomach drop. She knew where this conversation was heading. Why were they having this conversation at this moment? And most importantly, why were they having this conversation in front of him?

An unpleasant scenario entered her head and she tried her best to convince herself that it was impossible. He’s not suggesting what she thinks he was suggesting, right? There was no way.

“I know that you have never favored any one of your former suitors, but dear, I am not getting any younger. And it has been tradition that if the princess cannot choose her intended partner before her 18th birthday, then the King must choose for her. You have to present someone on the night of your celebration party. And you have to know that all my decisions have always been made by putting the county’s and your best interest in mind.”

Princess Erina listened as calmly as possible. She knew this was coming. It was her fault for turning down all of the suitors that have sought her but it wasn’t her fault that all of them were way below her level. Even putting her feelings aside, those princes weren’t worth considering. None of them displayed the quality of a future ruler. They were all self-important princes who only knew how to brag and to look good.

Her gaze returned to the man in front of her. No matter how many times she assured herself, she doesn’t know where he fit in all of this, except for one.

She was hoping she was wrong and that he was just a mere messenger from a faraway kingdom.

“Erina dear,” her grandfather said, a telltale that he was finally going to announce the biggest decision that he made for her life.

“I present to you your betrothed, Prince Soma Yukihira,” he said, turning to the redhead and thus fulfilling the thing she had dreaded the most.

Her grandfather continued to explain but Princess Erina heard only bits and pieces. Her face was set in a grimace as she appraised her betrothed. He was a chef, and a good one if she heard it right. But how can this man be a prince? Where were his aides? His guards? His entourage? He was dressed as a commoner when he came to the palace! How can he be a prince?

“So what is it, Princess?” Soma Yukihira asked, cutting her reverie while flashing her that annoying grin while his hands were tucked on his pockets. His demeanor told her that he knew she hasn’t been paying attention and did nothing to hide his amusement.

“Tell me what you want so that I can satisfy that tongue of yours.” He said as he accepted her hand from her grandfather and bowed to kiss her knuckles.

She looked down at him and, for a moment, relished in the fact that she was still in control. No matter how much arrogance Soma Yukihira project, he will always bow down to her while she would look down to him. She had no intention of changing this arrangement anytime soon.

“And tell me, Soma Yukihira. What gave you such confidence that you could satisfy my godly palate?”

“Well, you just have to at least let me try.”

His eyes glinted with challenged as he met the princess’s gaze and for a brief moment, Erina let a smirk graze on her pink lips.

“Oh, believe me. I would enjoy nothing more than to see you try in vain.”

;;;

A/N: I hope it weren’t too similar with Sorina’s first meeting in the manga/anime. :) 

|| Next Chapter ||

[eri-223]

Destiny: Transference

Cayde-6′s first challenge as a member of the Vanguard is a series of awkward situations involving other people’s Ghosts. Or maybe his own Ghost. He isn’t sure. 3k, gen. Read on AO3 here.

“You should know what you’re getting into,” Ikora Rey had said, and Cayde-6 had crooked his jaw at her in acknowledgement of a Warlock’s many blind spots. If she knew him better, she would understand that he preferred not to know the details in cases that seemed like they might require some delicacy. He was better at improvisation.

The first time he opened his eyes after a charge cycle and expected her Ghost instead of his, Ace spiraled up into the air with golden, contrite chirps following him like sparks. Cayde fumbled with wires, twisted thick cords out of sockets. Cursed and apologized in the same wrenching manner, ashamed and confused.

“I just got back from Ikora’s night watch,” Ace gentled.

Cayde sat back, shoulders slumped in relief. He had sat back like this after coming around that corner and finding that Fallen. “You … smell like her. Is this normal?”

“Something like that.”

“Weird.”

“It is normal, as far as I know of the Vanguard tradition. The Speaker told us the same thing, didn’t he? The Traveler is silent for both of us.”

Cayde shook his head and Ace his distal flanges in acknowledgement of the new and tragic feeling of this old silence. “Okay.” Cayde gestured for Ace to fly closer, and only saw by the casing color when the Ghost settled in his palm that it was Zavala’s.

Cayde called his Ghost Ace of Hearts. It had introduced itself as just the Ghost, emissary of the deity-machine on the horizon, and at that point in his newborn existence Cayde had begun to encode things even when he did not understand them. The Fallen and the Tower were equally mysterious to him, and so for a while he called them by more familiar names. He and the Ghost had formed the code and the names together, changing it a few times. They liked “Ace;” it was quick to say and quick to think, and supposed the sort of brotherly combativeness that opened many Guardian friendships.

Ikora and her Ghost had also considered several different names, and discarded them all; references to past Warlocks felt sacrilegious, while references to works of fiction or poems felt impermanent. They returned time and time again to “Ghost,” which spoke to the purity and emptiness of the Traveler and took just the space of a breath. She recognized its signature in the Light as well, a spark that curled in on itself once before bouncing away like the two hands after the applause.

Zavala’s Ghost’s name was Aurelius. It had had a long life to read old records. “Put an end once for all to this discussion of what a good man should be, and be one.”

“You should know what you’re getting into,” Ikora said.The three Vanguard walked side-by-side through Cormorant Way at night, after the shops had been closed and the smells of cooking food faded into the wet scent of the ivy.

Cayde still felt newborn at times, but he had been inducted into the Vanguard, and that required ceremony. Taking the last, most dreadful dare was one of the only rites of Hunter passage that were not self-evident, and Cayde had … he had not been roped into it. He had agreed to the bet. “So Andal did this too, huh? Understood the concealed mysteries of the Vanguard?”

“He did,” Ikora said. She had that way of letting her voice drop away that left a long echo. In Andal’s -- and popular -- estimate she was a fury in the Crucible and a restrained whirlwind in the war room. Cayde had expected Andal’s estimate to be a bit off, touched by his own optimistic bend toward the nobility of teamwork; so far, it had proven entirely accurate.

Cayde nodded, silenced by the name of his old friend. He had not expected the grief to stop his voice this far after the death itself.

“Don’t expect torture,” Zavala said. “It’s safe.”

“What does that even mean?” Cayde slid aside from Zavala’s hand, turned so that he was walking backward, and spread his hands. “This is exactly the sort of thing that can be dangerous for us in the way that nothing else can. Good old Vanguard-style dare, and worst part about it? This is just the beginning of all of us being …” He had been going to say ‘trapped in a room together.’ “…Kept from our important strategic meetings.”

Zavala and Ikora hummed in acknowledgment in harmony. Only Ikora curled her mouth in the slightest smile afterward.

They were out of Cormorant Way then, into the blue-purple of the Speaker’s sanctum with the gyroscopic array shining gold against the navy glow of the Last City. Cayde turned, smoothed down his sleeve. Wouldn’t pay to walk backwards into this.

The Speaker met them at the bottom of the stairs. “So the world turns this way again.”

“The world and the Traveler,” Ikora said gravely.

Cayde watched the Speaker. Young Guardians dismissed him, counting him too impartial and distant from the day-to-day of the City to make much of a difference to their daily war, but Cayde had changed his mind several times about the Speaker and seen others do the same. That first impression of a masked anchorite had given way first to suspicion and then to an understanding, if not internalizing, of the kind of shrewd contemplation the Speaker espoused. In the Light, the Speaker was a nebula with its own pillars and forges.

Ikora had told him, in a quiet and businesslike tone as if sending platoons out, what to expect. Cayde followed the Speaker without fidgeting as the Speaker took each of them by the arm and bid them to stand at intervals around the side of the gyroscope.

“Everyone going to be okay?” Cayde muttered between the Speaker and Zavala. “Big moment.  Words of encouragement are a bit redundant, I guess, though?”

“Yes,” the Speaker said.

Cayde hadn’t been expecting anyone to answer, and feigned a jump. As he settled he felt the sense of calm he had been told to expect. His shoulders relaxed, his lights dimming so that the color of the array and the sky seemed brighter and more softly textured in comparison. The Speaker’s ceramic mask tipped.

“Welcome, Cayde-6,” the Speaker said. “The Traveler shines upon you.” There was no irony in his voice. After the quirked eyebrows he had gotten from the others at Andal’s voice after the tragedy had faded, Cayde had expected his reputation to reach as high as the Speaker. Maybe the lack of response indicated that the Traveler was ignorant of or did not regard such things.

The Speaker ascended the stairs. Cayde looked at Ikora, standing with her arms at her side and her deadly hands stirring the air. Zavala with his arms crossed, his hands slack and his expression gentle. In just seconds Cayde felt the tug of the Light that he had expected, a tidal pull and a wind that stirred his cloak. For a moment he considered clutching it and thinking of Andal. Ace rose up in front of him, blue flanges spinning.

“The others have done this before, Cayde,” Ace said. “They say it’s all right. We both heard.”

“I know.”

“It’s not a matter of missing you. We’ll still be together.”

“Course we will. Takes two to open some of those locks.” He would be sure not to endanger any of his caches. Some secrets were best not shared.

Ace rose toward the sky and Cayde resisted putting his hands up to guide it.

The Light rose, even as the sky darkened. The Speaker pulled on the power of the Light from his place on the stairs, and the three Ghosts circled around the gyroscope, gathered blankets of Light like dust. She had been right, Cayde thought, over and over again. Ikora had understood, precisely and without feeling, what was going to happen. It was a comfortable sensation of letting-go, an utter lack of responsibility even while the universe arrayed itself into paths and lines he could follow. Hunt one lead and find another, or at least a dry cave and dry boots, and …

The Ghosts had switched places while he had been contemplating this comfortable independence.

Ikora’s Ghost hovered between Cayde’s raised hands. The loop of Light, a fishhook sigil, stood out as clear as a written name. Cayde’s Light mingled with the Light of spiral-spark-sudden-trajectory-switch until he knew the tenor of the bond between the Ghost and Ikora. Warlock senses were strange and fluorescent-hot and he avoided the strangest of them, mindful of his own circuits. Cayde looked over at Ikora to find her turned away, her cloak flapping against her legs. She appeared different to him now, though, a bit older but also more energetic. Ikora and her Ghost sparked. The Ghost offered to Cayde a part of its name, a gentle curve as the slingshot energy stabbed outward. Then it floated forward, and silver-and-gold Aurelius took its place.

Aurelius said walls and stone and history, and then glided close enough to almost touch Cayde’s face and spoke of soft furnishings and silver paint. Remember when we played football with the children in the City, Aurelius said, and that was not one of Zavala’s memories alone; Cayde had been there as well, so it was easy to overlay Zavala’s history with his own and see the wary but deep regard Zavala held for the other man. Cayde felt armored, bulwarked with Titan-legacy, and wondered what the other two had learned about himself.

The fear set in when Ace floated back to him.

At first, Cayde did not recognize the Ghost. The shell could have been any shell, and Light signature any new pair’s. The Light felt new.

The realization staggered him. He reached out for the railing in front of the machinery of the gyroscope, grabbed once and missed and grabbed again and caught.  “Is this supposed to happen?”

“I don’t know,” said the Ghost. The voice was wheedling and faint.

The sense of disconnect was sickening, as if Cayde had lost a limb but with no memory of the amputation. Ikora’s voice seemed to be coming from Ace’s shell.

“This is how it goes,” Ikora said. Cayde’s vision swam. Had he been looking at her all along? Was the Ghost between them?

“You will be disoriented,” she said. “You will wonder when you are. You will be alright.”

Cayde started moving hand-over-hand along the railing, driven by a dim effort to find the Speaker. Tethers of golden light bound him to the other Vanguard, pulling when he moved too far away. Where was he now? How far away? Which body did he inhabit? Were his feet touching the floor?

Zavala’s Ghost had raised him on a beach more times than one, his mouth full of water, and ever after he kept sweet candies because salt reminded him of the water

Ikora had been raised far from the Tower, on an island of red sand and dry, thorny trees. She could not see the ocean from where she stood, holding a branch from which she had stripped the first handspan of thorns.

Cayde-6 was one of a line of machines, Exos going back and back and each one unique. Cayde-6 was a stash of playing cards, secret because they were so common. Millions of people might have played games with these faces, but no one would know that face —

This idea gradually extracted him from the spell of the Speaker’s gravity enough to look aside and see the Zavala and Ikora were looking at him. He thought that they must see … what? He discarded the vicious ego and lack-of-ego that in turn painted him as piratical and paranoid. He saw himself clearly for a moment, metal and mind and spine.

He stopped trying to hand-over-hand toward the Speaker and instead hunkered down, his face almost touching the railing, and let the Light take him. Colors spun in spirals shaped like Ghosts up toward the top of the gyroscope, toward the dead Traveler.

“Is Andal in here?” His grip tightened on the railing. One hand slipped into a groove; he had warped the metal. “Do you remember him?”

As a courtesy or as part of a ritual attendance, Ace floated in front of him out of the whirlwind.

“Let me show you,” Ace said sadly.

The Light impressed upon Cayde a sensation which might have been his own memory for how familiar it was; the quick snap of Andal’s Light, the smell that had faintly lingered on his armor. It was like walking into a familiar room.

The former Vanguard was still dead. Cayde had been holding out for some Vanguard secret, perhaps, some revelation that Andal had been rebuilt as a warmind, or that Cayde would be expected to wear Andal’s face through some magical transformation because all Vanguards since the organization of the Guardians had looked the same.

Except that the Guardians were just one social order, just the top of organized Light-use that had happened come into being after the dark times of the Iron Lords, and the Traveler had not gifted the Vanguard with any exceptional immortality.

So dead, so very silent, the Ghosts were also penitents reading from books in alphabets they did not know how to pronounce—

The Ghosts were also bastions, though, points of the memory of the Traveler scattered around the world. Cayde saw now how that memory could be exchanged, each Ghost’s individual allotment of Light spun out into a story that could be read by others. Your Ghost will become part of our Ghosts, Ikora had said, and her words felt more specific and precise than Cayde had, at first, imagined. Packets of information were lodging in each Ghost, permanently and securely. What a system. The Traveler did roll dice, but it knew which faces would slap against the table —

Cayde let go of the railing and stood, swaying.

He was not sure how long the process lasted. The Light ceased to be a swirl of color around him and instead returned to the awareness with which he was more familiar, starlight in his thoughts and weapons in his hands. If he could have gone out to the field now he could have burned golden for hours, or so it felt. The gyroscope was just another part of the Tower at night now, though. Like the ivy, it smelled faintly of dew.

Cayde turned toward the Speaker. Zavala smiled wide, and Ikora clasped her own hands. Cayde did not want to meet their eyes at once, but nor did he need to. The Ghosts had shared their histories and reduced any shame he might have felt.

The Speaker descended the stairs with his usual measured pace, and Cayde did not find himself impatient.

“It is done,” the Speaker said. “You may go, to contemplate or celebrate.” Was there a smile in the echoing voice?

“Ah.” Cayde cleared his throat. His Ghost had drifted back to him, and he acknowledged it was quick, fond nod. “Do we switch back, or …”

The Speaker focused on him. “Your Ghosts will move with all three of you. They do tend to stay with their original partner, but if another Ghost befriends you, or whispers to you … it is best to heed their whispers.”

“It will help us make decisions with unity,” Zavala said. Cayde did not detect any lingering suspicion that the decisions had ever been otherwise; all three of the Vanguard were still living partially in the fog of warmth and connection the ceremony of the Ghosts had created.

“You are now part of a tradition from the earliest days of the Vanguard,” Ikora said. Cayde nodded. This, then, was the unity of the Vanguard. As soul-baring went, it had been comfortable.

He had taken two steps under the balcony when he realized that Aurelius was at his shoulder, ducking close enough to nearly be caught under his cloak. With a dip of lazy recognition, the Ghost spiraled away as Ace returned to Cayde’s shoulder from Zavala’s cupped hands.

The other two caught up with him at the entrance to Cormorant Way. Struck by a sudden need to control whatever conversation would come next, Cayde swung around the closed shutters of the hot ramen stand and pulled a stool from underneath a tarp. The legs scraped loudly in the quiet night. The other two looked around without startling. Ace swirled around the cart. Cayde double-checked the Ghost’s color and markings to make certain it was him.

“Nothing surprises you guys, does it?” Cayde said.

“I had a feeling you would have questions,” Ikora said gently.

“No. I just wanted to sit down.”

Zavala pulled out another chair next to him, scraping it less against the flagstones. “Let me tell you what I think this ceremony means.”

Cayde nodded gravely for a moment, still not entirely sure which room he was in despite the familiar landmarks. Then he realized what Zavala had said. “You don’t know? I mean, you’re not sure about it?”

“We have the same information that you do.” Zavala settled his hands on his knees.

“You gotta slouch a little here. It’s tradition.”

(No one had ever directly said that they were all mourning Andal. No one had missed the silences, the clipped sentences where Ikora or Zavala might have referred to something which Andal understood and with which Cayde was not yet familiar. Andal had always stood so straight, moved with such grace.)

Ikora moved silently to stand at Zavala’s other side, her purple cloak fading into the green shadows at the edges.

Zavala conspicuously shifted his shoulders and hands in an awkward effort to slouch. “When I advise a Titan about tactics, the Ghost at my shoulder might be able to share Hunter strategies. When you teach young Guardians, your Ghost may offer some Titan caution.”

“Caution? Are Titans known for that?”

“Warlocks aren’t.” Ikora shrugged, much more naturally than Zavala had.

Cayde waved a hand in acknowledgement.

“It’s just an example,” Zavala said patiently. “I believe that is why our Ghosts must be linked together in this way. It can become … confusing.” He glanced at Aurelius.

“Tell me about it,” Cayde said. “But I get it.” He felt tired if he talked to people for too long, and the glow of Zavala’s eyes and Ikora’s bond was making that process happen fast. He had chosen familiar ground, though, and that made it easier. “Let’s do Vanguard stuff.”

“Sleep, first.” Ikora yawned.

“Weak.” Cayde hopped off the stool. If Ikora replied, he didn’t hear her words. He walked down the alley feeling almost normal. 

The first instance in which he really understood the transference of the Ghosts was the Oryx crisis. His students had surpassed him. A Hunter had gone out there in her own ship and destroyed the king of the overworld, while Cayde stood at this table. He could have brought his fist down on it. To be trapped here, while someone else explored new geometries, was infuriating. His own Ghost flung itself back and forth in carefully constrained lines, dashing itself against barriers built only by internal parameters it had set on its own. And Ikora’s curve-snap came to him, saying wisdom and tomes and your name will be inscribed in the records of the Light, and Cayde stilled his hands, and did not mistake the Ghost’s identity at all.

[kootenaygoon]

So,

It felt like driving to a battle ground.

My RAV rumbled over the exposed roots of massive trees and navigated the meandering forest road into Shambhala for the third year in a row, with Andrew Stevenson riding shotgun. I was already dressed for the part in a pair of paint splatter tights I’d borrowed from Natalya, and we were sharing a joint with dappled sunlight on our faces. A grinning skull wearing a ceremonial headdress cackled at me from the hood of a derelict truck as ghost fingers of smoke reached longingly from between the trunks. The further I immersed into the grey haze, the more I felt like I was appearing on an episode of Game of Thrones. They had just released the third episode of the seventh season, and Queen Daenerys’ continued ascent could only mean one thing: a coming conflagration of epic proportions.

It was Thursday afternoon, and we’d just put the paper to bed with the following cover story: “Shambhala dodges evacuation alert”. I’d called the Southeast Fire Centre to ask them about a 75-hectare fire that was currently raging 20 kilometres southeast of Salmo and asked them a bunch of questions: What were the chances of it coming closer? How long would it take if to reach the ranch? Was I an idiot for heading out there in person? How close does a fire have to be to trigger an evacuation? The representative reassured me that the fire was extremely unlikely to close the distance to the festival in the next four days, and promised there were plenty of obstacles in the way to keep it contained. I hung up relieved, but also skeptical. 

Guessing at the behaviour of a forest fire seemed as wrong-headed as underestimating a dragon.

Lately I’d been re-reading the Song of Ice and Fire series on my Kindle, scouring the text for new clues about the various theories I’d heard on the Internet. It amazed me how George R. R. Martin used layer after layer of world-building, doggy-piling the reader with names of secondary characters, so that each time you read it there was something new to discover. I was convinced the whole narrative was cleverly disguised science fiction, with the world’s population having regressed after an apocalyptic event. Readers who only engaged in the present tense storyline, wondering what would happen next with Jon Snow or Arya or Tyrion, were missing out on the decades and even centuries of Westeros history Martin had created to establish their current setting. There was no way the show could match this intricacy, and the quality of each episode had been diminishing dramatically since the show-runners overcame his source material.  

“Do you think I’m the villain of this story?” I asked Andrew Stevenson, as the RAV continued to splash through pot-holes. He was picking at his fingernails angrily, and didn’t look up.

“What makes you say that?”

“I started off as this blond Cupid that everyone was rooting for, now it’s like I become a shittier person the longer I stay in the Kootenays. I feel like it’s been one long plummet since Paisley left, like I’ve become this person I don’t even recognize. This pot-head asshole piece of shit.”

He snorted. “You said it, not me.”

Andrew was wearing a dirty white tank tucked into his jeans, and a pair of those cheesy wrap-around sunglasses you buy at gas stations. His hair was poorly cut, maybe by his wife, and his clusters of acne on each cheek made him look like a kid. I’d looked at Andrew Stevenson from all kinds of angles, but I never found one that truly satisfied me. I thought of him every time I came to Shambhala, because this was his town. These were the people he started out doing drugs with. It was his friends that were dropping dead of fentanyl overdoses, his people who were killing themselves with shotguns. He’d spent his entire life in the Kootenays, moving from one community to the next, and he’d fathered all his kids here. It was thoughts of them that propelled him over that bank counter, that got him swinging his shotgun around at those tellers while he shrieked like a fucking goblin.

He passed me the joint. “Once you have kids, man. It’s this whole other element. Like think what Eminem would be without his daughter, right? He’s living for her, the same way I was living for my kids every day.”

“Sometimes I worry, you know? I feel like it’s a sexual version of musical chairs and I’m going to be the one left holding my dick,” I said. “I’ve wanted to be a Dad since I understood what that meant. I feel like it’s my whole purpose, but who the fuck is going to have a baby with me?”

He snickered. “It’s going to hit you like a shovel to the face.”

As I pulled out of the forest into the yawning fields of the ranch, we were met with a security officer, who tried to send me the normal route even though I had a press pass. I argued with him, entitled, telling him that the last two years I’d come they always let me go through the back way.

“You can call Jimmy. He’ll tell you. Will Johnson from the Nelson Star.” 

The guy shrugged back a bit, cowed by the power of Jimmy’s name. At the end of the day, he was the guy. He owned the ranch, founded Shambhala and basically made this who endeavour come to life. He was like Zuckerberg, always wearing a humble T-shirt and never rocking the millionaire vibe. It looked like he still shopped at Value Village. 

“Give me a moment, I’m going to ask my manager,” he said, rounding the hood of my car and making a call through his walkie talkie. He was bouncing his chin along with a beat I couldn’t hear.

I sulked, annoyed with the delay. I wanted to get situated on the grounds with enough time to walk the ranch in daylight. It was late afternoon already, and I really didn’t want to go through with the indignity of a search. Especially because I was carrying things they could find if they did their jobs properly. While I waited for an answer, Andrew Stevenson jutted out his hip and pointed to it, grinning.

“I’m not shoving everything up my ass,” I said. “Shut up.”

Eventually the guy returned and waved me through the back way, a muddy cow-trail that led out to where all the cars were parked. It still struck me, how bizarre it was to see that many vehicles randomly parked in such an idyllic place. It was like seeing an army preparing to attack, the soldiers getting organized into rows. As I followed the smiling flaggers into the media section, I felt like Queen Daenerys as she patrolled the ranks of her invading Dothraki. When was my ascent going to be?

Once we got ourselves parked, I dug out a bottle of vodka from the dash and sat on the hood of my RAV doing shots. Some nearby campers shouted “Happy Shambs” and gave some half-hearted introductions, but mostly left us alone. I’d been feeling grateful to Andrew lately, now that the Maisonneuve story had come out, but also a little guilty. I wished I could’ve gotten an interview him him. It felt strange to tell his story without his input. Maybe he hated the article, maybe he felt I got it wrong.

All I wanted was to get it right.

Next I pulled out the provisions Niles had given me. I was meeting Steph the next day, but this evening was reserved for me. Andrew opened the Ziploc bag and handed over my share. We chased it with vodka.

“What people always forget about Daenerys is that her father’s the fucking Mad King. So who’s to say she’s not going to become the Mad Queen?”

Andrew laughed. “It wasn’t genetic. It was his reality that drove the Mad King over the edge, all his political rivals scheming and plotting to take him out. She’s in a totally different context than he was.”

“But they say all Targaryens are a little mad, right? They’ve all got that fire, that purple magic?”

He sighed. “She does seem to enjoy burning people to death.”

Taking one more shot of vodka, Andrew threw himself down on the grass and started slipping out of his boots. He pulled off his shirt to reveal a bullet-proof vest, then pulled off his scruffy jeans. He pulled on a bulky black sweater, then tight black military-style pants, followed by black boots. He threw a matching set in front of me. This was what we always wore when we were hunting rapists. It was a task I was getting increasingly ambivalent about, but Andrew pursued it with a religious glee. He wanted to find sexual wrong-doers and feed them to crocodiles. That’s what he fucking lived for.

I began to get dressed as well. “Where’re we going?” I asked.

“We’re heading to the Fractal Forest. We need to be there by 6 p.m.”

“Who’s playing at 6 p.m.?”

“It doesn’t matter who’s playing.”

“Then why do we need to be there by 6? What difference does it make?”

He turned dramatically towards me, for effect: “The difference: it’s your funeral.”

“What are you talking about, my funeral?”

“After crucifixion comes resurrection, right? Think about the Greyjoys: what is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger. You have to die so you can be reborn.”

“What’re you gonna do? Drown me in the Salmo River?”

He shook his head. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

Next he held out two black balaclavas. Ski masks. This was what he was wearing at the Nelson & District Credit Union, that day in 2014, two weeks before I moved to town. This was the event that had connected us, and I wanted to feel its truth. It wasn’t enough to know that he robbed that place, that he escaped on a bicycle, that he was so high he couldn’t even remember the events afterwards. I wanted to feel that urgency in my blood, that desperation, I wanted to evoke it on the page and make it so real it couldn’t be brushed aside. A full-grown human man was pushed to these lengths, felt he had no other choice but to take a blind run at crime. It was like Breaking Bad in real life. I wondered constantly what happened to his kids when their two parents went away.

We pulled on the balaclavas. Facing me, Andrew put his hands on both my shoulders and spoke through the black cloth. Maybe it made him feel more comfortable saying what he had to say next.

“Think of it as a car crash, okay? You know it’s coming, and you know that you won’t have any control over what happens. But you also know you’re going to survive it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He sighed. “Look at yourself, Will. You’re a chronic pot smoker living in your friend’s basement and doing drugs at Shambhala like you’re some rave kid, in the middle of an overdose crisis. What the fuck are you thinking?”

“I just figure, you know, when in Rome.”

“That’s the level of intellectual thought you’ve put into this: when in Rome? You’re gambling with your whole future, fucking around like this. What if you permanently alter your brain chemistry?”

“My brain was damaged to begin with. I’d rather be fucked in the head than depressed. I couldn’t deal with the sadness anymore.”

“Those are your excuses. That’s all they are.”

After a while we stopped arguing, had a couple more shots of vodka, then headed off towards the festival reunited. It was true he was like Eminem, while I was Stan, and Ryan Tapp could be our Slim Shady. We were a trifecta that way, three souls with interlinked stories. The Bank Robber, the Legend and the Holy Spirit. I wished Ryan could be there, but this was something that had to be settled between Andrew and I. And just as I was thinking that, he chose our target. I rushed up to see what would happen next.

“We’re going to make a little human sacrifice,” Andrew said, channeling Tyler Durden, as he held his black shotgun to the throat of a quivering rave kid. “Yeah, and this guy looks like he’ll please the Gods.”

“Hold on, we can’t do this here. People will hear the blast,” I said, my head whipping back and forth. There were people parading past only twenty feet away, but they weren’t looking over to where we were crouched in the shadows.

“On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.”

“Are you quoting Fight Club?”

“Raymond K. Hessel, you are going to die.”

He motioned for me to join him, then carefully transferred the gun into my hands. I looked down at the panicked Asian kid in front of me, who was stretching up his hands to unveil grotesque pit stains. He was 22, maybe 23.

“Ask him if he wants to die,” Andrew whispered.

“Do you want to die? Do you want me to kill you? Is that what you want?” I asked, really getting into my part now. I was really feeling it, like I was actually the guy with the gun. My whole life I’ve been the guy on the other side of the gun, but now it was in my hands. Mine mine mine. 

“No, please. I’ll do anything,” the guy said, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

He blinked, confused. “I don’t know.”

After a long moment of silence, I lifted the barrel and gestured with my head. The raver kid want off into the darkness screaming with relief, and left me standing in the shadows with Andrew. He’d never killed anybody either, though he had the chance multiple times. He carried that black shotgun with him everywhere he went, but he only fired it once — into a door. He was trying to show me that he wasn’t a killer, not really, though he couldn’t admit it out loud. Much easier to embrace the guilt, to characterize yourself based on other people’s moral judgements. Much easier to be the bad guy.

By this point we were heading into the downtown of Shambhala, where all the food vendors clustered around the Pagoda Stage. I bought myself a burrito and shared it with Andrew in the dark, stumbling off towards Muscle Beach, our balaclavas pushed to our foreheads. The music was electrifying the night sky, so there was a lightning storm of purple energy reaching into the heavens. I figured sooner or later we would encounter Daenerys and her dragons, seeing as the smoke continued to billow into our faces. It smelled like campfire, like somebody was telling an increasingly grandiose story for all the gathered campers. It smelled like imagination.

“So here’s a question,” I said, as I wiped burrito off my chest. “How do you think Dany gave birth to those dragons? Was that science, or magic?”

“My money’s on science.”

“Even with all that blood sacrifice, with tying the maegi to the pyre and everything?”

“Dragons are biological creatures. They can only be birthed in a biological way. It was probably the heat from the pyre triggering some sort of genetic process or something. I don’t know, exactly.”

“Well, what about the fact that she wasn’t burned to death?”

He wagged a finger at me. “Now that’s different. That was a miracle. And that’s why people follow her: she performs miracles, just like Jesus.” 

“She’s a sexy little Jesus with a holy trinity of dragons on her side.”

“Exactly.”

I’d never really been a Daenerys fan before this conversation. It seemed too obvious, in a literary work with hundreds of characters, to go for her. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that her story resonated more strongly with my life than any of the others. I felt her familial exile, felt her frightened youth. I also knew the part of her that considered herself royalty, despite what anybody else says. She was determined to find her rightful place in this world, and that place was at the top. I grabbed ahold of two fleshy scales on Drogon’s back and soared above Shambhala with a dragon between my legs, high enough to see the forest fire on the other side of the mountain slope. It was orange, mostly, and didn’t seem especially lively. I circled around it, surveying its shape. 

“There’s no way that fire’s going to come for us,” I said, dangling from the scales as Drogon swooped. Andrew was clinging on right beside me. We were thousands of feet in the air.

“You haven’t been listening to anything I’m saying.”

The Kootenay Goon

[sunsetstvdios]

mathias self para 001

his outfit

word count: 2,290

Mathias' stomach turned as he sat in the passenger seat next to Orion. He must have noticed Mathias' nervousness because he turned his head and looked at him with a comforting smile. The nerves must have been rolling off of him in waves.

"You okay?" he asked, raising his brows a bit.

"Yeah... No... I will be?" Mathias huffed, embarrassed about how he was so jittery about meeting Orion's friends. This would also be the first time he'd be going into a situation where he and Orion would be recognized as a couple. They'd been in public together, obviously, otherwise they wouldn't be where they are currently, but it was different walking around with strangers around them in the big city that Orion lives in. This time they'd be making an announcement of some sort, telling people they were together. He knew that it was a completely different kind of crowd than what Mathias knew, but the knowledge didn't stifle the fears that were burned into his mind.

Making a good impression on them brought up a whole different set of fears, however. He was afraid that he'd embarrass Orion, or he wouldn't be good enough for them. They're actual stars, for Pete's sake. Not forgetting the fact that Mathias had had approximately 1% the amount of human interaction outside of The Church compared to anyone who'd be there. He wore what he thought was the most socially appropriate based off of what he'd seen when he was out with Orion. He only had a few items in his closet that would work so it didn't take long to find them, even though he spent hours debating on whether it was good enough.

He currently wore a blue sweater that was Mormon approved, khaki's and boots that were also Mormon approved; however, he didn't leave the house in them. As far as his parents knew, he was missioning in a neighboring city with his friend Lana who had agreed to help Mathias out with this if he helped her out in return with her own little trips into the city, an aspiring musician. He ended up having to change after Lana had dropped him off at he and Orion's meeting point. The line right where Mathias' small town met Orion's big city of glamour, Mathias changed out of his slacks and dress shoes and into the rest of his clothing items in the backseat on their way into the city before he climbed up front.

"We're almost there. You'll be fine, and you'll blow them away, just like you did, me. Got it?"

Mathias exhaled loudly, nodding. As they pulled up to the building, his heart thudded in his chest too annoyingly to be ignored. It was... huge... Possibly the biggest building he'd ever seen, with smaller surrounding buildings all around it. "This is it? All of this?"

"All of it." Orion nodded and grinned, admiring his place of work. 

"Don't you get lost?" Mathias questioned, a small smile starting to appear on his face. 

"Nah," he started, then began explaining his routes and how he learned to get around -- then made a joke about getting around. The chat was helping soothe Mathias' brain as Orion parked the car and came around to open Mathias' before he could open his own, getting stuck staring out at the scene in front of him.

"I can get my own door." 

"I know you can." Orion smirked at Mathias and locked the car after he got out. "Come on," he insisted, reaching a hand out for Mathias. He grabbed it quickly, needing the comfort of his hand in his own. As they began to reach the entrance, Mathias gripped his hand tighter. Orion turned to him before they entered and wrapped his free hand around the back of Mathias' neck. "You're amazing, okay? You're gonna be just fine, and they're all gonna be incredibly jealous of me, alright?" He chuckled as Mathias nodded at his words, though his eyes were still flooded with fear. Orion pressed slow and reassuring kiss to his lips, then pulled away to admire Mathias' flustered face afterward. Orion always made Mathias melt, and his reactions to Orion's actions were always something to witness. "Okay, ready?"

"As I'll ever be." He really hated himself for making this seem like it's such a big deal, but for him, it really was. It must be annoying for Orion to have everything he and Mathias did be a big deal for Mathias. Sometimes he wondered why he was with Mathias at all. However, he had to push his self deprecating thoughts away as he heard a shriek coming their way. They'd entered what looked like a lounge, and there was a brunette girl charging toward the two of them. 

"Oh my God!" she shouted, "He is way cuter in person than in the pictures you showed me!" She jumped at Orion, wrapping her arms around him. 

"Yes, hello, AJ," Orion laughed, pulling back from the hug to look at a very surprised Mathias. "This is my best friend AJ, Mathias." 

"Hi," he said shyly, hoping his cheeks weren't changing any different shade. "I've heard things about you." He kicked himself. Hard. That sounded so awkward. That was really awkward.

"Things?" Autumn said with a certain sass in  her voice, looking pointedly at Orion. She was only joking, but Mathias was oblivious. 

"I meant good things, sorry." Here comes the flushing of his cheek color. He was pale, already screwing it up.

"I'm kidding, you cutie!" She leaned up to hug him and kissed his cheek, squeezing him. 

"Oh," he choked out, shocked at her... entirely. The hug, the kiss, her demeanor.

He smiled a bit awkwardly as she let go of him. "C'mon, you gotta meet everyone else. We love our Orion -- well, your Orion now," she winked at him, "and we're dying to meet his new boy candy." 

Mathias looked at Orion almost incredulously, "Boy..."

"Never mind," he interjected, a laugh hanging at the edge of his lips. 

Apparently the lounge was more than just that one room, but a few different rooms combined. They walked into one that had food everywhere. Everywhere. He hadn't ever seen so much food in his life, not even at holidays and wakes.

"Wow."

"You can have anything you want." He squeezed his hand as he spoke and smiled over at Mathias.

"I think I'm still a little too..." His voice was quiet, not wanting anyone to hear how embarrassingly anxious he was.

"Okay," Orion nodded reassuringly. Pulling Mathias with him in the direction of more people sitting in a large -- very large -- purple booth around a table full of drinks and plates. "These are some cast members and behind the scenes folks for the show I work on, along with some from other shows," he said quietly to Mathias before they reached the table.

"Hey, guys," he directed at them all. In return, there was a loud and drawn out group hello. Suddenly there were voices from all over, including at tables next to this one and from people standing around the room.

"Is this your new boyfriend?" "Of course it is, stupid, they're holding hands!" "How long have you been together now?" "Where did you meet this kid?" "Ooh, Orion, best keep a leash on this one!" "Oh my God, you lucky fucker."

Everything was catching him off guard, some things shocking him, some making him uncomfortable, but at the same time it was exciting and he liked it. He suddenly felt Orion's arm making its way around Mathias' waist and he was flooded with a new feeling of comfort he hadn't had before. It was really nice. Orion rolled his eyes at some comments, dodging others, and answering just a few of them. After some of them were satisfied, they got up, and Mathias and Orion slid into the inside. He smiled at the girl he sat next to, leaning as close to Orion as he could without being obvious about it.

People slid in and out of the booth for the next 20 minutes, and the two of them remained stationary in the very middle of it. Mathias stayed quiet much of the time, Orion discussing various things, mostly things regarding the two of them. Mid-sentence, Mathias' stomach interrupted Orion as it growled. Loudly. He froze, disbelieving that that happened.

"Hungry?" Orion laughed, pressing his finger against his stomach playfully. Mathias smiled small, shrugging. "I'll go get us something, be right back." He gave him a reassuring squeeze on his knee and gave him a chaste kiss before having two people on his side move so he could get out.

Mathias' face turned very red, everyone staring at him after 'aw'ing in unison. Someone commented on his red face and he turned even redder somehow. He cleared his throat and looked down, not wanting to meet their gazes. He thought about the first time he and Orion kissed. It wasn't just their first kiss, it was Mathias' first kiss ever. Besides when he'd kissed a girl named Candace when he was in 6th grade. It was just a peck, but he felt so guilty about it that he told his parents and had to confess his sins. Good God, the repentance they'd require if they knew of the sins he'd committed since he met Orion. Wearing the leather belt he had on, for starters. He didn't even want to think about their reaction to him kissing period, yet alone a boy, and even better, a non-white.

Orion took Mathias to a carnival, knowing he'd never been on a ride before and he'd previously shared how he'd always wanted to try going on a ferris wheel. He'd made that dream, which probably seemed small to many but significant to him, come true. They were only friends, but Mathias was lying to himself if he said he didn't feel more. They went up, and Mathias was downright terrified. He'd never been more scared in his life, every time it slowed down to add a new passenger, his heart skipped a beat. As they reached the top of the wheel, Mathias looked down to the ground, the people looking small, one of the most beautiful scenes he'd ever seen. With a big smile on his face, he looked to Orion, who'd surprised him by immediately placing his hands against Mathias' cheeks and pressing his lips against Mathias' before he could give it a second thought. His heart stopped but felt like it was beating out of his chest at the same time. It was magical, for all of the two seconds it lasted before Mathias pulled away, his face looking like he'd just been given the most puzzling riddle of his life. He took back his thoughts about fear. He'd never been more scared in his life than he was now.

Scared because, well, he was however high in the air for starters. Two, he was here with a beautiful boy that made him question everything he thought he knew about... everything. Three, he liked it. He liked the feeling of his lips against his, however short the kiss was. He liked being next to Orion, and spending time with him. That scared him. He'd never felt anything like this, and what was worse was that Orion was the exact opposite of every single thing that his family and his religion told him he was supposed to be with. Staring into Orion's eyes though, he didn't care. With wild eyes, Mathias looked into Orion's, soft and caring, waiting for Mathias to process what had just happened. Mathias relaxed, his heart slowing into an excited sort of beating rather than terrified. Seeing this, Orion smiled and pulled Mathias' face back toward his at the same time the ferris wheel finally began to move into a constant motion. Butterflies began to flit around Mathias' entire torso, and he felt lighter than air as Orion slowly moved his lips against his.

They stayed on the ferris wheel for another few rides after that, in which Orion also held his hand for the first time. That whole day, he couldn't pinpoint a "most anything". Orion was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, kissing him and holding his hand and being with him was the most beautiful feeling he'd ever felt. He was happier than he'd ever been, more scared, more everything than he'd ever anything. It was like the first day of his life. His new life, and he never wanted to go back. Being with Orion was... surreal. Except, it was real. It was the realest, and purest thing in his life. At this point, going back home was the surreal thing.

Someone broke his thoughts and he looked to her, sitting on his right. He hadn't even noticed that a few new people had replaced the previous ones while he was lost in thought. "Will you be around here often, now?" she asked.

"Uh, I dunno," he said with a shrug.

"Everyone's gonna want you as their new GBF, unless I claim you first. Do you wanna?"

"What?" he asked, furrowing his brows, entirely confused. He had no clue what a 'GBF' was, but he was 99.999% sure he didn't want to be it.

"Ignore Katy," Orion said as he approached the table, Autumn at his side. "She's stupid." This girl whom he assumed was Katy rolled her eyes and got up.

Orion grinned at Mathias and held his hand out. "I changed my mind. You met the important people, and everyone else got to see you and be jealous, so I'm ready to leave. Let's eat out." Mathias looked up at him with a happy smile, nodding.

He'd go anywhere Orion went.

[ahamiltongarden]

Here is my short story: THE GOOSE DINNER

Before any story of cooking begins, crime is inevitable 

The Alice B Toklas Cookbook

          Annie couldn’t understand why her husband of 25 years didn’t want to watch the goose being dressed.

         “It will be fun!” she said.

        “It doesn’t interest me—it doesn’t interest me in the slightest”, Tom replied, as he reluctantly drove his newly washed European car onto the rough gravel road.

        “Been there, done that”.

        “When did you…?

        “You’ve seen it before anyway, with your father, when he used to gut the fish.”

        “But that was different. They were cold-blooded—not…I don’t know…warm.”

        As they neared the farm Annie reflected on how the whole thing had come about.

        The idea of eating a goose had been conceived at the elegant dinner table of a rural solicitor, Damien Fitzpatrick. Annie had met his wife Heather at a parent teacher meeting while doing some art teaching at a Melbourne boarding school, and when Heather said she was from Ararat Annie mentioned that she and her husband had a holiday house there. One thing had led to another, and now they were friends.

        Those at the dinner table had not eaten goose before but the solicitor knew some female farmers who made wine and reared geese.

         “Wouldn’t it be interesting to cook a dinner together where we matched a goose with French cheese and wine,” he said. “We could invite the winemakers and another pair who are interested in food. Each of the couples could prepare a course.”

         “Wouldn’t it be good to be involved in all stages of the preparation of the meal,” Annie had enthusiastically replied.

        She was envisaging a kind of candlelit Babette’s Feast, remembering how in the film Babette had prepared turtle soup from a live animal for her guests. Annie thought their meal could be a pure regional experience, cooked from the heart. They could use the orange pine mushrooms and Slippery Jacks they had discovered growing just out of town for a rich consommé. The fat Black Genoa figs from their ancient backyard tree could accompany the goose and their purple-skinned D’Agen plums would make a dramatic frangipane tart.

        In due course it was arranged that Annie would see the goose being dressed. For some reason the other dinner participants were not interested. The inner city dweller was excited at the prospect of visiting the farm, meeting a female farmer for the first time and seeing geese up close.

        Helen, their future dinner companion and an experienced theatre nurse, greeted Annie and Tom at the back door. She was short, had a suntanned face, wore sensible farm clothes and looked as if she could do anything.

        “Nice to meet you,’’ she said through the wire screen door, smiling broadly. ‘’I've never had anyone wearing red lipstick kill a goose before!”

        “Oh” said the city slicker. She had presumed she was only watching the goose being plucked and cleaned. Now she was to be directly involved in the killing! She told herself she would just have to do it. She didn’t want to be seen as a weakling before this capable woman.

        After saying goodbye to Tom, Annie was taken into a world that was completely out of her comfort zone. Helen led her into a warm, dimly lit laundry where a fire in a bricked recess under an old washing copper was heating water. Helen grabbed her butcher’s cleaver from a line-up of sharply honed instruments and led Annie through the kitchen garden and across the rough paddock toward the geese enclosure. Threatening grey clouds filling the sky had dulled the light. Annie was glad she had worn her gardening boots and jeans, but was not so sure about her rain jacket.

        She watched as Helen entered the pen and herded the hissing snow-white geese into their hut so she could assess their age. The feisty farmer emerged holding a kicking, seething creature by the feet and walked confidently to the chopping block some distance away. The geese ran up and down their pen in a panic, and the nearby Kelpie, as if in sympathy with the birds, strained against his chain, barking furiously.

        The farmer looped a blue nylon cord around the goose’s beautiful white neck and asked Annie to hold it, so that the bird’s head rested against the woodblock. Her own head down close to the killing site by necessity, Annie looked up just as Helen brought the cleaver down hard three times. The repeated violent blows so close to her face and the horrible cracking sounds of metal against bone were as deeply shocking as the act she was committing. But when the goose’s head fell off the block at the city cook’s feet, she stared for several seconds in amazement at the incredible perfection of the white form against the dusty ground, and at the almost human, soft blue eye. The low light seemed to highlight its extraordinary white presence.

        “Are you OK?“ Helen asked.

        When she looked up to reply the sturdy executioner was on her knees, wrestling the powerful goose body to the ground. Arcs of spurting red blood from the severed neck reminded Annie of paintings of beheaded saints she had seen in the Louvre. Crimson was spattered on Helen’s trousers and face and even on the sleeve of her own inappropriate Max Mara jacket. Pools of blood on the ground and chopping block were thick and bright in the gloom.

         “I’m just going to fetch another bird,” Helen said.

        Again! We’re going to do it again! Annie lamented as she watched the headless goose with its dirty yellow feet shiver and convulse on the ground.

        Next a dozen hissing, furious geese were running directly towards her from the pen. They were about to attack her for what she had done! And Helen wasn’t there! As she braced herself the geese reached her but then rushed past. Annie saw they were only heading for the refuge of the dam beyond. What an idiot she felt. Did Helen deliberately let the birds go to scare her?

        The second grisly deed was done with her assistance, and then they were carrying the heavy bodies to the laundry to be scalded in the copper. A fine misty rain was falling.

        Under an old dusky pine, out of the weather, Helen had set up a low plank table and woodblock seats for them. Annie laid her goose in front of in her and followed Helen’s instructions. As they ripped the warm, wet feathers from the birds the two women began to exchange information about their lives, the frank way strangers often do.

        Gradually rich yellow goose skins were revealed and the birds looked more like something one would buy at a market. When they had finished plucking, it was back through the drizzle to the warm laundry to singe the pinfeathers and hairs over a flame. The heat caused the birds’ blood to flow freely onto the newspaper-spread concrete floor so that the laundry now resembled a site with a violent history. It even had a smell of carnage.

        When they returned to their seats under the pine Helen passed Annie a knife.  She was about to undergo a further test. Never in her life did she imagine she would be doing something so horrible. And with someone she didn’t even really know. She was afraid of what would be inside the goose.

        Cutting through the goose’s skin and flesh made the city art teacher think about what it would be like to slit open her own stomach. The gutting task was much more complex and time-consuming than she could have imagined, and care had to be taken with the gall bladder and glands near the rear end, or else a terrible smell would be released.

        To push her hand and arm deep into the warm, fleshy cave and feel around for specific organs, to be pulled forth one at a time, was indescribable. She had trouble with the foamy lungs, and as she scratched them from the cavity wall, they went under her fingernails and broke away in small pieces.

         The poor goose!

        The greasy fat and blood gradually spread up Annie’s arms and her jacket sleeves kept falling into contact with the smears. The orange fatty tissue against the bright red blood, and the contrasting blue and yellow entrails were so intense that she found herself exclaiming “The colours are so beautiful.”

        Helen stopped and looked hard at her for a moment. She slowly said “I’ve never had anyone describe it quite like that before.”

        When they had finished she cut open a goose stomach to show Annie what was inside, and expertly cleaned the green grit from the pouches with the point of her knife. Helen asked if she would like to take the pieces home with the heart to make stock. How could she refuse?

        Afterwards they drank tea in the farm kitchen as Helen copied the goose recipe from Annie’s Maggie’s Table book. Helen showed Anna her collection of old roses near the laundry, including a giant rugosa hybrid named ‘Sarah Van Fleet,’ and then she took her to see dark grapes fermenting in the winemaking shed beyond the goose paddock.

        When Tom came to collect Annie, he asked her how it had gone. She responded in a low-key manner in front of Helen, but as they swung out of the drive and onto the gravel Anna kept chanting, “It was amazing! It was amazing! It was amazing!” Tom immediately detected an unpleasant odour in the car, but he didn’t say anything.

        On the day of the goose dinner Annie made her plum tart. When they picked up the two winemaking women in Damien’s car, Annie hardly recognized Helen in her make-up and sophisticated dinner party dress. As she turned to the back seat, she smilingly said to Helen “Who is wearing the lipstick now?” They laughed.

        The dinner unfolded well, and there was an expectant air as each of the four couples presented their courses in turn. Helen’s partner Julia was charismatic, passionate and knowledgeable, and it was thrilling to listen to her towards the end of the dinner as she responded to their questions about wine and winemaking. The Clos de Vougeot Grand cru wines had been the most exciting part of the dinner. Annie remembered there was a ‘ Clos de Vougeot’ rose and promised to order one for them.

        “What colour is it?” Helen asked. “ Blood red”, grinned Annie.

        And what of the goose? As they were all leaving, Damien confidingly remarked on the expression on Annie’s face when she was presented with it at the table. Disappointingly, the bird had looked like overcooked lamb, and was surprisingly grey, but all she could think about as she looked at the plate was the white perfection of the goose’s head in the dust, with its almost human, misty blue eye. Her appetite had left her.

[shadow-wasser]

WIP Fic Whenever: The Weakest, Of the Gods

WIP Fic Friday is a place where I will put a ‘quick and dirty’ first draft of either a short story or a chapter from a longer story. This will hopefully encourage me to improve my writing output. I missed last week... oops. This is from the “The Gods Have Horns” setting. Warning: Eye-related horror.

You always thought you were, kind of, the weakest of the gods. Not because Breath is like, a shitty aspect, but more because you never really went that high up the god tiers, and Pages are like, supposed to have further to go, than most.

You don’t mind that much, though. You don’t need lots of flashy powers to enjoy life.

You wander. You fly. You sometimes accidentally run into other gods, or hear them calling your name from afar. You rarely answer them. Generally speaking, other trolls have not been kind to you, and you much prefer the company of beasts. All of you turning into immortals with robes and wings and shiznasty powers has not changed that basic fact.

You don’t hang around the aliens much, either. You might stumble upon some accidentally, if they’re in that span of time between when they start talking, and when they start building cities. But you don’t stick around long. After locals spot you, they tend to say your name, for thousands of years afterward. It’s a little annoying.

So, you find worlds of animals. Worlds upon worlds where only animals walk, where nobody splits the air with speech. You’re not all that lonely. You tell yourself you’re happy.

(You can hear Eridan calling your name sometimes. You don’t ever say his.)

You are reclining under a tree in the moonlight on a vast savannah, listening to chirping night-critters, writing beat poetry, in your head, to their songs. Then you see the lights, moving above.

A spaceship.

You are not afraid, but you are cautious, and disappointed. You’d rather that a star-faring civilization not colonize this world. It’s always a pain, to have to find a new planet to live.

The starship, which is truly enormous, comes to ground, and you know, even before it lands, that it’s not a regular alien ship.

It’s purple, for one, and bedecked in banners and streamers and flags. Those sorts of decorations, you’re pretty sure, don’t usually survive on spaceships. They burn up, or something.

And you recognize the sigil, on the banners. The aspect of Rage.

You haven’t seen Gamzee in, well, probably eons, but you don’t really keep track of time anymore. He stopped calling your name, after only a few years, when you first split off from the rest.

You’re pretty sure, he doesn’t miss you, anymore.

You’re not sure, if you ever missed him.

Aliens are coming out of the spaceship now, opening up the sides. They are all sorts of different aliens, many you’ve never seen before.

The spaceship unfolds like an intricate paper sculpture, inflating into a tremendously giant tent. There’s a carpet rolling out along the ground, and out of the tent steps-

Whoa, he’s huge.

You shouldn’t be surprised. You all can basically look however you want, now, within trollish reason. Like, you can have working legs, when you want, which you usually do. Also, you can look more like an adult, if you want, but you usually don’t like to. You like the way you feel, when you look young.

But Gamzee must be, eight feet tall, at least, not counting the horns. He’s wearing a black and purple vest and a fancy coat, striped pants and heavy boots. You can’t see his face clearly from under your tree, but you’re certain he’s still wearing his subjugglator paint.

You should go greet him, right? Maybe you can convince him to leave this planet alone, for whatever it is he’s doing. But he’s all dressed up and you’re basically just wearing your godhood. You quickly try to make yourself presentable, dredging an old hat with a feather in it out of your sylladex, even though the green clashes. You wish you had some real pants.

You feel kind of silly, for being nervous. It’s just, Gamzee, right?

Gamzee is talking with one of the aliens, but he looks up as you approach. And yes, it’s still Gamzee, he still has that lazy, satisfied expression, though his purple eyes have a degree of intensity you don’t remember being there before.

“Tavros,” he says, his voice a low rumble that makes your horns vibrate. “And there I thought you’d up and died ages ago, brother. Miracle.”

“Uh,” you reply. “No, I’m alive. I’ve been alive, this whole time. I think.”

“None of us had our knowing on about that there thing what you said.”

You feel a little bad, now. You might have told them you were alive, at least. When you speak, your tone is a little defensive. “I’ve been, exploring. And, communing with the animals. It’s peaceful, out here. And no one, judges me.”

Gamzee’s painted brows crease, but then he smiles. “Brother, why don’t you come inside? See my ring?”

“Uh, sure?”

You follow him behind a curtain, and into his ship. Inside it’s purple, and shadowy, and it smells bitter and musky. You can see aliens of various shapes and sizes running around, through curtains and around mirrors. You can hear distant screaming, or maybe it’s laughing? Maybe it’s applause. The air is full of smoke. By the time Gamzee and you reach your destination, your eyes are watering.

It’s the very top of the tent, a wide balcony from which Gamzee can look over the rings being set up, and the savannah stretching to the horizon.

There’s an alien there, its face painted in black and white, and Gamzee waves a hand at it. “fuck off.”

It fucks off.

Gamzee settles himself in a chair that looks more like a throne, and you are amazed at how easily he fits there, fits here, now naturally he seems to take up divinity. Not a hint of uncertainty, not a pause of hesitation. Every inch a god.

You’re almost envious.

“Lots to do here, brother,” he says. “We meet in a time of miracle and wonder.”

“What are you here to do?” you ask.

“Spread the mirthful word, my brother. Ain’t been a whole planet devoted to the Carnival, not yet.” He smiles lazily, and maybe there are a few more teeth in the grin, this time. “High time for there to getting been done.”

“The whole planet?” You can’t keep the surprise from your voice. “Not just, like, one city?”

“Naw, brother, got to think bigger than that. Nothing but tents and rings and sideshows and freaks, far as your motherfucking ganderbulbs can see and then more.” Gamzee gets up from the throne and walks up to the edge of the balcony, resting his arms on the railing. Then, he turns.

“But enough all and about me, my invertebro! What is all up and happening with you?”

“Gamzee, I… That’s all, very nice, and all, but I’m not sure that’s all, a good idea? Turning the planet, into one big, um, circus?”

Gamzee frowns, and, for a moment, narrows his eyes at you. You take a step back.

Then, he’s smiling again. “Brother I know we ain’t got our squawk on in millions of sweeps and all, so you don’t got it in your pan that I got my motherfucking understand on what all this is about you dig?”

“W-what?”

“Rage, brother. You even know what Rage is all about?”

“Not, um. Really. I mean, I know it means, being angry, but it’s probably more than that, because Breath is about more than, you know, breathing.”

“What’s Breath about?”

You blink in surprise. “What?”

“I want you to get me all up in the schoolfeeding, Tavbro. What’s your motherfucking aspect all getting itself about?”

Breath… you know what it is. You know it in your core, like the sigil has been branded into your thinkpan, which is probably has, now that you think of it. Breath is freedom. Unfetteredness. The feeling of responsibilities being shed, of being light as air, of being held accountable for nothing.

You think you’ve done a pretty good job of being Breath.

“Freedom,” you say, eventually, uncertainly. “Breath is freedom?”

Gamzee laughs. You don’t see what is so funny.

“Aw, brother, I’m all about that too!”

“Huh?”

Gamzee leans forward, and his voice quiets. “Rage, brother. Rage is the hole what’s left when freedom’s gone. Rage is the thing in your thinkpan that makes you stop. Makes you hesitate. And I kill that. I MOTHERFUCKING KILL THAT!”

You jump at the change in volume, then feel immediately sheepish.

“Aw, Tavbro, don’t be all scared. It’s all good and miraculous that every single one of my motherfucking followers has all their Rage gone. Would be a better motherfucking world if everyone just said what’s on their motherfucking mind and did what they motherfucking wanted. Freedom. Brother, don’t you agree?”

You swallow. “Uh, I’m not sure I understand. I thought you were a, Bard? You don’t destroy, directly, right?”

He shakes his head. “Naw, brother. But it goes and shrivels and dies all on its own. Here, I’ll up and show you.”

He turns, and looks out at the savannah. The animals have never seen aliens before. They only look up curiously, don’t run, as Gamzee’s followers set up the circus.

He points. “See that motherfucker over there?” You go up and look. It’s one of Gamzee’s followers, a funny looking red alien with four arms. “He’s been wanting to try something but ain’t letting himself do it. And that ain’t no way to be thinking in my Carnival.”

Gamzee looks at you, and smiles, mouth friendly and eyes hard. “Don’t want none of that in my Carnival, brother.”

The red alien, who had been focused on erecting a large pole, turns to a brown furry alien next to him. And without hesitating a moment, he reaches up and rips out the furry alien’s eye.

And eats it.

You don’t watch the rest.

“I think that’s kind of sick.” you manage to say, eventually. “Did you, make him, do that?”

Gamzee actually looks confused. “It’s freedom, brother. It’s only what he wanted all and up to do, all in real life like.”

He must see the distress in your expression, because he then follows that up with: “We do the same thing, Tavbro.”

“No, I,” you don’t know what to say. He’s going to make your planet (you can’t help but think of it as yours), your whole planet, be like that? Without restraint or empathy or kindness? “I don’t think it’s the same thing at all.”

Gamzee frowns, then just as quickly smiles again. “Sure thing bro. We don’t gotta work together, though it’d all make me as happy as motherfuck if we up and did.”

He turns to look at the view again. “You can still up and stay if you wanna get your watch on, my brother. Or go on chilling with the birds and bees if that’s what speaks to you and all.”

“Gamzee,” you say, after a moment. “Can you, um. Use a different planet, maybe? I kind of, like this one?”

He looks at you, sidelong, and says nothing.

“Like, I like it, how it is? Not made into… a carnival…” You trail off.

“This is a good planet for a Carnival, bro. Not like you were up and using it.”

“Gamzee, don’t- I was kind of, living here-”

“IT’S NOT LIKE YOU WROTE YOUR MOTHERFUCKING NAME ON IT!”

Gamzee whirls, and his appearance is transformed. His fangs are bared, expression furious, and the scleras of his eyes look more orange than yellow.

“Tavbro, you ran, you can’t claim nothing. NOT MOTHERFUCKING NOTHING. Ain’t even acting a real god, just running around playing like you’re STILL A MOTHERFUCKING KID. This planet is MOTHERFUCKING MINE, brother. Can’t claim NOTHING. And I. Am going. TO DESTROY THIS MOTHERFUCKING PLANET. And there ain’t nothing you’re gonna do about it, are you?”

You sit down. Hard. You are sitting in a four-wheel device. You didn’t realize you still had one. You’re not sure if you can move your legs, actually. Or feel them.

“Didn’t motherfucking think so.”

Gamzee turns, to look back at the Carnival. And you…

You can feel it. The animals. Ripping into each other. Killing mates, killing young, predators going mad, fear-aggression spiking into suicidal terror…

He’s wiping out the whole planet.

Your planet.

By now, your communing abilities are highly developed. You’re more powerful than the Summoner, more powerful than any mortal troll could ever have been.

But when you reach out to get the animals to stop, you can’t. Divine power trumps psionics, you guess.

You have divine power. You are the Page of Breath. The Page to Breath. But if this is freedom… what does Breath want from you? You wish you were a Seer.

But you’re no Seer. Barely even a Page. You’re sitting there in your chair like a fool. The clown made a fool of you.

For a moment, you think you might hate him. Then you realize, no, you just want to be free of him. You just want-

And that’s when you get it. You really, actually get it.

“Gamzee,” you say slowly. “I think, there might be, two kinds of freedom.”

“What the motherfuck are you talking about?” he rumbles.

“Yeah, there is… there is freedom to. That’s your kind of freedom. But I think my kind of freedom is freedom from. Which is different. So that’s, I think, what I’m going to do.”

You Breathe.

And they are free.

All of them. The animals, the followers. Free of their burdens. They are free now, of Gamzee. They can do what they want to, really want to, and not just reflexively enact their most base impulses.

You can hear cheering, from below. Or maybe screaming. Maybe applause.

“What the fuck did you do!” roars Gamzee, turning on you.

You stand up. The chair is gone. You do not need to be afraid of him. You are free of your fear.

You spread your wings.

“I think, I’m doing, what I need to do,” you say. “Which is, to say, stop you.”

The wind whistles, and-

------

It is the first time, but not the last, you fight another god openly.

It is the first time, but not the last, you really felt divine.

------

Your planet, at least, died free.

[driftwork]

conversations, violence, the happiness of a retired woman, some deaths, and an experiment...

1  When do rituals make people safe? What rituals make people safe ? Do they ? This particular event has reliable speech. The events however are unreliable in meaning, the words spoken, the etymology of words spoken and written is irrelevant. They like us live in a surveillance society, unlike the surveillance you live under which is fundamentally about your consumptive habits,  the surveillance they live under is situational, individuated, detailed, maintained and always political,  synthesized into reports that end up on desks in multiple countries. In this only the quoted speech is reliable only the event is important. The crimes, deaths and corruption touched on here are uninteresting, after all you live in a world built on corruption  [...] The war machine's year long experiment had been over long  ago, and when they thought about it at all they just assumed that they would just continue to live with one another. They had never talked about ending their experiment. Months and a few years pass and then this event, the event of having a child redefined them completely, perhaps it was more than a few months, anyway after this event they began to speak about how they avoided talking about the end of the experiment just in case the other spoke of leaving. The question which haunts them is how much they can resist being drawn back into the territory she had been exiled from.  They had become so used to being under surveillance  that they mistakenly believed that they scarcely noticed it [...] Let's begin  with him,  for him a year long investigative case ended here, many things unraveled, lives ended, lives recommenced, some peoples existences stopped. New things learnt, some unlearnt.  Whilst it introduced them both to new laws that they learned to break, for him the long slow trajectory of becoming ethical continued. He took a few more steps away from the state morality he was surrounded by. Some of the dead died nameless, some were identified, the rescued were placed in a safe house from where they vanished into new identities before they could be deported, a man and his wife were murdered in a mansion in Golders Green.  The police did not find who killed them. Vast sums of capital and money changed hands and were eventually and invisibly redirected into a Swiss bank which in turn converted them into shares of the bank. The war machine became three, then later four. This particular morning he dressed in a+ loose fitting kenzo suit that had arrived the day before. He spent the morning in briefing meetings about the warrant he was going to serve to open the container. His Sergeant had picked him up early at 8 am.  Park told him that she had some appointments today, doctors, a board meeting and I have to go to the bank afterwards to sign some money back to Japan. Do you want to meet up for dinner on the way back ? He said yes,  The Sergeant looked at the elegant black Yamamoto suit she was dressed in and wondered how much it cost...  An hour or so later in the office, he read the warrant and looked up as he folded it into four uneven rectangles and put it into his pocket. Who are the forensic team today ? Who takes over when we find something and have to stay on site?   They left the office later than planned and traveled in a three vehicle convoy, arriving at the storage facility at midday, the Sergeant was driving, there was a DC on the back seat. He was eating his way through a bento box. As they arrived he said to his sergeant that he didn't like the purple kimchi. The shipping containers were stacked two high in rows twelve containers wide. They opened the container after some resistance from the staff. They didn't have keys so he got one of the constables to break the lock.  There were a dozen dead humans in the container. He looked at them without touching the bodies.  The Sergeant called forensic team, and then she called the DCS. A constable was assigned to tape off the container and guard the bodies.  Sam told the uniforms to start opening the other containers.  The uniformed inspector looked like he wanted to protest and thought better of it.   They started breaking into the other containers.  Creating a list of containers and a summary of contents < Ikea furniture, household furniture, BMW motorbikes, Boxes of books, Paper, Machine parts, kitchen furniture, junkware, always junkware>...

  2  [Lets consider her; She was feeling pale and lightheaded, she didn't go into her office, instead she came into the office before midday and sat down on the police spy’s sofa.  Taking the photograph from the brown envelope she handed it to her  - "Nancy, I am in so much trouble." Gesturing at the photograph, Nancy looked at the sonogram of the baby. Her language had a southern english accent, sounding almost normal except she had a tendency to drop philosophical phrases into her speech."öh, should i congratulate you?""Yes I think so." she said, leaning back into the sofa. "I am still in so much trouble. ""Why? haven't you told him?" Nancy listened to what she was saying and wanted to laugh. One of her assistants mimed "tea?" They both said yes."Not yet, I didn't know until today.  The thing is I have overturned every single aspect of his life since Tokyo. Everything." she looked like she wanted to run, Nancy smiled at her. "And now this ? I don't know how to tell him about this. What do I do if he can't handle it? ""Boss why do you say these things to me? We all know neither of you are going anywhere..." The 'We' containing an implicit/implied reference to the office they are sitting in and Nancy's surveillance reporting back to the DCS. "I suppose so.  We avoided talking about the experiment at the end of the year, we were too nervous in case the other wanted it to end it and now this." She really is pregnant Nancy thought listening to her confess her fears. I didn't think she was frightened of anything. So typical that any fear revolves around him."I won't tell Jean about this until tomorrow." Nancy explained to her. "It's better if he knows first...""Thankyou. And now I'm going to tell him I'm pregnant. Do you think he'll be allright ?""Yes, tell him its an experimental activity, he'll like that... also you could tell him you want to get married.""What, why?" She looked up at her from the sofa. Reaching for the white leaf tea." It will distract him,  and also make him feel secure. You say that you've disrupted every aspect of his life. But the truth is that he has disrupted every aspect of your life as well...""Really? You.. " she looked around at Nancy's staff. "will have to come to the wedding." Nancy was unusually amused at her today... She went to the board meeting...]

3  They'd opened twenty containers before a Detective Constable told him they had found some women alive in another container. At some moment earlier than this, during the searching process one of the black suited watchers came over and asked him if they could help.  He smiled at the man whose name was Franz, and thanked him for the offer. If one of you could help the constable at the office and the rest help open some containers. Franz produced some pairs of bolt cutters from the boot of the SUV [...]   Park arrived as they were opening more containers - she was unmoved as she looked at the women. Your earlier than I expected, he said. Looking pleased to see her. I didn't go the bank,  rearranged it for tomorrow. He handed her a pair of bolt cutters. Thank you. she said and began opening containers rather than speak to him, <furniture,  broken computers, motorcycles, ferraris, lampshades,  lightbulbs, soil, smartphones,  sealed boxes of backyp tapes, boxes of unknown parts> she was laughing at herself as she broke open another container,  recognizing that she was delaying disrupting his life again, even if only for a few minutes. She spoke briefly to one of the black suited men and made a phone call to her bank.  The women from the container were being given glasses of water. (They would be taken to a safe house, be interviewed  and vanish into new identities before they could be deported.)   Park could be heard laughing with delight from inside the container she had opened.  (He heard her and left the container he was looking into.) Her jacket lying on her cars bonnet.  “Guns” she said. < Guns, medical machinery, drugs, 3D printing machines, more Ikea flat packs, computers and printers, junkware> (The detritus of mass consumption standing in containers on the edges of the city.) She emerged from the container carrying a handgun.  (Look what I've found.) She looked at the Sergeant, who was standing to one side talking with Franz, they looked like they were having a nice day. The sergeant told her it had been pretty weird, too many bodies,  refugees and now guns.   I think he, my husband,  attracts weird.  Watching  him as he walked down the row of containers towards her. The Sergeant looked between Park,  the DCI and the gun. Park was inspecting the glock and with practiced hands she reassembled it.  She thought of the new guns, how they needed cleaning and wondered if she could keep one ? She was smiling at him, knowing  why she was so pleased to see him and understanding why he was looking slightly mystified. Who'd have imagined I'd feel like this.  "Husband ?" He said amongst  other things, questioned waiting... "Yes, I think we're getting married, next month. Do you want to come Sergeant ?"  "I didn’t know that. Why?" The Sergeant was amused at the way he accepted what she said.   "Yes well your going to be a father so i thought you might like the idea."  She smiled, amused to find that she was quite happy about the idea. "I'm what?"  He said. She replied quietly, next to him so that nobody could hear. "A woman in permanent exile who has a baby,  she should get married and avoid ice picks.  That's what Nancy said when I told her this morning after finding out." They stood around in a small group, a woman with a gun in her hand, Sam, his Sergeant and a gangster called Franz. They think they are barbarians but in reality they merely live amongst and work for barbarians. "What?" he said again.  Park waved the gun,  "...It's a sort of handgun wedding. " Patting and pointing at her stomach. Grabbing his arm as he looked a little pale. "Focus, look at me."  "Sorry, suddenly felt a bit shocked." She took hold of his arm.  "I'm pregnant, about twelve weeks, your going to be a father and I am scared enough for both of us so you have to recover."  "Oh. I'm fine."  and puts his arms around her. "If you're OK with this,  I am happy. We can get married. I'll sign anything for you."  He thought of the baby,  looked at the women and children being looked after by a police constable and a man in a black suit.  And thought they would have to do something about the women. This is as real as it can get. Trivial sentences that inform us about love and fraternity, cut from paragraphs that in the extended form tell us nothing. Tells us nothing, the next paragraph contains nothing of interest though it explains why two people died. 

4  A Japanese or possibly Korean woman standing amongst the rescued women, holding a small child in her arms is looking at them or perhaps its just her tattoos. The Sergeant accompanies them to the safe house and arranges doctors. Some days later whilst searching  the empty office block, they found a picture of Park walking across the tarmac holding the gun and talking on her phone, he is standing next to her(with a  biro circle drawn around his head).  A week later when they went to arrest the man and his wife in Golders Green they found them dead,  the money and details of the financiers vanished.  The next day or a few days later a woman, accompanied by her bodyguards goes to a meeting to issue threats and arrange the laundering of assets. In another  bank a director suggests swapping the assets into class A shares in the bank, the shares become a wedding present. Rituals...

5  [They ate at home, arriving back around eight in the evening. " Ï never thought that we would be like this" he says to her in the middle of the night when they are in bed. The humidifier is silently issuing water vapor into the room.  Her bedside light with a white porcelain base with a dark blue leopard walking looking out into the room, is filling her side of the bed with a reflected golden light. She is reading minima philologica  and moves over to put her head on his shoulder. " It has been a very successful experiment...." and then  I think its entered a new phase... I am scared "  she says for the third or fourth time that day.This time he responds differently putting his arm around her." We don't have to be scared, we just need to keep it safe and happy.... I never expected this to happen, I sort of expected us to continue to live like this, like most men I have been caught by surprise.  But unlike most men I cannot luxuriate in this surprise because, well you know why... "" I still feel scared, as if I have given them another hostage..." She said. He felt her shudder and smiled at the thought that he was probably the the only person who knew she was capable of such a reaction." That's fine,  you can feel scared, I'll act like a future parent and try and get used to the idea of becoming parent..."She hit him gently with her elbow, " Becoming parent..." and felt herself relaxing. " I'll remind them of the facts of our lives starting tomorrow..."" Gently or aggressively ? " she asked." More in the sense of the master/slave dialectic,  reminding them of the increased dread consequences of wrong decisions... They have six months to get used to the idea.""Our relations with them all will change..."( I may never quite get used to the idea, of becoming a parent. she thought wanting to smile, in the pause of language, the event  freeing of language from language.  Free, she thought from the world and everything that had been said and what could be said of the world that made her... )" Becoming parent could be nice " She admitted." I hope she is a good mixture of you and I ... by the way the women sent to the safe house. They are going to need new identities with documentation. And to disappear from the eyes of the police.""Why? "" The police will only deport them..."She laughed and reached for her book. " I like my bag carrier..."He falls asleep whilst she is still reading the  Hamacher book and occasionally talking. Happiness, she thinks, is a retired assassin, reading a book whilst lying in bed with a person she trusts.] She kept the gun.

[readbookywooks]

Tyrion

The queen intends to send Prince Tommen away." They knelt alone in the hushed dimness of the sept, surrounded by shadows and flickering candles, but even so Lancel kept his voice low. "Lord Gyles will take him to Rosby, and conceal him there in the guise of a page. They plan to darken his hair and tell everyone that he is the son of a hedge knight."

"Is it the mob she fears? Or me?"

"Both," said Lancel.

"Ah." Tyrion had known nothing of this ploy. Had Varys's little birds failed him for once? Even spiders must nod, he supposed . . . or was the eunuch playing a deeper and more subtle game than he knew? "You have my thanks, ser."

"Will you grant me the boon I asked of you?"

"Perhaps." Lancel wanted his own command in the next battle. A splendid way to die before he finished growing that mustache, but young knights always think themselves invincible.

Tyrion lingered after his cousin had slipped away. At the Warrior's altar, he used one candle to light another. Watch over my brother, you bloody bastard, he's one of yours. He lit a second candle to the Stranger, for himself.

That night, when the Red Keep was dark, Bronn arrived to find him sealing a letter. "Take this to Ser Jacelyn Bywater." The dwarf dribbled hot golden wax down onto the parchment.

"What does it say?" Bronn could not read, so he asked impudent questions.

"That he's to take fifty of his best swords and scout the roseroad." Tyrion pressed his seal into the soft wax.

"Stannis is more like to come up the kingsroad."

"Oh, I know. Tell Bywater to disregard what's in the letter and take his men north. He's to lay a trap along the Rosby road. Lord Gyles will depart for his castle in a day or two, with a dozen men-at-arms, some servants, and my nephew. Prince Tommen may be dressed as a page."

"You want the boy brought back, is that it?"

"No. I want him taken on to the castle." Removing the boy from the city was one of his sister's better notions, Tyrion had decided. At Rosby, Tommen would be safe from the mob, and keeping him apart from his brother also made things more difficult for Stannis; even if he took King's Landing and executed Joffrey, he'd still have a Lannister claimant to contend with. "Lord Gyles is too sickly to run and too craven to fight. He'll command his castellan to open the gates. Once inside the walls, Bywater is to expel the garrison and hold Tommen there safe. Ask him how he likes the sound of Lord Bywater."

"Lord Bronn would sound better. I could grab the boy for you just as well. I'll dandle him on my knee and sing him nursery songs if there's a lordship in it."

"I need you here," said Tyrion. And I don't trust you with my nephew. Should any ill befall Joffrey, the Lannister claim to the Iron Throne would rest on Tommen's young shoulders. Ser Jacelyn's gold cloaks would defend the boy; Bronn's sellswords were more apt to sell him to his enemies.

"What should the new lord do with the old one?"

"Whatever he pleases, so long as he remembers to feed him. I don't want him dying." Tyrion pushed away from the table. "My sister will send one of the Kingsguard with the prince."

Bronn was not concerned. "The Hound is Joffrey's dog, he won't leave him. Ironhand's gold cloaks should be able to handle the others easy enough."

"If it comes to killing, tell Ser Jacelyn I won't have it done in front of Tommen." Tyrion donned a heavy cloak of dark brown wool. "My nephew is tender-hearted."

"Are you certain he's a Lannister?"

"I'm certain of nothing but winter and battle," he said. "Come. I'm riding with you part of the way."

"Chataya's?"

"You know me too well."

They left through a postern gate in the north wall. Tyrion put his heels into his horse and clattered down Shadowblack Lane. A few furtive shapes darted into alleys at the sound of hoofbeats on the cobbles, but no one dared accost them. The council had extended his curfew; it was death to be taken on the streets after the evenfall bells had sung. The measure had restored a degree of peace to King's Landing and quartered the number of corpses found in the alleys of a morning, yet Varys said the people cursed him for it. They should be thankful they have the breath to curse. A pair of gold cloaks confronted them as they were making their way along Coppersmith's Wynd, but when they realized whom they'd challenged they begged the Hand's pardons and waved them on. Bronn turned south for the Mud Gate and they parted company.

Tyrion rode on toward Chataya's, but suddenly his patience deserted him. He twisted in the saddle, scanning the street behind. There were no signs of followers. Every window was dark or tightly shuttered. He heard nothing but the wind swirling down the alleys. If Cersei has someone stalking me tonight, he must be disguised as a rat. "Bugger it all," he muttered. He was sick of caution. Wheeling his horse around, he dug in his spurs. If anyone's after me, we'll see how well they ride. He flew through the moonlight streets, clattering over cobbles, darting down narrow alleys and up twisty wynds, racing to his love.

As he hammered on the gate he heard music wafting faintly over the spiked stone walls. One of the Ibbenese ushered him inside. Tyrion gave the man his horse and said, "Who is that?" The diamond-shaped panes of the longhall windows shone with yellow light, and he could hear a man singing.

The Ibbenese shrugged. "Fatbelly singer."

The sound swelled as he walked from the stable to the house. Tyrion had never been fond of singers, and he liked this one even less than the run of the breed, sight unseen. When he pushed open the door, the man broke off. "My lord Hand." He knelt, balding and kettle-bellied, murmuring, "An honor, an honor."

"M'lord." Shae smiled at the sight of him. He liked that smile, the quick unthinking way it came to her pretty face. The girl wore her purple silk, belted with a cloth-of-silver sash. The colors favored her dark hair and the smooth cream of her skin.

"Sweetling," he called her. "And who is this?"

The singer raised his eyes. "I am called Symon Silver Tongue, my lord. A player, a singer, a taleteller—"

"And a great fool," Tyrion finished. "What did you call me, when I entered?"

"Call? I only . . . " The silver in Symon's tongue seemed to have turned to lead. "My lord Hand, I said, an honor . . . "

"A wiser man would have pretended not to recognize me. Not that I would have been fooled, but you ought to have tried. What am I to do with you now? You know of my sweet Shae, you know where she dwells, you know that I visit by night alone."

"I swear, I'll tell no one . . . "

"On that much we agree. Good night to you." Tyrion led Shae up the stairs.

"My singer may never sing again now," she teased. "You've scared the voice from him."

"A little fear will help him reach those high notes."

She closed the door to their bedchamber. "You won't hurt him, will you?" She lit a scented candle and knelt to pull off his boots. "His songs cheer me on the nights you don't come."

"Would that I could come every night," he said as she rubbed his bare feet. "How well does he sing?"

"Better than some. Not so good as others."

Tyrion opened her robe and buried his face between her breasts. She always smelled clean to him, even in this reeking sty of a city. "Keep him if you like, but keep him close. I won't have him wandering the city spreading tales in pot-shops."

"He won't—" she started.

Tyrion covered her mouth with his own. He'd had talk enough; he needed the sweet simplicity of the pleasure he found between Shae's thighs. Here, at least, he was welcome, wanted.

Afterward, he eased his arm out from under her head, slipped on his tunic, and went down to the garden. A half-moon silvered the leaves of the fruit trees and shone on the surface of the stone bathing pond. Tyrion seated himself beside the water. Somewhere off to his right a cricket was chirping, a curiously homey sound. It is peaceful here, he thought, but for how long?

A whiff of something rank made him turn his head. Shae stood in the door behind him, dressed in the silvery robe he'd given her. I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair. Behind her stood one of the begging brothers, a portly man in filthy patched robes, his bare feet crusty with dirt, a bowl hung about his neck on a leather thong where a septon would have worn a crystal. The smell of him would have gagged a rat.

"Lord Varys has come to see you," Shae announced.

The begging brother blinked at her, astonished. Tyrion laughed. "To be sure. How is it you knew him when I did not?"

She shrugged. "It's still him. Only dressed different."

"A different look, a different smell, a different way of walking," said Tyrion. "Most men would be deceived."

"And most women, maybe. But not whores. A whore learns to see the man, not his garb, or she turns up dead in an alley."

Varys looked pained, and not because of the false scabs on his feet. Tyrion chuckled. "Shae, would you bring us some wine?" He might need a drink. Whatever brought the eunuch here in the dead of night was not like to be good.

"I almost fear to tell you why I've come, my lord," Varys said when Shae had left them. "I bring dire tidings."

"You ought to dress in black feathers, Varys, you're as bad an omen as any raven." Awkwardly, Tyrion pushed to his feet, half afraid to ask the next question. "Is it Jaime?" If they have harmed him, nothing will save them.

"No, my lord. A different matter. Ser Cortnay Penrose is dead. Storm's End has opened its gates to Stannis Baratheon."

Dismay drove all other thoughts from Tyrion's mind. When Shae returned with the wine, he took one sip and flung the cup away to explode against the side of the house. She raised a hand to shield herself from the shards as the wine ran down the stones in long fingers, black in the moonlight. "Damn him!" Tyrion said.

Varys smiled, showing a mouth full of rotted teeth. "Who, my lord? Ser Cortnay or Lord Stannis?"

"Both of them." Storm's End was strong, it should have been able to hold out for half a year or more . . . time enough for his father to finish with Robb Stark. "How did this happen?"

Varys glanced at Shae. "My lord, must we trouble your sweet lady's sleep with such grim and bloody talk?"

"A lady might be afraid," said Shae, "but I'm not."

"You should be," Tyrion told her. "With Storm's End fallen, Stannis will soon turn his attention toward King's Landing." He regretted flinging away that wine now. "Lord Varys, give us a moment, and I'll ride back to the castle with you."

"I shall wait in the stables." He bowed and stomped off.

Tyrion drew Shae down beside him. "You are not safe here."

"I have my walls, and the guards you gave me."

"Sellswords," Tyrion said. "They like my gold well enough, but will they die for it? As for these walls, a man could stand on another's shoulders and be over in a heartbeat. A manse much like this one was burned during the riots. They killed the goldsmith who owned it for the crime of having a full larder, just as they tore the High Septon to pieces, raped Lollys half a hundred times, and smashed Ser Aron's skull in. What do you think they would do if they got their hands on the Hand's lady?"

"The Hand's whore, you mean?" She looked at him with those big bold eyes of hers. "Though I would be your lady, m'lord. I'd dress in all the beautiful things you gave me, in satin and samite and cloth-of-gold, and I'd wear your jewels and hold your hand and sit by you at feasts. I could give you sons, I know I could . . . and I vow I'd never shame you."

My love for you shames me enough. "A sweet dream, Shae. Now put it aside, I beg you. It can never be."

"Because of the queen? I'm not afraid of her either."

"I am."

"Then kill her and be done with it. It's not as if there was any love between you."

Tyrion sighed. "She's my sister. The man who kills his own blood is cursed forever in the sight of gods and men. Moreover, whatever you and I may think of Cersei, my father and brother hold her dear. I can scheme with any man in the Seven Kingdoms, but the gods have not equipped me to face Jaime with swords in hand."

"The Young Wolf and Lord Stannis have swords and they don't scare you."

How little you know, sweetling. "Against them I have all the power of House Lannister. Against Jaime or my father, I have no more than a twisted back and a pair of stunted legs."

"You have me." Shae kissed him, her arms sliding around his neck as she pressed her body to his.

The kiss aroused him, as her kisses always did, but this time Tyrion gently disentangled himself. "Not now. Sweetling, I have . . . well, call it the seed of a plan. I think I might be able to bring you into the castle kitchens."

Shae's face went still. "The kitchens?"

"Yes. If I act through Varys, no one will be the wiser."

She giggled. "M'lord, I'd poison you. Every man who's tasted my cooking has told me what a good whore I am."

"The Red Keep has sufficient cooks. Butchers and bakers too. You'd need to pose as a scullion."

"A pot girl," she said, "in scratchy brown roughspun. Is that how m'lord wants to see me?"

"M'lord wants to see you alive," Tyrion said. "You can scarcely scour pots in silk and velvet."

"Has m'lord grown tired of me?" She reached a hand under his tunic and found his cock. In two quick strokes she had it hard. "He still wants me." She laughed. "Would you like to fuck your kitchen wench, m'lord? You can dust me with flour and suck gravy off my titties if you . . . "

"Stop it." The way she was acting reminded him of Dancy, who had tried so hard to win her wager. He yanked her hand away to keep her from further mischief. "This is not the time for bed sport, Shae. Your life may be at stake."

Her grin was gone. "If I've displeased m'lord, I never meant it, only . . . couldn't you just give me more guards?"

Tyrion breathed a deep sigh. Remember how young she is, he told himself. He took her hand. "Your gems can be replaced, and new gowns can be sewn twice as lovely as the old. To me, you're the most precious thing within these walls. The Red Keep is not safe either, but it's a deal safer than here. I want you there."

"In the kitchens." Her voice was flat. "Scouring pots."

"For a short while."

"My father made me his kitchen wench," she said, her mouth twisting. "That was why I ran off."

"You told me you ran off because your father made you his whore," he reminded her.

"That too. I didn't like scouring his pots no more than I liked his cock in me." She tossed her head. "Why can't you keep me in your tower? Half the lords at court keep bedwarmers."

"I was expressly forbidden to take you to court."

"By your stupid father." Shae pouted. "You're old enough to keep all the whores you want. Does he take you for a beardless boy? What could he do, spank you?"

He slapped her. Not hard, but hard enough. "Damn you," he said. "Damn you. Never mock me. Not you."

For a moment Shae did not speak. The only sound was the cricket, chirping, chirping. "Beg pardon, m'lord," she said at last, in a heavy wooden voice. "I never meant to be impudent."

And I never meant to strike you. Gods be good, am I turning into Cersei? "That was ill done," he said. "On both our parts. Shae, you do not understand." Words he had never meant to speak came tumbling out of him like mummers from a hollow horse. "When I was thirteen, I wed a crofter's daughter. Or so I thought her. I was blind with love for her, and thought she felt the same for me, but my father rubbed my face in the truth. My bride was a whore Jaime had hired to give me my first taste of manhood." And I believed all of it, fool that I was. "To drive the lesson home, Lord Tywin gave my wife to a barracks of his guardsmen to use as they pleased, and commanded me to watch." And to take her one last time, after the rest were done. One last time, with no trace of love or tenderness remaining. "So you will remember her as she truly is," he said, and I should have defied him, but my cock betrayed me, and I did as I was bid. "After he was done with her, my father had the marriage undone. It was as if we had never been wed, the septons said." He squeezed her hand. "Please, let's have no more talk of the Tower of the Hand. You will be in the kitchens only a little while. Once we're done with Stannis, you'll have another manse, and silks as soft as your hands."

Shae's eyes had grown large but he could not read what lay behind them. "My hands won't be soft if I clean ovens and scrape plates all day. Will you still want them touching you when they're all red and raw and cracked from hot water and lye soap?"

"More than ever," he said. "When I look at them, they'll remind me how brave you were."

He could not say if she believed him. She lowered her eyes. "I am yours to command, m'lord."

It was as much acceptance as she could give tonight, he saw that plain enough. He kissed her cheek where he'd struck her, to take some sting from the blow. "I will send for you."

Varys was waiting in the stables, as promised. His horse looked spavined and half-dead. Tyrion mounted up; one of the sellswords opened the gates. They rode out in silence. Why did I tell her about Tysha, gods help me? he asked himself, suddenly afraid. There were some secrets that should never be spoken, some shames a man should take to his grave. What did he want from her, forgiveness? The way she had looked at him, what did that mean? Did she hate the thought of scouring pots that much, or was it his confession? How could I tell her that and still think she would love me? part of him said, and another part mocked, saying, Fool of a dwarf, it is only the gold and jewels the whore loves.

His scarred elbow was throbbing, jarred every time the horse set down a hoof. Sometimes he could almost fancy he heard the bones grinding together inside. Perhaps he should see a maester, get some potion for the pain . . . but since Pycelle had revealed himself for what he was, Tyrion Lannister mistrusted the maesters. The gods only knew who they were conspiring with, or what they had mixed in those potions they gave you. "Varys," he said. "I need to bring Shae into the castle without Cersei becoming aware." Briefly, he sketched out his kitchen scheme.

When he was done, the eunuch made a little clucking sound. "I will do as my lord commands, of course . . . but I must warn you, the kitchens are full of eyes and ears. Even if the girl falls under no particular suspicion, she will be subject to a thousand questions. Where was she born? Who were her parents? How did she come to King's Landing? The truth will never do, so she must lie . . . and lie, and lie." He glanced down at Tyrion. "And such a pretty young kitchen wench will incite lust as well as curiosity. She will be touched, pinched, patted, and fondled. Pot boys will crawl under her blankets of a night. Some lonely cook may seek to wed her. Bakers will knead her breasts with floured hands."

"I'd sooner have her fondled than stabbed," said Tyrion.

Varys rode on a few paces and said, "It might be that there is another way. As it happens, the maidservant who attends Lady Tanda's daughter has been filching her jewels. Were I to inform Lady Tanda, she would be forced to dismiss the girl at once. And the daughter would require a new maidservant."

"I see." This had possibilities, Tyrion saw at once. A lady's bedmaid wore finer garb than a scullion, and often even a jewel or two. Shae should be pleased by that. And Cersei thought Lady Tanda tedious and hysterical, and Lollys a bovine lackwit. She was not like to pay them any friendly calls.

"Lollys is timid and trusting," Varys said. "She will accept any tale she is told. Since the mob took her maidenhood she is afraid to leave her chambers, so Shae will be out of sight . . . but conveniently close, should you have need of comfort."

"The Tower of the Hand is watched, you know as well as I. Cersei would be certain to grow curious if Lollys's bedmaid starting paying me calls."

"I might be able to slip the child into your bedchamber unseen. Chataya's is not the only house to boast a hidden door."

"A secret access? To my chambers?" Tyrion was more annoyed than surprised. Why else would Maegor the Cruel have ordered death for all the builders who had worked on his castle, except to preserve such secrets? "Yes, I suppose there would be. Where will I find the door? In my solar? My bedchamber?"

"My friend, you would not force me to reveal all my little secrets, would you?"

"Henceforth think of them as our little secrets, Varys." Tyrion glanced up at the eunuch in his smelly mummer's garb. "Assuming you are on my side . . . "

"Can you doubt it?"

"Why no, I trust you implicitly." A bitter laugh echoed off the shuttered windows. "I trust you like one of my own blood, in truth. Now tell me how Cortnay Penrose died."

"It is said that he threw himself from a tower."

"Threw himself? No, I will not believe that!"

"His guards saw no man enter his chambers, nor did they find any within afterward."

"Then the killer entered earlier and hid under the bed," Tyrion suggested, "or he climbed down from the roof on a rope. Perhaps the guards are lying. Who's to say they did not do the thing themselves?"

"Doubtless you are right, my lord."

His smug tone said otherwise. "But you do not think so? How was it done, then?"

For a long moment Varys said nothing. The only sound was the stately clack of horseshoes on cobbles. Finally the eunuch cleared his throat. "My lord, do you believe in the old powers?"

"Magic, you mean?" Tyrion said impatiently. "Bloodspells, curses, shapeshifting, those sorts of things?" He snorted. "Do you mean to suggest that Ser Cortnay was magicked to his death?"

"Ser Cortnay had challenged Lord Stannis to single combat on the morning he died. I ask you, is this the act of a man lost to despair? Then there is the matter of Lord Renly's mysterious and most fortuitous murder, even as his battle lines were forming up to sweep his brother from the field." The eunuch paused a moment. "My lord, you once asked me how it was that I was cut."

"I recall," said Tyrion. "You did not want to talk of it."

"Nor do I, but . . . " This pause was longer than the one before, and when Varys spoke again his voice was different somehow. "I was an orphan boy apprenticed to a traveling folly. Our master owned a fat little cog and we sailed up and down the narrow sea performing in all the Free Cities and from time to time in Oldtown and King's Landing.

"One day at Myr, a certain man came to our folly. After the performance, he made an offer for me that my master found too tempting to refuse. I was in terror. I feared the man meant to use me as I had heard men used small boys, but in truth the only part of me he had need of was my manhood. He gave me a potion that made me powerless to move or speak, yet did nothing to dull my senses. With a long hooked blade, he sliced me root and stem, chanting all the while. I watched him burn my manly parts on a brazier. The flames turned blue, and I heard a voice answer his call, though I did not understand the words they spoke.

"The mummers had sailed by the time he was done with me. Once I had served his purpose, the man had no further interest in me, so he put me out. When I asked him what I should do now, he answered that he supposed I should die. To spite him, I resolved to live. I begged, I stole, and I sold what parts of my body still remained to me. Soon I was as good a thief as any in Myr, and when I was older I learned that often the contents of a man's letters are more valuable than the contents of his purse.

"Yet I still dream of that night, my lord. Not of the sorcerer, nor his blade, nor even the way my manhood shriveled as it burned. I dream of the voice. The voice from the flames. Was it a god, a demon, some conjurer's trick? I could not tell you, and I know all the tricks. All I can say for a certainty is that he called it, and it answered, and since that day I have hated magic and all those who practice it. If Lord Stannis is one such, I mean to see him dead."

When he was done, they rode in silence for a time. Finally Tyrion said, "A harrowing tale. I'm sorry."

The eunuch sighed. "You are sorry, but you do not believe me. No, my lord, no need to apologize. I was drugged and in pain and it was a very long time ago and far across the sea. No doubt I dreamed that voice. I've told myself as much a thousand times."

"I believe in steel swords, gold coins, and men's wits," said Tyrion. "And I believe there once were dragons. I've seen their skulls, after all."

"Let us hope that is the worst thing you ever see, my lord."

"On that we agree." Tyrion smiled. "And for Ser Cortnay's death, well, we know Stannis hired sellsails from the Free Cities. Perhaps he bought himself a skilled assassin as well."

"A very skilled assassin."

"There are such. I used to dream that one day I'd be rich enough to send a Faceless Man after my sweet sister."

"Regardless of how Ser Cortnay died," said Varys, "he is dead, the castle fallen. Stannis is free to march."

"Any chance we might convince the Dornishmen to descend on the Marches?" asked Tyrion.

"None."

"A pity. Well, the threat may serve to keep the Marcher lords close to their castles, at least. What news of my father?"

"If Lord Tywin has won across the Red Fork, no word has reached me yet. If he does not hasten, he may be trapped between his foes. The Oakheart leaf and the Rowan tree have been seen north of the Mander."

"No word from Littlefinger?"

"Perhaps he never reached Bitterbridge. Or perhaps he's died there. Lord Tarly has seized Renly's stores and put a great many to the sword; Florents, chiefly. Lord Caswell has shut himself up in his castle."

Tyrion threw back his head and laughed.

Varys reined up, nonplussed. "My lord?"

"Don't you see the jest, Lord Varys?" Tyrion waved a hand at the shuttered windows, at all the sleeping city. "Storm's End is fallen and Stannis is coming with fire and steel and the gods alone know what dark powers, and the good folk don't have Jaime to protect them, nor Robert nor Renly nor Rhaegar nor their precious Knight of Flowers. Only me, the one they hate." He laughed again. "The dwarf, the evil counselor, the twisted little monkey demon. I'm all that stands between them and chaos."