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fantastic-rambles · 4 years

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The Snakes’ Deception

Fandom: Haikyuu!! (@aikk00's Racing AU)

Characters (in order of appearance): Kozume Kenma, Kuroo Tetsurou, Yaku Morisuke, Sakishima Isumi, Daishou Suguru, Fukunaga Shouhei, Yamamoto Taketora, Haiba Lev, other Nekoma members (not mentioned by name)

Warnings: Physical Violence, Language

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: When the Snakes, led by Daishou Suguru, come to challenge Kuroo for the title of Drift King, the Nekoma Crew isn’t going to take that lying down. But when the Snakes start to play nasty, the stakes are raised even further, and Kuroo has to fight to stay calm and prove that he’s the undisputed champion.

[A/N: RIP my dozen other drafts for other stories. I actually was planning to write this a few days before the Daishou art (also by aikk00), except I knew practically nothing about drift racing so I needed to do research, lul. I watched Tokyo Drift, some Initial D, some Grand Tour, and did a lot of reading online on drift racing and drifting in general, but tbh, I still don’t quite understand the mechanics (I don’t drive stick and I can’t go out and learn how to drift), so I apologize if this is horribly inaccurate. :P]

"The road condition looks good today, but it's still a little wet from earlier. Watch yourself going into the turns so you don't end up spinning out. The Snakes will probably do something though, especially since they asked you to race with Sakishima before Daishou. It should be okay when you're in the lead, but be ready to take defensive measures when you're chasing. My guess is that they'll try to take advantage of your skill at closing the gap and your power-over drift to orchestrate some sort of accident," Kenma commented quietly without looking up from his laptop, his fingers tapping away as he inputted a continuous stream of data. He seemed oblivious to the roar of the crowd outside the car, and Kuroo reached over to tousle his black-and-gold hair affectionately.

"Got it, Kenma. Anything else?"

"I know you won't listen, but you should just go all-out from the start. Not your usual way of racing. But if you do end up chasing, just do a normal drift and keep space between you and Sakishima. If they are aiming for an accident, it's more likely to happen when you're on the outside, so it'll slam into your side and Sakishima will be safe. But your numbers look good. I'm just going to tell Yaku-san to put a little more air into your rear tires," Kenma replied, closing the lid on his laptop and pushing open the passenger-side door, letting the sound of cheering and taunts into the vehicle. After he'd left and closed the door, Kuroo rolled down his window to light a cigarette, letting the smoke drift out into the night sky. Kenma hadn't said anything that he hadn't expected--especially with regard to the Snakes--but it was always reassuring to get their analyst's perspective before a race. Kenma wasn't the type to get fired up like the rest of the crew, but that cool-headed analysis was part of the reason they were able to climb so high in the rankings despite not always having the best cars or the best drivers. The ridiculous title of "Drift King" that he'd somehow ended up with was the result of Kenma's work as much as his own.

Still, Kenma was right. Even if it meant getting into an accident, Kuroo didn't intend to change the way he drifted. Part of the thrill of these races was the pure adrenaline high from going fast, especially when there was the risk of injury or even death. It was the reason why he'd mastered the power-over drift so that he could keep accelerating through the turn, and swung close enough to his opponents during his chases to make them panic. Even against the Snakes and their underhanded dealings, he'd show them that his way of fighting was still better, no matter what they threw at him.

He looked up when a shadow fell over him as Yaku leaned over his open window, the electric pump in his hand.

"You're good to go, Kuroo. Go ahead and show off," Yaku shouted over the din. Kuroo nodded, flicking his cigarette out the window and rolling up the glass. Yaku stepped back as he revved the engine, pulling up to the starting line where Sakishima was already waiting. Unlike most racers, Kuroo preferred chasing from the start to throw his opponent off his game. Before he'd inherited the title of Drift King, he'd been known as the Comeback Kid for his knack for overcoming what was traditionally seen as an unfavorable position. But the psychological benefit of overtaking the opponent and the pressure it put on the other racer, in addition to his skill with his clean lines and sharp angles that allowed him to do so consistently, had eventually shot him to the top of the Tokyo drifting world.

At the signal, Sakishima peeled past the starting line, and Kuroo quickly shot after him, staying close to his tail as they sped down the course. Even though his heart was racing, his head was completely clear, every sense focused on the view just beyond his windshield. Both he and Kenma were confident that Sakishima wouldn't try anything until the turn, but that was no reason to relax, especially at the speeds that they were going. Still, nothing happened when they reached the first clipping point, and Kuroo's eyes narrowed as he quickly estimated the distances and speeds between their cars, making his calculations swiftly and throwing himself into a drift just a heartbeat after Sakishima.

And it was perfect. His hand rested casually on the wheel as his tires squealed, sending up plumes of smoke as the tail of his car whipped around the curve, flying nearly parallel to Sakishima. The Snake seemed rattled as he spun into the next turn, turning slightly wide as Kuroo effortlessly stuck to him, their cars nearly touching as Kuroo grinned. It was pretty clear already which of them was the better drifter, not that it had ever been a question.

He let the car carry itself into the third point with just a few adjustments on his side, almost laughing as Sakishima had to drag on his own wheel to make the turn. The perfect chance presented itself almost immediately, and he aimed for the gap in Sakishima's barely controlled swing. But then, suddenly, the other car was spinning out as the Snake overcompensated, an out-of-control, two-ton wrecking ball flying toward him.

Kuroo jerked his wheel, pulling himself out of the drift and spinning out himself, the two cars making donuts on the road until he couldn't tell left from right. But the ominous crunch of metal never came, and when his car finally screeched to a stop, Kuroo slapped himself out of the harness and kicked his door open, stepping out onto the asphalt and casting his glare out at the spectators, looking for one specific slit-eyed face in particular.

"Daishou!" he bellowed, stomping toward the crowd and seizing the Snake by the collar, dragging him over the barrier. "What the fuck was that?"

But the other man just stared at him, all wide-eyed innocence. "'What the fuck' was what, Kuroo-san? Isumi made a mistake. Everyone saw that. He's not used to wet roads, but that's why I asked you to run with him so he could get some practice, because you're the only one good enough to not get hurt if he really fucks up. Like he did."

"Don't give me that bullshit!" Kuroo spun and slammed Daishou onto the ground, making the Snake wince as his back made contact with the asphalt. "That trick had your slime smeared all over it. You wanted to use Sakishima to take me out so you'd win the next run by default. If I hadn't been expecting something like that from you, I'd probably be in an ambulance on my way to the hospital right now."

Sakishima had caught up to them and was now clinging to Kuroo's arm, trying to pull him off while babbling insincere apologies. Kuroo shrugged him off impatiently as Daishou's hands landed on his wrist, trying to make him let go, but Kuroo shook him like a terrier with a rat, the adrenaline and testosterone giving him an incredible high.

"Really, Kuroo-san. Ask anyone. They would all say that it's a normal accident," Daishou protested. "You know these kinds of things happen all the time. But you're okay, Isumi's okay. No harm, no foul, right?"

The crowd was murmuring in the background, but Kuroo couldn't hear what they were saying through the blood pounding in his ears. He was just drawing his fist back to punch that smarmy smile off the Snake's face when a deluge of water crashed over both of them. Sputtering, he looked up to see Shouhei holding an empty bucket, Kenma standing beside him.

"Cooled off, Kuro?" Kenma asked in his deadpan voice as he approached them. "Or should I ask Fukunaga to get another bucket?"

Kuroo grimaced, shaking the water out of his eyes and hair as he leaned back slightly, still not letting Daishou go. Kenma crouched beside him, speaking softly, so that the crowd couldn't hear.

"You know that the Snakes are just like this. To everyone else, this does look like a normal accident. If you go any further, you're the one that's going to get a bad reputation. Right now, we can still pass it off as the heat of the moment. Let him go, Kuro."

"Yeah, listen to your girlfriend, Kuro," Daishou taunted. Kuroo's expression shut down, and he drew back his arm again. But this time, Kenma clung to it, still hissing in his ear.

"Stop it, Kuro. You know that everyone says that. They've been saying it for years. It doesn't mean anything. Stop letting him get to you!"

Kuroo grimaced again, but he listened to Kenma, letting his friend quietly talk him down until he was calm enough to shove Daishou away and get up. Accepting a towel from Shouhei, he tousled his hair dry while glaring at Daishou, who got back to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Sakishima-san forfeited the run," Kenma continued, still talking in his flat, measured tone. "So you'll be up against Daishou later. Are you up to it?"

"Fuck yeah, I'm ready to beat his ass," Kuroo snarled, and Kenma nodded at Shouhei, who ran across the asphalt to retrieve Kuroo's car. They'd probably replace the rear wheels to be safe, and then Kenma would have to run his checks again, but when they were done, his car would be better than new and more than ready to run the cheating bastard into the ground.

He reached into his pocket to pull out his pack of cigarettes, bending over to accept Kenma's offer of a light, and took a deep drag to steady his nerves. Being emotional during a race was the fastest way to get a ride to the morgue, so he needed to re-center himself. By then, the rest of his team had caught up to him, and Tora's particularly heated spiel about Daishou and his team helped bleed away most of the anger as they walked back to the starting line. Kenma had slipped away at some point, and Yaku was nowhere to be seen, so they were probably working on the car while he settled down. Really, he didn't deserve his friends.

By the time they arrived back at the beginning, the cool night air had washed away the rest of his irritation, which was probably Kenma's intention in making him walk back with the others. Shouhei and Yaku had just finished installing new tires, and Kenma was hunched over his laptop again on the curb, only looking up briefly when Kuroo sat down next to him.

"Thanks."

Kenma shrugged, his face bleached by the light from his screen. "I'm just doing my job."

"I mean earlier."

Kenma shrugged again, and a comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the clicking of the keyboard. The rest of the team was huddled around the car, making checks and occasionally bringing Kenma more numbers, gradually shifting to sit around their captain and his brain, filling the silence with their chatter as other drifters made their runs.

"Hey, wait! You're playing a game, Kenma!" Lev protested, peering over Kenma's shoulder. "What about the race?"

"Kuroo will be fine," Kenma replied calmly as Kuroo looked over at his screen too, which seemed to be displaying the view through a sniper's scope. "His car's fine, and Daishou wants to beat Kuroo. If he tries the same thing, it'll be suspicious, and even if he did, if Kuroo doesn't spin out again, then Daishou will lose. And Kuroo is better than him, so if he does try anything else, it'd be more likely that he'd mess up and Kuroo would still win. His best chance at this point is a fair fight, and that means Kuroo could drive laps around him all day."

Kuroo grinned, standing up and stretching. "Well then, I guess that's my cue to get ready. I'll see you all at the finish line."

He walked over to his car, standing by the driver's door and just running a hand over the shining, red exterior for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, he got inside, strapping himself down. The familiar feeling of exhilaration that he got just before a run made him smile as he pulled into place behind the next pair of cars, watching out of the corner of his eye as Daishou pulled up next to him.

And then, soon enough, they were flying down the road, Kuroo chasing again, keeping the pressure on his opponent. As Kenma had said, there was no way for Daishou to beat him, and he proved that as he took the lead at the very first bend, hitting the edge perfectly while gunning his engine through the whole course, making the best run that he'd probably ever done and leaving Daishou in his dust. If it was possible, he was even sharper on the turns than he had been against Sakishima, pushing himself and his car to the utmost limit. And there was no better feeling than watching the Snake come up to him to shake his hand after his loss, smiling like it hurt his teeth.

"As expected of the Drift King. But it won't last forever. Someday, someone will knock you off that throne."

And Kuroo had smiled back, the smirk that he knew infuriated Daishou more than anything else.

"Come at me whenever you want. I'll beat you down every time."

[A/N2: This isn't KuroKen. They're just really good childhood friends, so Kenma knows how to calm Kuroo down because they've been part of each other's lives for so long, and Kenma in particular is good at paying attention to people. Kuroo gets pissed at Daishou for calling Kenma his "girlfriend" not because of the implication that he's "whipped" (because Kuroo is perfectly secure in his masculinity), but rather because I have a headcanon that Kenma got teased a lot for being "girly" (weak, thin, kinda androgenous, etc.) growing up, so Kuroo still gets upset when that's used to insult his best friend (even though Kenma honestly doesn't give a fuck). But they're not in a romantic relationship; they just spend a lot of time together.

Of course, if you wanna interpret it as KuroKen, that's your prerogative, but that wasn't my intention in writing this.]

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyū!!#hq #hq!!#hq racer au #fan fic #fanfic #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo tetsuro #kuroo #daishou suguru #daisho suguru #daisho #daishou #nekoma #mine #at least i finally wrote something lol

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gh0sture · 3 years

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Under the Sea

Trafalgar Law x gn!reader

Part 2, Meet the gang

You've never been particularly good at meeting new people or making good first impressions for that matter but this, by far, has to be your worst one yet. Your clothes are soaked still, your hair a sticky mess from the saltwater and your mouth is opening and closing lika a fish gasping for air as it flaps around on a bridge after being caught. It's not one of your best looks you'll admit but it is all you can offer at the moment given the circumstances.

You try to form coherent thoughts, you really do, but this is just way too much for you to take in. He reaches a hand out and you flinch before grabbing it to make an awkward shake.

This isn't just insane. This is completely knock-your-socks-off bonkers.

You feel as if you were looking at the golden gates of heaven themselves, not daring to look him in the eyes out of fear that you might go blind from the sheer radiance of his aura meanwhile the man in question just looked at you blankly. Possibly with a hint of disgust. Definitely a bit of disgust.

"The name's Trafalgar Law, captain of Polar tang" his handshake is firm and he looks at you expectantly while retrieving his hand and crossing his arms over his chest.

Neither of you say anything. He clears his throat but you give no reaction. Still staring at him like a five year old looking at a blackboard of university level algebra equations. He grimaces slightly at your behavior.

"Are you ok? I don't remember finding any trauma to your head, you should be fine" he grabs your chin and tilts your head around to inspect it disapprovingly in search of an injury. Although, he is an expert doctor so he would never miss any injuries, his pride wouldn't let him. This does nothing to soothe your symptoms though and doesn't exactly help with calming your heartbeat at all.

"I wouldn't have missed anything what's wrong with you" he mutters to himself when you finally managed to collect yourself enough to remove his hands.

"uhh no! no, i'm ok! thank you for ,uh, saving me by the way" this is the best and worst thing that have ever happened to you.

"it wasn't my choice" he deadpanned and turn back into the room to get a den-den mushi with a familiar penguin hat on it. Its so strange seeing on in real life. Although, you don't know if this is real life (is it just fantasy?). He proceeds to make a phone call (mushi-call? den-den call?) into it while you shift awkwardly on your feet in the hallway. Your feet ache from walking on the metal grid barefoot you had barely noticed until now. After exchanging a few words he walk over to the desk where he'd previously been sitting and open a journal, presumably to continue doing whatever he did before.

"One of my crew members will be here shortly to get you settled for now and give you some necessities. We reach a port in nine days where you can leave." his voice was calm and composed, like pouring molten chocolate into your ears even though the words themselves were less than pleasant. When he spoke you could feel your knees get weak and you feel tempted to ask him a question for the sole purpose of hearing him speak more. God this man was hot. You nodded at his statement at first, not really paying attention to what he had actually said until you realized that nothing he said had been actually registered in your head.

"Wait, what?" you asked. He doesn't look up from his writing but you can hear the mild annoyance in his voice when he answers.

"Looking at you, you are rather ill equipped for staying here until we reach a populated island. Since you don't have any money or anything valuable, my crew will provide for you until we reach the port where you can find another ship to go back wherever you came from...Whatever weird country that's supposed to be...Now go down the hallway, He should be there already to help you so leave me alone" you get the feeling that you'll loose a limb if you stick around longer so you turn to head down the hallway and find "Him" who you hoped would be more polite.

"Not that way" you hear from the study and you turn around to head down the other way, somewhat (very) embarrassed.

You really wished that your first time meeting a celebrity would've gone better, but then again they do say that you should never meet your heroes. Was he always this rude in the series and book? Sure he came across as a bit of a tsundere but he seemed at least approachable in the series. You don't have the charisma or extroverted superpowers that Luffy have so that is probably an important thing to consider. As you head down the hallway you come across a man walking in your direction pretty soon. He seem far more ok with your existence and even appear to lit up a bit when he sees you and give you a friendly wave. This is already going a lot better than last time.

"Yo! You're the one we found floating around yesterday! Nice to meet you, people around here call me Penguin" He gives you a wide yet genuine smile as he grab your hand and shake it enthusiastically before you even have the chance to reach out.

"thought you were a goner when we found you haha!So it's good to see that you're up n' about, c'mon let me show you a round!" he turn around to walk from where he had just come from while you follow behind him silently.

Penguin makes it his personal responsibility to keep a conversation going even if it's pretty one-sided but it's nice. Comforting even, as he went on about how nice the other crewmembers are with the exception of the captain but you shouldn't take what he says too personal as he's a bit misunderstood. He ask you different questions like your name, where you came from, complimenting you on your weird clothes, although it feels like that was mostly him being polite and you didn't have heart or energy to tell him that you're wearing PJ's. He doesn't mind your short answers and seems satisfied with the information he's able to divulge. To be fair you aren't sure how to answer since you don't know how you ended up here but also out of fear of ripping the space-time continuum open by telling him forbidden knowledge about his universe. It would be rather awkward explaining to him that you know a lot about them and what they've done/are about to do. You've technically stalked them through tv and books and if someone told you that they've been watching you, you would freak out. Rightfully so too. They might even think that you're a navy spy sent to gather information action for their arrest and they could kill you. Yeah, this is a mess and a half but you'll burn this bridge when you get to it. You did tell him your name though and he doesn't seem to suspect you working for some nefarious organization so all is well.

He showed you where the important places in the submarine was such as the kitchen, living quarters, rec area and bathrooms. You still have trouble telling up from down will undoubtedly get lost but he assures you that after a while you'll know this maze like the back of your hand. After leaving the living quarters he guides you to the top deck to find someone else he says will help you so that he can get back to work.

The yellow ship had surfaced at a deserted summer island and everyone was outside enjoying the sun after spending several days in the dark of the ocean. You hadn't been down in the submarine for that long , at least not while being conscious, and was already getting a bit unnerved over how cold and cramped it was. As soon as the warm rays of light hit you both the cold and your worries melt away.

"Hey Ikkaku! You have to help the drifter get some clothes!" He yelled at a woman laying in a sun-chair on the deck with her eyes closed. The familiar heart pirates uniform was open to reveal a green tank top and an orange and yellow striped hat was laying beside her.

"Haah!? Why do I have to do it?" She sat up to glare at Penguin and was about to protest when she spotted you behind him. One second you were hiding behind Penguin and the next you're face to face with a very pretty woman with very poofy hair. Her glorious lion name bounces a bit as she hold up both your hands in hers and lean over a bit to stare into your eyes. Everyone is so tall here why is everyone so ridiculously tall. Anime proportions are wild.

"Oh my god!! We were so worried about you, we thought you were dead when we found you!" You felt uncomfortable with her being so close to your face and politely thanked her for saving you while doing your best to avoid eye contact.

"Oi! Where's your manners! They've been through a lot being stranded in the ocean have some respect!" He bops her on the head and she lets you go to tell him off (and/or punch him back) but she remembers the shiny new toy in front of her and settles for staring daggers at him instead.

"Oh shut yer trap" She stares at you intensely as if to make sure you wouldn't run away or vanish into thin air. It's kind of nice being fawned over like this, and clearly the crew enjoy having a visitor.

"It's so nice having a fresh face around, It's been years since Captain let anyone new stay onboard and being stuck with all the same jerks weeks on end gets a bit tiring you know. Now come on and let's go find you some proper clothes!" She grab your hand to drag you along back into the dark,dark depths of the submarine.

Oh joy. more cold, feet grating and claustrophobia.

"You're a bit smaller than everyone so we should probably ask Uni to sow it in for you if it's way too big" She says more to herself rather than you while handing you the classical white uniform with the heart pirates logo on the chest over your heart.

The woman who's name you had learned to be Ikkaku turn around and continued rummaging around the small closet in front of her in search of more clothes for you while you change into the white uniform when she isn't looking. It feels incredible to finally get out of those damp and sticky clothes and into something soft and warm instead. You are also the proud owner of a pair of fuzzy socks and black boots. Your poor abused feet are overjoyed that they no longer have to walk the metal grid of a thousand needles. Life is good.

"Once we get to the port of Pellar island you can probably trade your way to some more clothes but this should be fine for now"

In the little time you had spent with her you had learned quite the few things about the crew on the ship. For starters there were 21 members in the crew (including the captain), You were lucky number 22 according to Ikkaku, even though you aren't a part of the crew it's apparently better to have an even number of people aboard the ship. And hearing the stories of what they've been through it seems like you're their new rabbits foot. Since you're considered baggage or fancy cargo rather than someone useful she gives you some times on how to stay out the way, especially out if the captains way which you feel is probably a wise decision but you offer your help should she need it in the kitchen which she greatly appreciates. You hate feeling useless.

You can't help but wonder where you are in the Once Piece timeline as you rolled up the long sleeves of the uniform on your arms and legs for comfort. Had Luffy and Law already formed the alliance? Were you before the timeskip and the incident at Marine Ford? Maybe you were even ahead of the manga and anime itself in a future arc even. You were snapped out of your thoughts when Ikkaku pushed a bundle of toiletries into your arms involving a towel, a toothbrush, and a bar of soap.

"We haven't figured out where you'll sleep for the moment but it'll work out soon enough. Otherwise you can just sleep in a spare bed in the infirmary but come help me gather food from the island! We don't want to get scurvy while we're submerged!" She drag you away towards the deck after leaving your things in her room for safe keeping for now.

This woman is going to pull your arm off.

She seemed very sweet but all the touching and stereotypical anime arm-pulling is weird since you have literally just met. The way she smiles while asking you about your favourite foods and how she excitedly plan different recipes out loud make you almost forgive her though. Almost.

You move sluggishly towards Ikkaku's room to get the only material items you currently own in this world. Foraging for fruits and herb until nightfall was tiring but at least you didn't have to carry that much stuff, a guy with a black pompadour haircut had come along to help carry the crates of stuff you and Ikkaku gathered. He seemed very nice too, somewhat cocky though. You had asked Ikkaku for information on a certain Straw-hat pirate while making small talk and have come to the conclusion that he probably hasn't even started his adventure towards becoming the Pirate King yet. She didn't know who you were referring to and was even showed some seagull newspaper from their library but no info of the gummy monkey man could be found whatsoever. Since you recall him making news very early on in his "career" it's fair to assume that he hasn't gotten up to his mischief yet.

It feels a bit weird to be honest. To be in the prologue of the story like this and you have no idea what kind of things anyone other than the Strawhats and Luffy had been up to since the story followed them, maybe some vague details about Law's past and fragments from some characters backstories but this is all uncharted territory. Your thoughts are interrupted as you suddenly bump into someone and fell backwards. You reach your arms out like a bad imitation of a seagull in attempt to grab the wall but someone grabs you before you manage to take hold of anything. Your grab their shoulders to steady yourself and let go once you're back on your feet but they don't remove their hands from you. You look up to thank them for catching you when all the colour drains from your face and you realize who you're standing prom-slow-dance proximity to. It is but the one and only person you'd least want to embarrass yourself in front of. Again.

"Do you have a death wish or are you just plain stupid 22-ya" He looked down at you with what you assume to be the ghost of an amused smile or slight disgust. Probably disgust. Again. while you're distracted by his closeness and the humiliating event that is currently taking place. It could be much worse though, right? you can salvage this situation probably.

"Crap, sorry I was just zoned out.." You tried looking anywhere but his oh-so-handsome face to avoid you making this anymore awkward than it already was. You are not immune against handsome people after all. You tried moving away from him slightly but his hands stayed firm on your shoulders and could feel his gaze on you like needle pricks on your skin. you definitely do not dare looking him in the eye.

"You have to look where you're going or you might get seriously hurt next time" He mused. He may be attractive but he's definitely a jerk.

"It's impossible to see down here it's so dark..." you mutter under your breath and quickly move to side to walk past him, he let's go this time rejoice that your attempt to escape the harassing captain is successful, desperate to get away from this weird atmosphere you have created. Unfortunately for you, the universe have other plans as he start walking behind you in the same direction you are and boy, is it awkward.

After a bit of walking you start to get a bit suspicious though. Was he following you around, waiting for you to get lost so that he could make a smartass comment about it? He is the kind of person who would find great amusement in petty bullshit like that for sure but then again you do have a tendency of assuming the worst in every situation. You decide to test this theory out by steeping to the side and make as much room as you could in the hallway and drop down to pretend fixing your shoelace. Instead of trying to walk past you he stops completely right behind you. You move as slow as you can without arising suspicion but he so kindly wait patiently behind you. When you're done "tying your shoelace" and stand up to continue your journey he follows close behind.

Oh hell no.

You can handle rudeness but this is some psychological warfare or foul play that you want no part of. No matter how handsome the guy is you will not stand for this kind of fuckery. You make a sudden halt and quickly turn around to kindly tell him to fuck off.

"Do you need something from me?" you ask with as much calm you can currently muster, irritation building up behind your customer service smile but he doesn't say anything and only look at you with the same dumb face as before. Almost like he's sizing you up before a fight. Possibly with even more disgust this time.

This Motherfucker.

When he still doesn't say anything for several seconds you just decide to be the bigger person and turn around to start walking again. Of course, with him still following you. It's better to just ignore him and he'll go away, you know where you're going. You finally reached Ikkaku's room and gather up the few items that belong to you when he finally speak up.

"You don't have a room assigned yet right?" You gave him a somewhat puzzled look. That's what he needed to know? That is why he followed you?? To ask you this???

"No? why?" You admit cautiously, almost preparing for him to start fighting you or using his power to "confiscate" one of your organs. For a brief second you could've sworn you saw a mischievous glint in his eyes you know that something bad is brewing. The cogs of evil are turning in his mind and you know that whatever comes out of his mouth next will undoubtedly mean bad news for you.

"I have an idea"

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keelywolfe · 4 years

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FIC: Drifters ch.5 (spicyhoney)

Summary: An adjustment period is to be expected, right?

Tags: Spicyhoney, Violence, Rescued Child, Medical Experimentation, Babybones

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

It was to no one’s surprise that Red hadn’t waited for them to dig into the food, his stack of pancakes already half-devoured by the time Stretch and Edge made it downstairs.

Edge only sighed at his brother’s manners and said nothing. If tomorrow was soon enough for him to begin searching for some sort of gainful employment, then it would also be when he could hold his brother accountable for his behavior again. As it was, his mouth was already watering when Stretch came back from the kitchen with two plates piled high with food, stacks of pancakes topped with pats of creamy butter melting into a layer of syrup along with fat, browned sausages.

By now his hunger was gnawing so fiercely that his own manners were hardly up to his standards. He grunted a thank you, sitting on the sofa and hastily cut into the stack, groaning aloud at the first bite. The cakes were fluffy with crisp edges, generously soaked in butter and syrup, and lavishly rich. The sausages were perfect to cut the sweetness and Edge would have willingly gorged himself on the entire plate if it weren’t for one small problem.

A pair of pale white eye lights were watching his every move, following the path of his fork from plate to mouth and back again, the child sucking on her fingers as she solemnly watched him eat. Drool was starting to run down her chin, slicking her tiny fingers and dampening the front of her shirt.

Edge swallowed his current mouthful, looking down at the plate and then back at the child, his fork faltering. Surely she was too young for this sort of meal? But then why was she watching him so intently, gurgling out an inquisitive little sound as her mouth smacked around her fingers. His appetite was fleeing, how could he possibly eat in front of a hungry child when all she’d had earlier was a little milk and a pastry?

All his uncertainties were tangling together in the time it took Stretch to notice and his laughter was disconcerting, almost horrifyingly so, was he laughing at a starving child?

“trying to sweettalk daddy edge into sharing, huh.” That name alone made Edge startle, protests rising and left unspoken as Stretch set his own half-finished plate on the coffee table and stood. “hang on, princess, your dinner is coming.”

He went back to the kitchen and returned with a bottle, shaking a few droplets on the inside of his wrist before he handed it over to the child. Who took it eagerly, latching on to the nipple as she slumped back into her small pillow fortress, suckling luxuriously.

Stretch chuckled and retrieved his plate, forking up another bite. Around his mouthful, he said, “don’t let her fool you, she’s a little young for sausage and syrup.”

That he believed, but there were other doubts to consider. “How can milk alone be nutritious enough for her?”

“works for baby cows, but it ain’t milk, edgelord, it’s formula.” He jerked his head towards the kitchen. “there’s a few bottles made up in the fridge. you want it warm, not hot, when you hand it over, just heat up some water on the stove and put it in for a few minutes.”

Formula. That sounded familiar, like something he’d heard or read. He knew so very little about children and nothing at all about infants. It wasn’t as if anyone in his Snowdin ever brought their newborn over for a visit, how was he supposed to know anything without being trained. The librarby, he decided abruptly. They must have books on childrearing, he could stop by tomorrow when he went out to find employment.

In the meantime, he leaned down to slap Red’s hand away before he could sneak the child a bite of his own pancakes. “Stop that, you’ll make her sick!”

“managed not to kill you,” Red grunted, but he ate the bite of pancake himself, unoffended.

“That’s hardly an endorsement.”

“speakin’ a bros, where’s yours at, honey bun?” Red asked. Edge struggled to ignore the way he was licking the dregs of syrup from his plate. Tomorrow, he reminded himself, tomorrow was soon enough to smack the manners back into him.

“eh?” Stretch proved that his own brother’s presence was a cornerstone to his manners, wolfing down the last of his pancakes. “blue’ll be back tomorrow, he and al are doing some kind of night training, he said,” Stretch grinned and shook his head, “dunno what, but he brought his pajamas and a bag of marshmallows with him.”

“sound like my kinda training,” Red snickered. “i’d like to see alphys’s version of hot chocolate, if her kitchen makes it thru alive.”

The mere mention of Alphys’s name made Edge stiffen despite knowing it was a different person entirely, as different as Stretch was from him. Absurd for a name to have that sort of effect, he was only off-balance, a great deal had happened, and he snatched up his abandoned plate, eating the remaining food despite it having gone cold and congealed. He wasn’t about to start off his stay here by wasting supplies.

“I’m surprised he didn’t come home when you told him,” Edge said, absently as he polished off the last bite.

Silence. Stretch stood, busying himself with gathering up the plates into a stack, and carrying them off to the kitchen.

Edge and Red shared a look, and Red jerked his head in Stretch’s direction, his raised brow bones speaking volumes, most of them a repeat of the words, ‘say something!’ A glance at the baby showed the bottle mostly empty and her sockets drooping heavily in preparation for another bout of sleep.

This was his responsible, from his choice. Edge gave a sharp nod and followed Stretch into the kitchen. He was sitting in front of the sink, lowered in deference to Blue’s height, washing the dishes briskly and setting them in the dish drainer.

The Swap brother’s kitchen was a mirror to his own and even if it wasn’t, Edge was familiar enough with it to know his way around. He retrieved a clean towel from a drawer and began drying the dishes, setting them in neat pile on the countertop.

“You didn’t tell him?” Edge asked, cautiously, but the answer was already clear despite not being given.

The silverware clattered at the bottom of the sink as Stretch gathered it up into a soapy fist. “let me deal with my bro, okay?”

“This concerns us as well, if he asks us to leave…”

“he won’t. that’s not it,” Stretch sighed, still wrist-deep in dishwater as he let his head hang, “look, i know sans. he’d be so excited, really excited, and that’s fine. i just thought you guys needed a little time to settle in, is all, without any thrills and chills. he can be just as excited tomorrow.”

That was…actually incredibly thoughtful. Blue was a wonderful individual, Edge was grateful to call him friend, but he did tend to throw himself into things at a hundred and three percent, there was no dialing it back for him. A calm evening after the day they’d had did sound better than struggling to fend of Blue’s enthusiasm, no matter how well-intended.

Stretch was still hunched over the sink as if he expected Edge to shout at him and that wasn’t entirely unwarranted. It wouldn’t be the first time Edge inserted himself into the Swap brother’s relationship, but it was the first chance he’d had to rethink that tendency.

“All right,” Edge said. He picked up another glass and dried it, setting it to join its brethren.

Stretch lifted his head. “yeah?” he asked, cautiously.

“Yes,” Edge said decisively. “The child shouldn’t meet too many new people at once, it might be upsetting for her.”

“i…yeah, good point.” Slowly, Stretch resumed his dishwashing duties and if there was a faint smile curving his mouth, Edge ignored it. Helping with the housework was the very least he could do.

By the time they were finished, Edge was struggling to stifle a yawn. In the living room, Red was slumped on the sofa, his sockets at half-mast as he watched the television. The volume was low and what Edge could hear from it sounded like Napstaton was working on a new mix tape.

In her little pillow nest the child was asleep, her empty bottle next to her. Edge stood over her, watching the rise and fall of her chest, and reminded himself to get that book tomorrow. He would figure this out, he would. “The baby stays with me tonight.”

“your funeral, bro,” Red yawned. He didn’t budge from the sofa, clearly intending it to be his bed for the night.

“she can stay with us, in my room,” Stretch amended. He picked up the empty bottle and handed it to Edge. “go give this a quick wash, trust me, never leave a dirty bottle laying around, that’s a stink you don’t want. i’ll head upstairs with the princess and get her settled.”

It was sensible, Stretch knew where everything was in his room, but somehow Edge still found he wanted to protest. He wanted to carry the baby, wanted to hold her close a little longer. Instead, he nodded curtly and went back to the kitchen. They were here on Stretch’s sufferance, now was not the time to start making demands.

He finished quickly and headed back upstairs, past his brother who was already snoring through Napstaton’s slick beats, and wondered what Stretch had in mind. The mattress worked for an afternoon nap, but he wasn’t comfortable with it as a nighttime solution, particularly not with Stretch in the bed with him, he wasn’t the type to wake at the slightest movement.

Edge opened the door and froze with only one foot through it, staring. In the middle of the room was a cardboard box, Stretch kneeling next to it with both hands inside, and even from here Edge could see he was tucking the child inside. Not naked, not this time, she was still in Blue’s oversized t-shirt, she wasn’t asleep and alone in a lab, carelessly abandoned until she was needed again, a tool, not a person, something to be callously used and discarded.

“hey,” Stretch said, hushed, “figured this’ll work until we figure out something else, she’s a little small to wander off and—"

“No,” Edge said sharply.

Stretch’s grin faded, his browbone furrowing in confusion, “what?”

“No, she can’t sleep in that, she won’t, I won’t allow it!” Edge said, his voice rising, and all his thoughts about keeping the peace had fled, buried beneath the chemical stink of memory smoke, the lab burning around them, and those numbers were hidden beneath the shirt, but they were still there, a scar carved into her very bones.

“hey, easy, calm down…”

“I won’t!” Edge shouted hoarsely and a wail rose up around them like a siren, like the alarms at the lab.

“edge!” The sound of his own name made him jerk, blinking hard. Stretch was holding the whimpering baby, jostling her against his chest. “you’re scaring the kid!”

And he was, her large sockets brimmed over with tears, staining her rounded cheeks as they began spilling down.

“Oh, don’t,” Edge started, brokenly, reaching out to her helplessly, letting his hands fall as she began to wail despite Stretch’s gentle crooning.

Those blasted tears from earlier weren’t as banished as he’d assumed, and Edge whirled away, tipping his head back to keep them from falling, tasting them instead on the back of his tongue, sharp and astringent, another memory and this one he refused, let his mind settle into blankness as he struggled against the rising pain in his chest, a deep ache in his very soul.

“ooookay, everyone needs to take a deep breath and calm down,” Stretch said, loudly to be heard over the baby’s crying, then softer, coaxingly, “c’mon, sugar butt, easy now.” Slowly the crying dwindled to sniffles and the occasional hiccough. “there we go. come on over here, edgelord.”

Edge didn’t turn around. “She’s afraid of me,” he whispered.

Behind him, he could hear Stretch heave an exasperated sigh. “you got loud one time, for fu—udge’s sake. she’s not scared of you, so come here!”

That was definitely an order and one he needed to obey; their lives depended on staying on the Swap brother’s good side. Slowly, Edge turned, moving stiffly as he lurched over to the two of them. He reluctantly allowed Stretch to draw him down to sit awkwardly on the floor, sockets closed, unresisting as Stretch pulled him close to enough to rest their foreheads together with the baby between them. The ache in his chest slowly eased and Edge opened his sockets, looking down at the child. Who was looking back up at him with wide eye lights and there was no fear in them, only a simple curiosity.

“Hello, baby,” Edge told her softly, reaching with trembling fingers to wipe away one of the streaks drying on her chubby cheekbone. He almost jerked away when she offered a coo in return, reaching for his fingers in yet another attempt to cram them into her mouth.

“see?” Stretch said quietly. His breath was a soft, sweet gust against Edge’s face, his smooth forehead resting against Edge’s damaged one. “you’re gonna make mistakes, a lot of ‘em. don’t start out by beating yourself up for it.”

Edge nodded slowly and when Stretch shifted to settle the baby into the crook of his arm, Edge held her close, scooting back to lean against the wall as he watched her unconvincing attempt at cannibalizing his fingertips. She was so light, the weight of her hardly more than a handful of feathers. Such a tiny bundle in his arms, so terribly important for such a small, perfect creature.

Stretch climbed to his feet, dusting off his hands with exaggerated motions as he announced, “crisis averted, won’t be the last one. now, the cardboard box is out, got the memo on that, so how do you feel about a dresser drawer?”

Edge didn’t answer, only nodded and let Stretch start pulling blankets out of the box, muttering under his breath about whether the bottom or top drawer would make for a better bassinet. None of that mattered. All he wanted was to keep holding this child close and never let her go.

~~*~~

tbc

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #drifters

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luluxa · 4 years

Photo

Drifter

Something I wanted to do for ages - an illustration to one of my original worlds. And I’m using James as a character because of reasons :D

Edit: the reasons :)

An intro for an AU fic set in one of my original worlds. Written a while ago and by now I honestly don't know when (if) I'm gonna finish it, and as a standalone bit it doesn't make much sense, but I guess it can provide some context for the art.

Guide You

Summary: Jeremy and Richard are set to have an adventure in the lands they know very little about, and of course, for that they will need a guide.

So it would appear they were going in the entirely wrong direction.

Hammond glares at Jeremy, weariness and anger on his little mug underlined poignantly by a ratty beard.

“You are a bellend, Clarkson,” he says very politely due to their new company, a nice change to all the abuse that was hurled at Jeremy for the last three days.

Their – well, Jeremy doesn’t want to say ‘saviour’, since they weren’t dying or anything – their finder inclines his head at Hammond’s expressiveness. An inclined hand is all the emotion that can be read off him, since he doesn’t remove his scarf or goggles, remaining mysteriously faceless and nameless.

“You could turn around and go in whichever direction you wished,” Jeremy retorts testily. He really doesn’t fancy appearing incompetent and pathetic in front of strangers.

“And then explain to your wife and children I just left you in the desert for the wild goats to feast on your flesh?”

Jeremy huffs, gesturing at his face. “Of course, the wild goats wouldn’t do you any harm since you look so much like one they’d accept you in their ranks immediately.”

Hammons scratches at his beard. “I look like Rob Dawny Jr and you know it. Don’t be jealous of my good looks.”

Jeremy lets out a massively sarcastic snort and the mystery man sighs and switches off the engine of his Falcon.

“Would you prefer to continue with this admittedly entertaining comedy double act or shall we make a camp?”

Jeremy and Hammond both grin at the comment and agree that the camp would be great.

“I’m Ainnay,” the man introduces himself at last, as they all dismount. “You, I gather, are from Ktider.”

“We are,” Jeremy nods, “I’m Clarkson, the midget is Hammond, and we were supposed to make a documentary about the desert but he’d challenged me to a race and then we got into the sandstorm and lost all our bearings.”

“You lost our bearings!” Hammond starts again, jabbing a finger at him. “I told you were going the wrong way!”

“Oh sure, because the direction you had proposed wouldn’t have lead us to the mountains a thousand miles from where we’ve started!”

“Yeah, where there’s at least some civilisation and not endless dunes with just an occasional goat skeleton stuck in a dried bush!”

“Gentlemen, please,” Ainnay interrupts them suddenly, holding his palms up. “It’s very easy to get lost in the desert, especially for someone who’s never been here before. Experienced Freemen sometimes get lost in sandstorms. I wouldn’t fight about it on your place. Of course, going for a race in the desert is another matter entirely,” he adds smoothly.

Jeremy gapes at him for a second, exchanges a glace with Hammond, and they both smirk.

“The race was definitely not my fault,” Jeremy says easily.

“You agreed to that!”

“And you agreed to follow me around! Five years ago, in fact!”

At last, Hammond gives up. “Yeah, all right, that was my biggest mistake and I have no choice but to concede it,” he says with as much sarcasm as he can muster.

While they were arguing, Ainnay managed to start a fire and somehow task semi-distracted Hammond with erecting a canopy, so Jeremy can celebrate his victory by sitting down and taking off his incredibly annoying itchy scarf.

“Ohh, I swear, it only cumulates the sand in your hair and does nothing to protect you from it!” he groans, scratching at his head vigorously, while Hammond nods along. “This is rubbish!”

Having brought all his pots and little bags under the canopy, Ainnay sits down as well. “It’s cos you’d put it on all wrong,” he comments. “I’ll show you later how it’s done, but one of the main things is that you put your goggles on it, not under it.”

Jeremy shrugs sheepishly and then has to spend a while ignoring Hammond’s speculations about the comfort of goggles-wearing, because Ainnay takes all his head-gear off as well and appears to be immensely pleasurable to look at.

Swallowing and averting his eyes with an effort from the sinfully pretty bow of pink lips, Jeremy hopes his blush will be mistaken for a heat rash. Will he ever be past this stupid and perverse notion of finding men attractive?

“Are you a Nahan, then?” he hears Hammond ask cautiously and looks up to see a red vertical stripe on Ainnay’s forehead, revealed now when he’s flicked the curls away from his face.

“I am. Couldn’t you tell that by me name?” he asks, looking confused, his accent very slight but audible now when Jeremy thinks about it.

Jeremy glances at Hammond, both of them shrugging.

“Not really. Should we?” Jeremy scowls. “Are we being massively ignorant and rude somehow, by any chance? In which case, please excuse us, we’ve literally came over here a week ago and know close to nothing about the local customs.”

Ainnay smiles, eyes squinted and sparkly, making Jeremy’s insides quiver. “No, not so far, although I can tell already you have a potential.”

Jeremy finds it in himself to snort and Hammond grins ruefully – well, he could get away with a lot, being stupidly charming when he wants to, but Jeremy has nothing to counterbalance his bellendism. He rather hopes he won’t offend Ainnay terribly at some point, as he does, indeed, has a lot of potential – and experience – in this area.

“Nahan people have pretty distinct names,” Ainnay explains calmly, making tea. “A Nahan man will always give you just one, it’s our ‘Amma namet’, a tribe’s name, given to us by someone from the tribe we live in. Those names are Ruisk in origin and usually descriptive – mine, for example, is two words: Ain – soft and Nay – hard.” Ainnay glances up from the tea, looking very soft and lovely indeed, and although Jeremy has known him for twenty minutes, he can tell the ‘hard’ part is there as well.

He nods. “Got it. Why is it always just one name?”

Ainnay offers them cups with tea and switches to making some sort of heavily spiced sandwiches that Hammond eyes with deep distrust.

“Do you believe in any sort of higher power – gods, fate, anything at all?”

Jeremy scowls at the sudden subject swerve. “No,” he says categorically, and Hammond shrugs with indifference. The little fussy moron sips the tea and tries very hard to not make a face – Jeremy thinks the tea is perfectly fine, but then again, Hammond is known to make faces at water. “I mean, we have organised religion in Ktider but it’s no more than a collection of fairy tales and a list of ridiculously strict rules and improbable threats of post-mortem punishment to make an illiterate peasant behave.”

Ainnay frowns fleetingly at that. “How odd. Well, here people do believe in higher powers, although no one’s imposing it on them. I would guess it’s because living somewhere as unpredictable and dangerous as a desert makes you invoke anything at all to ease your struggle with the world around.”

Jeremy contemplates it and nods. “Maybe. The seamen are like that as well – every sea-going man I’ve ever known was superstitious as hell, regarding the seas to be well, almost a deity of its own.”

Ainnay nods. “Yes, so is the desert – you know these lands as Tensah, I think, but it’s really the name of the goddess that is supposedly looking over us.”

Jeremy notes that Ainnay doesn’t seem to be very religious himself, wondering, why doesn’t he conform to the beliefs of his people.

“So what does it have to do with names?” Hammond asks, ever impatient and probably annoyed with the non-promising dinner.

Ainnay doesn’t look bothered with the rudeness, remaining serenely calm and immersed in the food making. “Our tribe names are designed to hide us from the goddess who’s known to not like men very much. Women go by the first name always, as they’ve nothing to fear.”

Men fearing a goddess sounds pretty entertaining – Jeremy’s heard about ancient people worshipping Earth like the ultimate Mother, and it was proposed by some historians in those ancient times women were the rulers – he wonders, whether it was or hell, still is, true for the local desert people.

“I think we have something similar to your Amma namet thing – nicknames,” Jeremy says on an afterthought. “His is Hamster,” he points at Hammond, making the latter glare.

Ainnay hums. “Yeah, we have nicknames too, but it’s not the same thing. Amma namet is absolutely formal and ritualistic rather than amusing and affectionate. It’s for permanent use, since our first name has to be hidden. The first name can only be used one on one, and only your mother can use it, or a person to whom you give that name – usually a life partner. So, if a Nahan man ever gave you his first name he would be actually saying ‘I love you and I want to spend my life with you’.”

“I hope to never hear that one,” Hammond says immediately, and Jeremy immediately and ridiculously wonders what is Ainnay’s first name.

Bad thought, he tells himself angrily. Incredibly bad and out of order.

They receive their plates with the sandwiches and Jeremy makes a point to declare it very tasty – which it is – to counterbalance Hammond’s politely concealed but still evident disgust.

“Don’t mind him. Hammond hates everything that isn’t eggs and gin,” Jeremy explains, talking away his portion to not waste anything.

Hammond lets him with relief. “I don’t hate everything. I’m just not used to foreign food, sorry. I have some crackers on me, I’ll be fine with those.”

Ainnay shrugs. “All right. What’s gin?”

They spend another hour discussing alcoholic beverages and food, Hammond increasingly horrified with Ainnay’s descriptions of the local drinks that seem to include snake bile and scorpions, until Jeremy realises that while remaining perfectly deadpan, Ainnay is having a lot of fun making Hammond queasy, and sits back to be entertained.

“There’s no such thing as rotten shark soup!” Hammond cries eventually, riled up and red in the face. “You’re having me on!”

Ainnay looks at him with clear-eyed sincerity. “Why would I be having you on? It’s a delicacy, I’ve had some, they serve it with fried whale intestines – it’s actually delicious, as long as you don’t breath in.”

On that, Jeremy gives up, giggling and pointing helplessly at Hammond’s constipated mug. “Your stupid tiny face, all scandalised,” he manages at last. “Ainnay, you’ve got to stop or Hammond will be sick.”

Looking pleased with himself, Ainnay nods. “As you wish. Although everything I said was the truth.”

“You’re worse than Clarkson,” Hammond says, looking hurt. “I hoped to meet someone nice on this journey.”

Ainnay’s expression remains as kindly and innocent as it was. “Tough luck.”

Jeremy dissolves in giggles again, delighted beyond words, and Hammond turns away pointedly, sulking.

“And here I thought we’ll be stuck with just the scenes of the dunes and Hammond moaning,” Jeremy says, pleased, patting his absorber under the coat. He’ll have to sort the stream soon, to not spend hours and days editing the raw material. “That would’ve made a boring show.”

Noticing Ainnay’s confusion, Jeremy produces the absorber disc from under the layers of his dusty robes. “We have them on us 24/7, basically. Bit difficult to make a comprehensive story out of the uninterrupted stream, but we resolved it by embracing a lot of the randomness. People like it, oddly enough.”

Ainnay just looks more confused. “Hold on. I did not understand a word. What is that thing?”

Hammond turns around from his sulking and his crackers to gape at Ainnay along with Jeremy. “You don’t know what it is?”

Ainnay shrugs. “Should I?”

Jeremy looks at his absorber. “Well, yeah, since it came from your part of the world. It’s black niurite, it absorbs the perception of a person connected to it.”

Still blank, Ainnay reaches for the absorber but thinks better of it. “Could you be more specific, please?”

“It absorbs your perception, things you see, or hear, or smell, or what you feel by touch – it stores it as a stream of uh, sensory experience. People then can duplicate it to their absorbers and tune in. It’s a bit like dreaming,” Jeremy tries to explain, “only it’s not your dreaming and everything is real. Well, you could tune into your own stream, which would be like remembering something, but you know, with full presence in the moment. So what Hammond and I are doing here is making a stream – after editing it’ll be his and mine streams in turn combined into one. There should be also a third-person perspective of our discmen, but since we’ve lost them right after coming here, it’ll be just our points of view, so to speak.”

Ainnay listens with his mouth open. “Whoa,” he manages at last. “That’s amazing!”

Bemused, Jeremy exchanges a glance with Hammond again. “Are you saying you have nothing like that in your lands?”

Still transfixed with the absorber, Ainnay shakes his head. “No. We don’t really know what to do with black niurite – your lot likes it enough to buy it, so we sell it to you. We just thought you use it for jewellery or something else decorative. Can you show me how it works?”

Luckily, Hammond has a spare absorber, so he gives it to Ainnay, tying his scarf around his eyes securely and explaining how to connect to it, which takes Ainnay a while but eventually, he lets out a startled yelp and waives his hands about, reacting to something Hammond has on it.

“Bloody Norah!”

Filing away the unfamiliar curse, Jeremy watches Ainnay go from flaily amazement to the stillness of intent concentration – he always loves to watch kids do it, but a grown man discovering streaming is especially endearing.

#james may #james-may #top gear #the grand tour

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broadstbroskis · 4 years

Text

surprises- pt 3 | mat barzal

hi again, back with part three! thanks for reading so far💜

warnings: umm a not great family, mentions of quarantine

part 2

-----

Team Baby

Tito Beauvillier: today?

Mat Barzal: for fucks sake what did i tell you at praccy?

Tito Beauvillier: i was asking yn not you mathew thanks for your garbage opinion

Molly Sutton: omg are we telling people?

Mat Barzal: NO

Brian Kelley: You are no fun, sir.

Molly Sutton: he’s practicing dad duties

Tito Beauvillier: 😂😂😂😂

You: no one is saying anything until we talk to both parents

Molly Sutton: you got it momma

Tito Beauvillier: 👍

Mat Barzal: are you fucking kidding me?

Mat Barzal named the conversation “fuck off motherfuckers”.

Tito Beauvillier named the conversation “team baby”.

You put your hand onto Mat’s. “Don’t.”

He groans. “I still can’t believe they made fucking t-shirts.”

“Can’t you?” You raise an eyebrow at him

Mat hesitates. “Okay, I can.”

“Just need to make sure my brother never finds out.” You drum your fingers on the restaurant table. “He’s going to be all over that fucking t-shirt.”

“You have a brother?” Mat asks. You nod. “Is uh, is he coming tonight?” He’s looking across the table at the two chairs across from you, waiting for your parents to arrive (fashionably late, per usual).

You burst into laughter and Mat looks at you in clear confusion. “I texted him, but I never heard back. He’s a little bit of a drifter.”

“What is this, the 1930’s?” Mat gives you a look. “Honestly, a drifter?”

You ignore that in favor of continuing on with your family traumas. “On the bright side, Chris has already locked down the role of family disappointment so a grandchild should just get like a pursed lip and a cool nod.” You tell him.

The look on Mat’s face at that is what makes you realize he’s actually unfamiliar with your family. There’d been no reason to bring them up to him before; you didn’t really like talking about your parents as it was and while you adored your older brother, he was so flaky you were lucky if he responded to a text every month. “Are you going to be okay tonight?” Mat asks carefully, moving his hand to squeeze yours softly in support,

“I usually drink before dinners like this, which cuts back on a lot of the sarcasm.” You admit. “But obviously, that won’t be happening.” Mat squeezes your hand again and smiles at you weakly. “I’m sorry.” You tell him, spying your parents walk in the door.

He frowns. “For what?”

“For whatever they might say.” You say grimly, standing up to greet your parents.

You can tell right away that your parents don’t like Mat and you wish you could say you were surprised. It’s in the way they introduce themselves as Don and Karen, in the handshake Mat offers your dad that’s just barely returned. In the tone your mom doesn’t bother to disguise as she responds to Mat’s “nice to meet you,” with a dripping “pleasure.”

Mat handles the whole thing like a pro, keeping his placating smile in place the entire time, but you’re seething internally as you all start searching through the menu, and so when your dad mentions something about ordering a couple bottles of wine, you seize the opportunity.

“I can’t because I’m pregnant, but you all enjoy!” Mat is frozen next to you, his media smile still on his face, but it’s the look on your parents faces’ that you relish. The shock, the disbelief...the disappointment.

It feels like the moment couldn’t get any better for you but then the host arrives at the table, with a familiar figure-horribly underdressed for the fancy restaurant in jeans and t-shirt and his long hair pulled back into a bun. “What’d I miss?” Your brother grins, pulling a chair from the empty table next to you, before the host can do it for him.

“You’re going to be an uncle!” You grin at Chris.

Chris returns the grin. “Hey, sweet!”

“Sweet?” Your mom hisses. “This is not sweet! This is so far from sweet, Christopther!”

You watch as she stands and storms out and then look over at your dad, who shakes his head and sighs, before following at a much more leisurely pace after throwing a couple bills on the table. “Well,” You say mildly, as Chris relocates his seat at the table. “That went better than expected.”

“That was better than expected?” Mat asks incredulously.

“No one cried; that was a win!” You tell him.

“The bar has been set so low for when we tell my parents.”

“Now do you understand why I insisted we tell mine first?”

He laughs. “ Yeah. I got it now.”

The two of you are interrupted by your brother slapping his menu shut. “Let’s blow this place and grab a pizza. I’m dying for good pizza.”

Mat’s up for that in an instant, standing and offering his hand to you before Chris even finishes his sentence. You laugh, gripping his hand for the assist and joining in the discussion of where you should place the order from. Chris makes the call and you feel a squeeze of your palm, looking down and realizing it’s still engulfed in Mat’s.

“I’m sorry this went so shitty.” He says softly.

You shrug. “I really wasn’t expecting it to go well.”

He squeezes your hand again. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t shitty.”

You lean forward to rest your forehead against his shoulder, happy when his other hand moves to rest on your back, just craving the comfort he provides. “Thanks.”

-----

Mat’s family is due to arrive in town on Friday afternoon and you’ve scheduled the entire weekend. There’s family time for them to catch up, they’ll be able to catch Mat’s afternoon game on Saturday, and you’ll pop over for dinner afterwards for you and Mat to share the big news.

But because timing is a bitch, you run into Mat and his family as you’re walking out of the elevator after coming home from work, and they’re bringing their bags into his place. There’s a moment when you stop walking completely, which might have gone unnoticed had Mat not stopped what he was doing too, which has his mom turning to look at you. “Hello!” She waves immediately, and that brings the attention of his dad and sister over to you as well.

Fuck, what are their names? Mat’s told you, multiple times. “Hi.” You say back, trying to buy yourself some time.

Something clicks in Mat and he waves you over, even though each step closer to his parents makes you more anxious. Like they’ll know just by you standing close enough to them.

Mat swears they’re going to take the news of a grandchild well; you’re just skeptical of that. How could they? This can’t be what they had planned for their son.

Mat makes introductions and you smile at all of them, eager to make a better impression than you had at the elevator. “So you’re a friend of Mat’s?” Nadia, his mom, asks.

“Um, yeah.” You watch as she and Mike, his dad, exchange a knowing look, and feel the panic grow in your stomach. “I should-”

“You should join us for dinner tonight!” Nadia grins excitedly.

“Oh, um.”

“You should.” Mat says quickly and there’s nothing saying otherwise when you meet his eyes, so you nod.

“Let me just go change real quick.” You point at your door. “And, um, I’ll be right over.”

“Great.” Nadia smiles.

Molly laughs at how long it takes you to change- to find something that is comfortable, doesn’t outright show the tiny belly that doesn’t quite seem to go away now, and still cute enough to make a good first impression on your future child’s grandparents-but eventually you make your way back across the hall, flipping her off one last time as you make your way out the door.

“Since when do you knock?” Mat frowns, when he swings the door open.

“Since your parents are here.” You admit; you’d been unsure of what the protocol was. You two hadn’t bothered with knocking on doors since you’d been quarantined together. Even afterwards, when you’d settled back as friends and then with all this going on, you’d still just barged back and forth. But it somehow felt different when his family was there.

“I told you not to worry.” Mat grabs your hand and pulls you inside. “Come on, let’s just go do it.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, like ripping a bandaid off.”

This is...so not what you’ve prepared for. This was not the plan.

This is pure Mat. Ready to go on the rush, to switch up the play and go with his gut, and you realize looking up at him, you’ve got complete faith in him. If he thinks it’s the right move, you’re going to trust him. “Okay.” You agree.

Mat smiles, squeezing your hand. “It’ll be okay.”

He’s incredibly calm for this, so reassuring, considering what the two of you were about to walk in and tell his parents, and it’s that that has you nodding along.

Mat’s mom actually starts beaming when you and Mat walk into the living room, hand in hand. You watch it slowly fall off her face as Mat struggles to find the words and you can’t take it anymore. “I’m pregnant.” You announce and then wince at the silence in the room. “Uh, we? We’re pregnant.” You wince at the phrasing, but Mat smiles, squeezing your hand.

Mat’s sister recovers first, and with all the innocence of a younger sibling, she rushes over to the two of you and throws her arms around you. “Congrats!” Liana gushes. “Oh my god, this is amazing!”

Mat manages a full grin at her but you can only give her the smallest of smiles as you pull away, eyes more focused on Mat’s parents, who haven’t moved yet. “Li, can you give us a minute?” Mat doesn’t give her the option to say no, as he catches sight of you watching his parents, and shoves her gently towards his kitchen.

“What? Wait!” She whines, but goes willingly, leaving you and Mat alone with his parents.

“Look, we obviously didn’t plan this,” Mat says, addressing his parents, more than you.

His mom interrupts him. “Are you okay?” She looks at you, concerned.

Thrown off at the abruptness of her question, you look over at Mat, who looks equally confused, but gestures for you to answer. “Yeah.” You nod. “I’m good.”

She gives you a look, then pats the seat next to her, which you move over to slowly. “It has been many years since I was last pregnant, but I do remember the first few months and how I felt during them.” She smiles at you and wraps her arm around your shoulders. “You don’t have to lie.”

You can’t help but laugh because you’re tired and nauseous and just feeling a little bit bloated all the time. “It’s not terrible.”

Nadia squeezes your shoulders. “Good.”

Mat’s dad has yet to say a thing, and you’d been worried about how he’d react to the news, knowing how close he and Mat are, but when you sneak a peek over at him, he’s smiling at you wrapped under his wife’s arm. “Well I can’t say I thought it’d be this soon.” Mike grins. “But I am certainly going to enjoy watching you chase a kid around. I hope they’ve got even half your energy so you know what you put your mother and I through.”

“Constantly moving!” Nadia recalls.

“Wow, thanks guys,” Mat huffs at them.

“This is the joy of grandchildren.” His dad laughs and his mom squeezes your shoulders as Mike continues and you’re ready to cry at how wonderful they are. “You get to give them back!”

“What, so you’re not going to babysit?” Mat asks.

“Oh, anytime sweetheart!” Nadia smiles. “Although, I think your sister might fight us for that.”

Mat laughs. “Yeah, probably.”

“Better her than my brother.” You add.

“Probably also true.” Mat laughs again.

Nadia smiles. “Let’s go pick out dinner and you can tell us more about this.”

-----

One minute you were in pajamas, the next minute Mat’s mom and sister were banging on your door and insisting you get dressed to join them at his game that afternoon.

They refused to take no for an answer, which is how you found yourself tugging a spare Barzal jersey over your head, the same as Mat’s family all wore, as you, Mat’s parents, and his sister waited for your uber. “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude on your family time.”

“Nonsense.” Nadia waves it off. “You are family now.”

Which really only serves to set you off and you then spend the entire ride over to the game trying not to cry. She can’t possibly know what it means to you for them to be so open and accepting, but it’s everything.

And if you weren’t in awe of this family the night before, you certainly are now. You’ve seen supportive families before, but to actually feel included and a part of one is something else entirely. These hormones are going to kill you; there’s at least five occasions where you almost have to stand up and leave a hockey game because you’re about to cry.

It ends, finally, and you join Mat’s family in waiting for him in the family room, where they’re quickly roped into a conversation to catch up with some of the people already waiting. Not at all eager to bring the spotlight to who you are or why you’re here, you slip your phone out of your purse and lean against the wall, looking back to where your last text with Molly left off.

“Hi!” A pair of arms wraps around your stomach.

“Hi, babe!” You don’t bother to turn around and greet Tito.

He’s frozen though, his hands stuck on the small pouch of stomach. “Oh my god, she’s an actual belly!” He grins.

“Tito!” You do turn at that, and you want to be annoyed because he still hasn’t taken his hand off your stomach and that he continues to refer to the baby as a she even though there’s zero evidence of that fact currently, but his face is caught somewhere between a grin and pure shock and you slow your roll. “You know it’s only going to get bigger, right?”

“Yeah, obviously!” He says. “I just...it didn’t seem real until now, I guess.”

You stare at him flatly. “You had t-shirts made about that fact that it was real.”

“Didn’t seem real.” He repeats, still looking at your stomach in awe.

The look you give him after that will go down in the history books, but you’re interrupted by one of his teammates. “Hey man, you coming to-holy shit!”

“No!” You exclaim quickly. “That’s not-this isn’t-just no!”

Whichever teammate this is bursts into laughter and Tito finally pulls his hand back. “Wow, YN, say that a little faster next time!”

“Cannot stress this enough!” You repeat. “You had t-shirts. T-shirts. Made.”

“Listen, I know my flow’s not as good as Barzy’s but-” You bury your face in your hands as the teammate standing with you makes a choking noise and then Tito rattles off a string of swears in French. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You tell him, trying to avoid the wide-eyed gaze of their teammate.

“Team Baby?” Tito says hopefully.

“I’m going to let Brian beat you up instead of Mat.”

“My fellow members of Team Baby won’t turn on me like that.” Tito says confidently.

“Molly and I have killed a lot of Mat’s plants over the years. Hiding evidence like that really builds a bond; she’s totally on my side.”

“What have I just walked into?” Mat stops next to you, looking between you, Tito, and his laughing teammate across from you, like he’s unsure where to start.

“Tito can’t keep a secret, that’s what.” You tell him, returning the soft smile he sends you.

“I hear you’re going to be a dad!” Across from you, their teammate manages to stop laughing (well, kind of) and grin at Mat.

Mat sends a look over at Tito, who looks anywhere but Mat, and Mat nods back at his teammate. “Yeah, uh, surprise?”

“Surprise all around.” You mutter, unable to hold it back, which brings the smallest of smiles to Mat’s face.

“Any uh, any tips for us, Ebs?”

The nickname triggers the face and name for you and you watch as Jordan Eberle grins back at you. “I’m sure we can come up with something.”

#surprises series #mat barzal imagine #mat barzal fan fic #hockey imagines #hockey fanfiction #hockey fanfic #nhl imagines #nhl fanfiction #my hockey fics

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exactlyenoughglitter · 4 years

Text

Nocturne

AO3

Now let the day just slip away so the dark night may watch over you Like a child asleep, so warm and deep you will find me there, waiting for you

You don’t have to wonder why Just come and dream the night with me

She felt weightless and drowsy, despite having allowed herself to close her eyes only for a few seconds against a steel bird’s beam of light when it had come to survey the torn corpse of the giant apartment building. Ciri had stood on the elf’s feet and he had turned her away from the light, into the soft darkness that unfurled behind his tall form. Until the noise subsided, until prying eyes left them alone. White light had framed him, highlighting his contours and setting him between light and dark, where devils liked to play.

Where she had placed her feet on top of his boots, glistening red clung to earth. The Sage stood in it and held her above, away from the rivers of red.

Light and dark. Good and evil.

Ciri had closed her eyes and sunk into the night.

The music had stopped.

It was quiet, apart from the city’s ambiance and the rain. Fingertips roamed the seams on her back, moving faintly, from the tips of her hair come loose to where cotton left the skin undefended. Everything felt subdued like she was diving underwater, and with every breath she became increasingly familiar with the owner of the arms around her. Somewhere above the surface, in the back of her waking mind, she could still hear the trills of the flute playing its song of storms to the billowing green clouds that ate at the tallest of steel spires before drenching the concrete earth with dusted glass. No matter what the Knowing One played, Ciri couldn’t stop hearing the longing melody she had heard him perform once in a key-nosed boat on Easnadh; a long, long time ago, it now seemed, in the beautiful world of terrible elves.

The rain kept falling.

She felt herself losing sense of time.

Time does not matter.

Supple leather brushed against her jawline and she stirred against the momentary loss of warmth around her. Until a cool, inert wave spread across the base of her skull where long fingers had begun gently massaging, preparing her for magic that cocooned her mind in a feather blanket. It instilled calm and let the susurration of rain inside her, where always a fire or two raged. Aches and spasms too, which she hadn’t even been aware of, seemed to release their hold on her at the touch of knowing fingers. It felt incredibly soothing and unearned. At the thought of being given something for free another little fire kindled in her thoughts, but she was quickly persuaded to abandon the thought when another wave rolled across the taut muscles of her neck. A little rest, a little respite. It helped to remember that they were both drifters now; strangers at the end of the world.

In the warm, secure darkness of his shadow, Ciri barely registered when the thumbs of his hands began caressing her cheeks, pushing wisps of ashen hair out of her eyes. Carefully avoiding dipping against her scar, which often ached. Lately, he had begun suggesting he could heal it for her completely, though the woman was not sure if she should accept the offer. Looking at it reminded her of what was real.

Was it?

What was it that was more real about suffering than about happiness? Wouldn’t ridding herself of the harrowing reminder help her grow past it? Didn’t she want exactly that – to become someone else? She, who was singular and yet so often, in the abyss of space and time, no one. Ciri didn’t know; the spirit of truth often deceived her.

Whether due to the ministrations of magic or out of her own volition, or both, she felt her mind tarry at these thoughts, her muscles slackening further. It was difficult to resist the forgetfulness and dreams that tempted her when dark night could be this gentle.

Why focus on disturbing and unpleasant things now?

There was a tentative brush against her lips, a slow, circular, exploring motion. It quivered lightly, as if fearful of response. Ciri didn’t mind. Against the subdued tranquillity that had enveloped her, the touch felt distinct and singular, and she brushed her lips against its attentions. Lowering her lip, the tip of a thumb pushed forward against the wet inside, grazing her canine thoughtfully; and then made its way inside her mouth. An unexpected sweetness hit her tongue at the first slow stroke. Then again, but a little less; then less again, but it didn’t matter. If devils played here, then they were not the worst hosts.

A low sigh.

‘That’s good. That is very good, luned.’

Her eyes snapped open.

Why did she look so startled?

He had always secretly adored her like this – so candid and accepting, letting him take care of her every need. Trusting him to bear her burden with her. Who else, if not him?

But it had been so long. He didn’t know if he felt the same way anymore. Had she not abandoned him, had she not let herself be ensnared... Yet, here she was. Where had she been hiding all this time? Didn’t she know how terribly he had missed her? Last time they had seen each other, those eyes had pleaded with him, full of tears and remorse; how they had hurt each other on that day.

‘Avallac’h?’

Brilliant emeralds, blown wide in alarm and bewilderment.

You are mine. And I am yours.

He smiled bitterly.

‘What – what did you do?’

‘I gave you moon flower,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘It’s a mild anti-inflammatory and relaxant.’

Those accursed eyes widened inexorably. ‘No. No, no, this is not what I meant...’

You’re not a toad, my darling, he thought. You’re the hope of the worlds.

She had grown a lot in the time she had been on the run from them. Sadly, she still hadn’t learned how to phrase her requests so no one could take advantage of them. Oh, he couldn’t stay mad at her for his own outlandish expectations. Circumstance, both ill and fortunate, had nurtured this human girl so she had learned to focus all her efforts into her unfaltering will power and nothing else. Through that she had to carve out every new day better than the last. No matter who her sword happened to cut down, no matter the millions whose fate she irrevocably altered in the process. He was far beyond moralising. Like tonight, for example. His little, dancing Swallow.

‘Stop hiding behind your witchcraft.’

Hiding? Did she not realise –

She kissed him.

There were many ways in which Ciri could have made her life tamer, more predictable, and less overwhelming. Unfortunately, these somehow never looked like the best options in the moments before she unleashed something.

His lips were dry and fine, and unmoving.

For a heartbeat, she tasted nothing but herself and the sour fruits of her temper and clenched the front of the elf’s robes hard enough to leave tiny abrasions on the ball of her thumb. She refused – absolutely refused! – to believe she may have, once again, fallen on her own sword. She had liked how unrestrained he had been around her, his face unusually enlivened when he had circled her in dance tonight. He, too, must have felt it – that same call of possibility that had moved Ciri’s heart like strong gusts of summer wind in the steppe. Or he wouldn’t have entertained her to a look of astonishment when she’d broken through the spell of his tender darkness. He wouldn’t have...

A glacial bucket of dread washed down her back.

‘Who are you to dare abuse me with such miserable charity?’

Who was she? What was she doing?

Idiot.

Idiot!

In anger and humiliation, Ciri was about to retreat that very second, until she felt the sorcerer’s lips move against hers.

So, she stayed for a little longer.

Holding her jaw, the elf investigated her with a velvety touch. His answers, each increasingly demanding, ran a smarting hunger that sent writhing warmth pooling in her stomach as it sought satiation. Her heart raced, her frustration dissolving into cinders of surprise, whereas she had been hoping for the pleasure of vengeance. An “aerial vehicle” zoomed past in the rain, flashing bright lights and sounding its alarm. It fell on deaf ears. She felt his hands settle around her ribs, pulling her forward, again onto his feet. And up, higher, closer – from her vantage point to his.

Ciri sought air.

Small, even teeth briefly grazed the sensitive tissue, drawing her breath from her, and his taste and scent filled her mind with cotton wool. A fox from a ruthless fairy tale, whom a human girl had led in swallow circles, weaving her own notes into his music, heel and toe, spin and bow, at the end of the world. Strange, old, and powerful; and secretive. So secretive. So deceptive. Never one thing, always only who he chose to appear as from moment to moment. How could he expect this to be enough for her? Who was he to her, really? Who did she want him to be? Would he show her something real for once? When she tried him with the tip of her tongue, his arms moved more securely around her, locking her in, and Ciri sighed.

I do not get lost.

I do not!

And yet, I feel lost now.

The knowing smile an indigo-haired beauty had given her by the fires of protest and justice flashed in her mind’s eye – the heady excitement of losing herself to the blasphemy and electricity of sensation. As with Iskra, as with Mistle... in a different time and place. Because, at the end of the day that was what she liked to do, wasn’t it? In this alien time and place, a call she could not explain had drawn her away from the fires until she had found the sorcerer giving himself over to his music in the shadow of ruin, waiting. Much like he had once waited on the shore of a green lake, smooth as a mirror, underneath a bird cherry blossom. Effortless and exciting were the shadows of the Night City – one of which had waited for her to bring the moments destiny was made of to him and had proceeded to watch her lose herself in them. In secret, with only the elf’s own eyes to witness it.

Ciri felt heat rising to her cheeks.

Why do you continue to allow yourself to become ensnared, stupid?

He stepped forward on instinct when she tried pulling away, carrying her on his feet effortlessly like a doll. Ciri caught a glimpse of the look in his unusual aquamarines. It brought her to a halt. Had it been anger, mockery, or sadness, she would have understood, because she had felt and seen all of these in him. Not, however, this haunted, ardent desire – this greed – with which the elf watched her now. It made her wonder whose shoes she was walking in tonight, and if she could fill them.

And it frightened her.

‘Where are you going?’ he whispered when she finally managed to take a shaky step back.

‘Away. Or... I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, does it?’ she managed an unsure laugh, attempting to compose herself and indicating to the marred luxury of the place. ‘Or is this to be our new home, or what?’

He gave her another one of his strange looks.

Well, let him. It was all he ever did, anyway.

Ciri swallowed nervously against his taste. She needed to clear her head; this wasn’t...

Blood pounded in his ears.

In a stream of flickering neon light, Crevan saw green eyes studying him, growing ever more distant by the second. Her breath, slightly sour under the sweet notes of the physalis liqueur, lingered against his tongue and he felt very raw.

‘It’s alright!’ he called after her retreating form.

That made her stop.

He licked his lip; a small bruise. No matter. But where had all that impromptu joy disappeared to? Obstinately, she avoided looking him in the eyes when he drew near. How adorable she was, he thought; twilight lent her a beautiful sense of vulnerability that he so often chose to overlook. Uncertain, yet fierce; defiant against her own emotions to the last. Against feeling a little lost. He could understand that. Truthfully, he felt a little lost too at the moment.

It was only natural for her to feel lonely in this world – in all the worlds – despite making acquaintances easily. Acquaintances; nothing more. The worship of the unknowing could not survive when days slipped away and she had to return to the eternal night. When her hair was pulled by the stars again. How could they understand her – her story was outlandish and out of this world, and people saw her only for who she became to them. Yet, Crevan had known her longer than she had known herself. He and his people were of the same eternal night that called to her at the end of the day.

He lifted his hand to the nape of her neck, brushing her ashen hair, but the girl flinched and there was no laughter in her anymore.

Why are you hiding, little Swallow? Do you think, perhaps, that I deceived you somehow? Do you think my witchcraft has made this happen? Oh, sweet girl, if only you knew.

‘What is alright?’ she asked.

Was she scared of him? Ridiculous; she didn’t have to be afraid. He was not angry; no-no! How could he be? She had returned to him. She had found him, as destiny desired.

‘It’s alright to seek comfort,’ he repeated slowly, tasting each word as if trying them for the first time. ‘I forgive you.’

The elf witnessed her shoulders tense and a switch flick before she reversed course and cut at him with her deadly emeralds. The oscillation was so abrupt he took a full step back, noting with delay the Force that had jumped to his fingertips.

‘Have I asked for your forgiveness?’ she exploded. ‘What would I have to ask it for!? For letting you play with me? For responding? I don’t know if you are aware, but it takes two!’

His eyes narrowed and a cruel smile broke on his handsome face at the impending rupture he had invited and, somewhere deep inside his soul, pleaded for.

How we hurt each other on that day, Lara; how unforgiving and unforgivably stupid I was.

The girl leaned as close up to him as possible without touching, exuding heat and fury, crackling like ball lightning, and whispered: ‘You want me; and you cannot stand it.’

Crevan had temporarily lost track of himself in what followed.

He remembered that what she had told him she had said with such offensive bluntness, such ignorant presumption, self-importance, and arrogance as if only she had been privy to the childishly obvious, and that he, a Knowing One, a scientist, an artist, a musician and a poet, and the voice of her miserable destiny, could not have possibly understood. That at the heart of it all, everything seemed to come down to the banal matter of irrational, irresistible desire that trampled under its feet the good, the beautiful and the right, and spat on faith, hope, and love only to be sated there and then. That he wanted what he was promised, that despite everything, he wanted her, and so much more. That at wanting all this, he was as lowly as the creature due to whose selfish whims elves, futures, and worlds burned.

He remembered that he had wanted to gouge out the beautiful eyes in her face. And that he could not help seeing red.

When Crevan came to it was to the sound of his own name. An untidy sound, but not yet the prayer he desired it to be. Not yet uttered with awareness of what she tempted him with. He looked at her from above, to monitor the swirl of emotions that coloured her features. Her unfortunate, mesmerising features that were dear to his dark heart.

We both have fantasies that hide behind our lies.

It distracted him, the look of her in his hands – he could do anything with her – and, displaying her special swiftness she used it. He felt fingers hook in his hair and deliver a maximally painful punishment. Crevan howled. How nasty, unruly, and underhanded she was: like her callous ancestor; not at all like the princess she was born to be. Zireael cried out when he squeezed her wrists in retribution, sealing them above her head with a command, and the elf greedily swallowed the sound off her lips.

Do yours play with mine? Only for tonight, let’s say?

Her chest moved against his like the tide then and, against charred wall, he held her captive. Oh, she was furious with him, and rightly so. Though she was not entirely innocent herself. Had she wished so, she could have run from him even now. But with her indulgent thoughts laid bare and her lidded eyes on the kitsch murals above, his pupil’s mouth fell open, gasping for the pittance of air he generously allowed when he focused on tearing whimpers from her as from a beloved flute – with a torment of kisses left in ashen hair, against a slender, white neck.

Is this how you imagine it? When you follow my music. When you say you hate it.

Weaving the silvery tresses around his fist, he yanked, and she bent against him like a spring branch, a cherry blossom. Young flesh tightened like a bow string and blood rushed under pale skin in red blooms, flushing where it would bruise later. Her heart beat furiously against the stroke of his tongue.

Not everything is as pretty as it looks; not everything. You wish I indulged myself. Do you know what that means?

So close, so small. So striking in her choice agony. Wanting without knowing, giving without thinking, taking everything – without mercy to him, or herself. Oh, the indestructible optimism of youth! With his palms clasped around her head, Crevan taught his baby midnight what was at the heart of him and her: however much she gave, it would never be enough for him; whatever he did for her, she would never forgive him. Was this any way to live?

Will we play together, O Swallow?

He let his hands wander under her layers, stroking and caressing taut flesh which, though roughened with scars, remained so impossibly soft and responsive he couldn't stifle a violent groan and wedged his knee in-between her legs. The girl cursed vilely and the elf kissed the tip of her nose in delight. What would it have gained the Sage to hide his perversion in this god-forsaken world? From whom exactly? Why bother? Lifting the human girl on his knee and causing sweet frictions, he offered her a chance to use him and take some more from him as he watched. Instead, she stiffened in response to his avarice and held her own admirably against the shudders his charged touch was designed to bring on. Oh, was something the matter for his lustful little dh’oine?

'Go on. Move a little.'

Gradually, he felt her starting to offer resistance to his grasp and stared at her furiously.

‘What happened to the “you”,’ she breathed, ‘from the good old days?’

The elf bit down on her neck, smothering her cry with his hand.

How can I disarm you?

‘It’s “You”, not the informal “you”,’ he reprimanded her softly in Ellylon. ‘Be polite.’

Her fingers scraped paint from the wall above.

How can I make you accept me?

‘Does my playing not please you?’ he murmured. ‘Does it not please you to know that you have my undivided attention?’

And then it was his turn.

Crevan’s breath hitched in his throat; his eyelids drooped. A small, pink tongue wandered against the inside of his palm. With strength at first, with a hint of teeth, until he gave it more leeway to wander. Then carefully and with thought behind its actions, drawing small fine lines of lightning along the creases of his palm and tasting him, circling gently against the ball of his thumb.

Bottomless green pupils stared at him defiantly. They arrested him on the crumbling edge of the pool of yearning that had been filling up drop by drop ever since insolent, intoxicated eyes had feigned apology for making a mess of things and left him, laughing, when the woman who lived inside their depths had responded to a call of happiness he could not compete with. Until he had given in what felt like centuries after the fact; until he had gone after his lady of the lake.

Avallac’h wavered on the edge, and fell in.

Impulse propelled her and need ground the grains of fear and hope to the raging of an excited heart in her throat. When the Sage’s hands had wrapped around her face with inhuman strength and her back had hit the wall, Ciri had considered leaping, as foul memories had returned: of hands like steel-pinchers, capable of both good and great evil. Yet how exactly had it been her fault this time? And now... now she tasted Power on his hands, at once bewildered by the sensation and amused at the elf’s own reaction: he trembled against her. Absolutely nothing seemed to line up tonight.

Only blasphemy and madness in the shards of broken mirrors.

Avallac’h hadn’t even noticed when the looking glass broke, but she bet it hadn’t been made 700 years ago either.

Closing her eyes as he shifted his palm so she could slide her tongue in-between his fingers, she felt his warm, uneven breath hit her cheek and wished above all for him to feel exactly how he made her feel – addicted and overwhelmed. She could not command magic like he did, but she would make it fair, damn it! Therefore, when he suddenly pulled away from her and set her back on her feet, Ciri didn’t know what to think, say, or do. Everything was changing too quickly.

The elf gave her a playful look.

‘A sorcerer’s hands, O Swallow, are their most prized property; after their mind,’ he said. ‘Through them, he becomes a bridge between Chaos and Reality – a shield or a sword, if you like, or anything else he can only imagine. They are very sensitive; I ask you to tread with care.’

‘Figures,’ she muttered, burning up at the memory of having suckled on long fingers, as if under a spell.

He raised an eyebrow, and she had to make an effort to not look like she cared.

‘Then do not use them to restrain me like this!’ she continued. ‘I do not appreciate being muzzled like a mule.’ Listing the least of his offences as if it were the worst; well, she didn’t have the entire god damn list ready anyhow.

‘You’re right. Often you say very many interesting things I would just hate to miss. Before you act in most peculiar ways.’

She stared at his mouth, its edges darkened by her teeth marks – a mouth she often wanted to punch. A mouth she wanted to press against herself.

‘I’ve found that a little bit of restraint, while sometimes simply necessary, is even more often sweet,’ he eyed her with a secret smile. ‘Perhaps you’ll learn it too one day.’

Ciri reached out, eager to continue on the path of madness until it lasted. She wrapped her arms around his neck, lifted a thigh and placed it on his hip to pull him toward her, and she saw shadows move behind his eyes at that, but in the end, the elf did not react. Only watched her, breathing deeply and evenly. The contrast to less than a minute ago was so incredible that the woman pinched her aching hand to make sure she had not fallen asleep. She grimaced, falling back on her feet, feeling rejected and confused – not a dream at all.

A circus!

He reached for her wrist which she had been shielding against her chest after the magical bindings had dissolved. Cooing softly, when she made an attempt to repel him, he lifted it against his lips and blew on it.

‘You dance beautifully,’ he said. ‘Relentlessly, you dance for the beginnings that one starts to miss long before the end.’

Ciri snorted and was about to say something acutely acidic, but the elf wasn’t done.

‘You with whom the world has so often treated cruelly. Viciously, until you yourself retaliate with equal ferocity. Without allowing a moment’s relief for discovering what brings you joy or for what keeps you awake at peaceful nights when dreams are easy to touch and feel soft as down feathers. Many in whom you’ve sought comfort, many who’ve claimed to love you, have hurt you. Without care for what brings you pleasure. And without patience to recognize how willingly you will learn and how quickly and completely you throw your lot in with good causes – if only shown kindness and understanding. A little love, Ciri.’

She did not know why her eyes had begun to prickle with tears; she just knew the tears were angry and yet, not entirely. It seemed that they couldn’t be one simple thing, however much she wished they could. And it hurt a lot more that way.

He doesn’t have the right to talk to me like this.

‘I enjoyed our dance earlier very much,’ he said quietly. ‘My child of destiny, you always prepare for the worst, yet are still ever eager to rely on moments’ fleeting blessings all the same. You desire to lose yourself in your archipelago of moments, knowing how impossible it really is for you. And so, you’ve learned to seek your freedom in the erasure of yourself, though aware of the acute loneliness that greets you every time you try. Now you will try the same with me, yet I cannot allow this to happen. Will you believe me if I say it is for your own good? Do you understand how important it is that you do not lose yourself in our dance, in the night? No matter what I do.’

Why was he saying these things to her? Why did he pull at her only to spit her back out – to... to what? Lecture? Negotiate? Ponder!?

Her gaze fell on the state of the sealed-off accommodation: the signs of an explosion and a fire, the smashed glass, the red on the floor. The red she had put there in her self-abandonment, he had waded through, and they had danced in together before the elf had held her away from it inside a mirage of peace. How simple and effective, and how stupidly she had fallen for it. Avallac’h was still himself; as if he had not contributed gallons of pain and blood in the name of saving what was dear to him.

Why did he care why she did what she did?

Shouldn’t he have been delighted to get this chance to rendezvous with his dead love? No matter that a meagre and poor copy. He would still get what he wanted – Ciri knew what it was. She had always known, somehow. After having been forced to spend so long together, after having born the weight of his strange looks and moods, the knowledge had solidified. She was aware this arrangement, this retreat, did not come for free – nothing ever did. Did he still think her stupid enough to not know that things were often not how they seemed? That Ciri could not really be happy and he could not be free, and hell, that even vice versa it held true, didn’t it? Why did he have to ruin for her the fantasy that the opposite could also be true, if only for a night?

A little love? She didn’t need love.

She wanted to see that self-forgetful, raw emotion in his eyes again and to feel him tugging at her hair until it hurt. She wanted his lips to spill the truth inside her mouth, mocking and bitter, and then take from her until her debt had been paid. She was so tired of being unable to either claim her freedom or disappear forever. More so, of being denied even a moment’s possibility to imagine.

Avallac’h drew her forward and embraced her. Ciri heard his heart beating in his chest, as fast and powerful as before, and not slowing down despite his mercurial change of manner just then. His hands, she realised, were shaking.

Her tears of wrath quickly ran dry against his robes.

‘This is not how I want you to see me. This is not who I wish to be for you. Believe me. You do not know nor want to know what I want, but one day I will tell you. I promise,’ he kissed the crown of her head softly, his voice changing. ‘Sweet girl, you deserve so much. Allow me to show you!’

Before Ciri could realise what was happening, the elf had clasped her around the waist and lifted her up like a sheaf. The world spun. She could only squeak when, in a couple of long steps, he had moved them both across the room with ease. In his arms she weighed as little as a kitten – as when she had first discovered this, it still infuriated her. Ciri thought she heard the Sage give a short laugh and glared.

He sat her down on the edge of a large round table.

Then something pale flashed in the corner of her eye; a doily? Where he had produced it from, Ciri had no idea.

‘Are you laying the table?’ she asked when he set it down behind her.

The sorcerer’s eyes widened briefly. Quaint and disorientating – perhaps that alone had been the point? Slowly and deliberately, he loosened the silver hasp of his collar and began removing his belt, indicating for her to do the same. He was in no hurry and smiled easily at her. Ciri swallowed. Her fingers clenched and her heart beat faster. If only she had not smashed that bottle earlier...

Desiring to watch and let the distance grow between herself and the woman whose shoes she had decided to wear tonight, she began only once the elf stopped half-way through, having revealed inked skin underneath the enchanted fabric. Avoiding his searching eyes, she touched him curiously, thinking, of a sudden, about everything.

A finger tipped her chin.

‘Come then.’

She sought his mouth.

Questions fled.

Throughout, he kept threading his fingers softly through her hair, discarding the pins and letting the ashen locks fall over her collarbones. Until it became all undone. She stretched her arms out over her head – the shirt fell on the floor – and caught him admiring. The work of his hands? The past? The present?

...me?

Why is it me?

For a moment she thought she saw infinite tenderness in his pale eyes, though it may have also been the dark, the poor lighting, or her own wishful thinking. In the shards of broken mirrors, who knew what really was and what wasn’t?

To hell with it!

Ciri pressed her lips against the elf’s chin, against his face, against the sharp curve of his ear, listening for the sharp intake of breath and enjoying the twinge it sent between her legs. She drew him onto her, letting warm palms undo the rest. What if we never leave? We could simply stay – here, at the end of the world. Then she would rather act; wrongly or rightly, may that be revealed later. Lean, yet well-built, he ran hot against her front, bending over her and spreading her thighs. She remembered having forgotten herself and having let her eyes wander over the stretch of his shoulders in a different world, when he hadn’t been aware. Or if he had, he had not minded – Ciri had discovered quickly that very little embarrassed the elf, despite his enduring, snide reproval of her manners. He had not minded enough to call me on it or... Hypocrite! Yet even so, the prospect of being able to uncover something he would rather wish to hide excited her. Everything buzzed once more and the rain could not put out the fires. Offering her belly, her ribs, her hips and her chest, she arched, letting her head fall back, and gave herself over to the cool night air.

Distant lights of the alien city blurred in her eyes.

A moment’s fleeting blessings... an archipelago of moments.

A wet kiss slipped down the side of her neck, wrapping around the beat of her heart, sucking her flesh into a hungry, waiting mouth. She felt her breast being taken into the palm of his hand, weighed and squeezed carefully and, if she hadn’t shivered uncontrollably just then, she would have thought also somewhat clinically. Ciri jerked back, pushing at his hands and pursing her lips against the desire to sigh, to make noise. Goose bumps ran along her limbs and she ignored them exactly like she defied the touch that stroked her back from top to bottom, circling the lines of her spine, waist, and hips. A touch that slipped in-between the waistband, shifting her trousers aside, and pulled her toward him – until she could feel the elf’s desire and realised once more how deceptive her perception of him could be.

Her breath soughed as fingers dipped into the heat that had flooded between her legs.

‘That's it, my dear.’ He kissed her slowly. ‘Just so.’

She fought to retain hold over the faceless and the nameless – the familiar. With her eyes closed, she managed to imagine for a moment that the shameless touch stirring her pleasure had appeared at her own beckoning. That this night would not be that different from the many nights before when she had let go. When she had succumbed to the desire to touch and be touched, to see, but above all else, to be seen, and had thus brought herself joy. Ultimately always alone in the end.

A tiny vibration passed through the sensitive tissue, inviting her to lift her hips toward the fingers that infiltrated between her lips without hindrance. A touch of magic. Her eyes flew open, her hands seeking to ground herself against the convulsion that shot through her.

‘Too much?’

Avallac’h was watching her peacefully, almost as if in a trance, the corner of his mouth tugging slightly at meeting her gaze. Probing, teasing – charting her, with practice. She could hear herself lap against his long fingers. Scraping heat rose inside her chest, flooding her neck and cheeks, mingling with fleeting irritation.

‘A little.’

Another lighter wave followed. Every charged brush seemed to attune seamlessly with the intensity of the emotion that prevailed in her imagination at the moment and gradually, he eased her into a comfortable rhythm of slow torture that nurtured her arousal on a knife’s edge.

And if he takes hold of my soul – what for?

It felt good. That was all. Closing her eyes, Ciri tried to follow the sensations inside that she knew led her somewhere familiar and safe – to a kind of home within herself. It was a fragile construction, made of star silences and ceaseless movement, of leavings and returns. It was fleeting, and every time she arrived there she re-arranged it just in case, though she loved it always – she loved living, moving, and leaving behind shards of her intoxicated heart. Perhaps somewhere, sometime, they’d take root and call her back.

He encircled her by the waist, dipping her off-balance onto white lace and she felt a single finger penetrate her; followed, shortly after, by another. Caressing adoringly.

‘You deserve so much.’

Soft laughter escaped the woman’s lips and flew off, into the night.

Crevan relished the sensation of her mouth filling with saliva, her sparkling laughter withdrawing inside her when he instructed the tide to recede once more. Tiny eruptions sprinkled the steady rise and fall of the curve of her chest, raising little hair on lambent skin and making her fingers clench around his bicep. It did strange things to his mind, witnessing her be this keen and receptive. How quickly she filled up with desirous, nervous energy that made her burn like a copper sparkler! Magic, which the girl stubbornly claimed to have forsaken, rushed under her perspiring skin, sweet and electric against his tongue. The sorcery of the Alders.

The elf decided this was not nearly enough for him. Or her.

He leaned over her breasts, kissing and biting gently and savouring the flavour that was unmistakably hers, while attempting to quell the childish disappointment that bothered him eternally – like a disgusting little horsefly. She was... different than he remembered. How so? He knew her. Perhaps he simply needed to take a closer look? Patiently, one at a time, he nudged the rise of her nipples with his tongue, smiling and stopping his fingers deep within her when she gave a drawn out moan, full of need, trembling so hard he had to press down on her for restraint.

‘Avallac’h...’

Why do you give yourself to men? Why do you love them so much? Men, who do not love you, or care about your sacrifices. Men, who defile, destroy, and forget even their own.

‘Please, will you just... help –’

The elf didn’t listen to the end of her plea, instead hearing in his head the words uttered centuries ago. Doleful, harsh, cruel words that had ended in fire. He couldn’t convince her back then. Withdrawing and ridding her of breeches entirely, he pushed himself down, leaving a trail of kisses along the honed curve of her abdomen until his hands settled on her hips and he came above her aching centre. He heard his own heart beating then and, running his hands under her hips, squeezing and lifting her toward him, he gave the Swallow a small kiss. One. On the slick softness of her flowering lips.

Will you stay this time? Will you stay forever? Will you cross the great divide? Back to us. Back to me.

She gave a stifled lament, and became very still.

Reigning in his breathing and heart, he bestowed small kisses on the insides of her thighs, tasting her core a little at a time to remind and reassure that he would not neglect her. He would be so very good to her – he would help her find her way. For a moment, his eyes lingered on the rose tattoo that looked out of place somehow, until he recalled the blond-haired girl she did not want to talk about with him, though she often remembered her – sadly, with a complicated sense of longing.

Is your poison that different from mine?

Her eyes, he saw, had opened, but she wasn’t availing him of their beauty; blinking rapidly and gazing off into distance, at the far-off lights of the world of artificers around them. Their “new home” where might had draped itself in the appearance of magic. She liked it here, of course. So ugly and fake and... at liberty – to call itself whatever it wanted. So below them both, and yet –

A lot like this rose.

He was no common butcher, bandit, or cur, yet a part of Crevan wanted to rip down the veneer of this illusion of freedom she had been building in secret and crush it under his heels alongside the artificiality this world infected her with. Part of him, however, liked to watch hope kindling in her, even if it risked dragging her away from him one day.

Into the arms of the faceless and the nameless, the unknowing, who run their tongues with banal promises of happiness that they cannot bring and that will not stay.

Who comb your beautiful hair in admiration of their own nerve and prowess after having you – once, twice, as many times as you like; when they should be kissing your feet as you pass.

Her back arched, her hands snuck into his hair, and she pulled. Brushing aside the indignation – the jealousy! – in his heart, the elf pushed inside her with his tongue: his dancing swallow, precious and sweet, the first of spring, abandoned in his hands.

Dance for me!

Hungry for her taste, he kissed her intensely and attentively, completing what his fingers had begun. Warmth rolled off her in waves as her thighs strained against his hold, her body spasming, and her voice breaking into ever tenderer whimpers. Calmly, he let her drive herself against his face, smearing him as he suckled and kept swallowing her quivers, one after another, until she fell back against lace covers on chrome, pulsing, sweaty and so very soft.

Dance, Zireael – ensnared in Time’s cold cathedral. Like taking scissors to the skies, your flight slits through fear.

Climbing onto the table he lifted her legs onto his shoulders, not caring at all to let her go yet. Continuing to caress her warm and thirsty flesh with his tongue, Crevan laughed lightly when she complained, her voice small and dissolute and cracking under the weight of her own desire. Her young and ardent body intoxicated him, and he had never denied being greedy. He wanted more of her honesty and delightful agony, and, feeling the familiar press of desire in his groin, he wanted to feel what it would be like to get inside her tonight.

If it were to end in fire, let it all burn down at once – wasn’t this her philosophy?

Again she trembled, murmuring his name in the way he liked to hear it, straining and struggling until she had finally wrung herself out of his hands. Let that be that then. He licked his lips, breathing heavily, and felt, for the first time in a long time, utterly undone. Leaning over, he looked on her heaving shape: her long ashen-hair spread around her head like a halo. His beautiful, scarred nightmare. Would you like me to show you how you appear in my dreams? A moment, Zireael. I will, in a moment. Looking for her mouth, he shifted a lock behind her ear – her round ear, hidden in ash.

Do you see this, Lara, my love?

He gathered her in his arms. Glass crunched under his boots.

What madness! Do you see what exquisite punishment fate delivers on me? On your behalf.

‘Did you like it?’ he whispered, cradling her. ‘How do you feel? Do not be shy and tell me.’

But Zireael did not appear to share in his elation, her gaze lost somewhere he could not follow. She gave a thoughtful smile, resting her arms around his neck. Not embarrassed at all at tasting herself off his lips, it seemed.

‘What is it? Hm?’ he touched her nose. ‘Talk to me.’

Small, impassioned, and alive.

Alive!

If she had asked anything of him right now...

‘Zireael?’

‘It’s nothing. I just –’

Who knows what she would have told him in the end. When he linked their minds, he almost dropped her due to witnessing the contrast between what she was thinking and what she, in fact, did - the heat of her action, the coolness of her thought.

‘– would like a rest... yet you call me irresponsible for wishing for it. Always in conflict, always between two worlds – I would like to be at peace one day. To choose a nook, make a final choice – my own...’

Running her tongue along his index finger, she sucked him into her mouth, observing him with languid, evil eyes. She didn’t like it when he read her, but to his credit he kept his violations discreet, and thus rarely dismayed her.

‘Me en'ca minne, please...’

‘What?’

‘If you insist like this –’

‘Will you come?’ her eyes narrowed enchantingly. ‘On top of me?’

Crevan may have laughed, or groaned, but then she had placed her hand against his chest and he had obeyed, lost in the boreal greens that defied time and hatred and death; that coalesced above and beyond, in the archipelago of moments, and laughed at him from beyond the grave.

Falling back onto a couch the elf pulled the girl into his lap and hugged her until she squirmed under his hands. Her lips, shameless and burnt with love, moved against his with sweet timidity, devoid of the swagger she wore on herself like a shield at all times against further hurt and abandonment. The tenderness this instilled in his heart aroused him tremendously. He imagined clasping her wrists together and tying them with a gentle, secure knot, and also finding something for her calves... silk, scarves – anything that would not intimidate, that would set her at ease with him. It had to feel as soft as herself. But he would make the bindings firm to ensure she would not fly off, that she would struggle while in his power, feeling safe and adored, until white, hot pleasure had claimed her – repeatedly. Because once would have hardly sufficed; he never taught half-heartedly.

Until you will open your wounds, and make them a garden.

Listening carefully – to her heart, his own, to time and the ghosts – he pressed her close, and penetrated her.

‘A-ah! Slower-slower...’

‘Shh-shh-shh, it’s alright.’

‘It hurts a little.’

‘It’s alright,’ he rasped, slowing, eyes dark with desire. ‘It’ll be alright. I’m sorry. I could wait no longer.’

Yet his movement elicited another contorted sob from her and it gnawed on his soul like dry ice how she sought to subdue it. Touching her soaked inner lips with his fingers, the elf rubbed softly where he'd entered her. What exquisite pain ate at him below the kidneys – she was so narrow, so wet and hot. For him and only him... Tonight and always. Isn’t that right, my beautiful girl? Only for me. For a while, he thus tried to soothe her, caressing her with his hands and tongue, despite everything in him boiling and cracking with frightful hunger. His little Swallow demanded gentleness and deserved all the care and patience he could extend her. He had given his word.

What will we do to each other? What will we become?

At the touch of his magic the girl yelped and stared.

He felt very happy.

‘After you.’

Aided along by soothing touch, the witcheress sunk on him slowly while he watched, like an artist appreciating his creation. Her tangled hair stuck to her neck, her lips parting for a wail that faded into an indulgent sigh as she allowed him inside, little by little. Dripping on him, sticky, sweet. Her thighs hugging his sides. Her fingers spreading across his chest, touching down on his heartbeat. And though he couldn’t help looking inside her thoughts out of caution and habit, he needn’t have. Every anxiety, bliss, and sensation revealed itself at once, and the elf struggled at the sight of pliant flesh stretching around his length, swallowing him and his sanity whole.

Perhaps he should have let her go, but could he really?

In daytime, nothing would have been easier – it sufficed to press on her unrefined soft spots, of which she had many, and the illusion Crevan laboured under would have instantly shattered into so many smithereens. Now? Now he wished to drive her to exhaustion, until she whimpered brokenly and begged him, until she cooed in her sleep, sweaty, found and taken care of, and wrapped tightly around him. Not once considering leaving him.

He realised the enchantment wielding its power over him. It had begun working on him long before her birth, turning into a compulsion when he had met her, and into an addiction when he had first felt acute anger pierce him over the thought of someone else’s hands touching her. So long ago it now seemed, when she had been to Tir ná Lia. He had understood nothing at the time, yet he had understood one thing that applied equally now as it had long ago: he had never been free to choose. And neither had she.

The honeyed warmth of her womb enveloped him, dragging him in a spiralling descent that dizzied and revealed. No more discomfort or regret on her face; only self-abandonment and delicious distress. He wound his fingers in her hair and tore her neck back, disrupting the pace she had chosen – more comfortable for her than him – and, when she was able, she paid him back in kind with her teeth. An animal and an angel. His black diamond who tames the night itself and makes it dance to her tune. The thought ate at his spirit, his will, his heart, and he groaned into her mouth. Greedily, her hips rolled in tandem with his, her skin gleaming with effort, until the pleading, distressed sounds gushing from her lips began losing their coherence, becoming increasingly vulnerable as she continued to sit on him.

Good girl. Trust me. Take from me. What took you so long? What kept you?

Over and over, he squeezed into the ardent body. And when exhaustion began settling in the woman’s thighs, he seized her around the waist and slid on top of her, penetrating to the end. Feeling her arch her back he regretted only that he could not keep gazing freely at the desperation building inside haunting eyes. He would have liked to linger, to take her slowly. Have her crumple the sheets in exasperation and experience the torture Crevan had felt every time she had innocuously coiled around him during their travels. Yet, he did not dare to tempt fate again.

‘My sweet child. My joy, my darling... I waited for you. So long, I waited,’ he murmured in-between thrusts. ‘How I missed you. Terribly. How I searched – now you will stay. Won’t you, my love? You will stay, for Dana help me, how I do not want to let you go... never, Ciri... never again...’

Make your final choice. Want what I want. Stay...

When he changed the angle and she moaned around the fingers between her lips, he wondered if uncovering his secret felt worth it to her yet. You cannot run away from knowledge, Swallow, once you decide to pursue it. When she attempted to stretch out her spine, away from him – in opposite to how he guided them – the sorcerer sunk on her small form and drew her tightly against himself, denying her all reprieve. It always comes – at a price.

‘Give me your word, luned. Promise me, you will stay.'

‘You’ll have to put a spell on me. Make me.’

He ground against her, desperation and anger choking him once more at her thoughtlessness. It hurt her.

Fingers gripping hair – his, hers – hot breath against the temple – his – an arm squeezing around the ribcage, leaving red welts behind on pale skin – hers.

It hurt him. Her childish flippancy. She should not invite him, tempt him. She didn't know he would pull her very soul from her to ensure she stayed.

Faintly though, he then heard the girl speak.

‘Don't lose me. Don’t leave... please. Don’t leave me alone again.’

And Crevan promised. He would see her through to the ends of her earth, where only oblivion yawned. Like a yellowed aspen leaf, he felt her writhe in distress, trying to recede into herself and away from the promise shared with her, and he refused to let her leave.

‘Look at me. Open your eyes and look at me!’

‘More.’

He bowed before her wish. Bending his back, he leaned his forehead against hers and kissed away the salty wetness beside her beautiful eyes. No pain, little one. She’ll never be alone again. He’ll fill her. He’ll make her see what he sees. She’s something more. Feeling her buck fruitlessly against his hips as she convulsed around him, he revelled in the trembling contractions that pulled him deeper into the secret warmth of her – where innocence lay. He would not allow her to fly away. He would not have time repeat itself in vicious recurrence when hope had finally bared itself on the palm of his hand.

Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive...

Her eyes, when she opened them again, were pure witch fire.

His restraint broke.

Overcome by a need that terrified him, he loosened his hold around her to move faster and deeper into warm flesh, deaf and blind, uncaring of her quivering. What he told her then was at once mellifluous and obscene. Her skin stuck to his, the smell and feel of her sucking onto his every thought, every memory like a vicious leech and he felt as if imprinting onto the face of a bold human girl with beautiful emerald eyes, intersected by a scar on her cheek. No other, just her. Just her... his Swallow, the first of spring.

He crashed on top of her, pouring into her at the end of his lust.

At some indeterminate point in time, the elf stirred – to the curious absence of the patter of rain, as it were. Shifting, he felt his seed spill out of a cooled body and Ciri gave a quiet moan, tightening around him imperceptibly. He looked at her for a long time.

Then he extracted himself from night’s embrace, gathered the woman against him, and got up.

---//---

Avallac’h stirred the concoction one last time – with a straw in the shape of a giraffe, because the kitchen, to his great misfortune, had been wiped out by the fire, and thus this novelty lab had to do. He had remembered too late how asinine this half-baked alchemy was – after he had already prepared two thirds of his precious ingredients. He didn’t have to waste resources when there already were alternatives in this post-biological nightmare. It served as some amusement to him that humans in this world had taken to contraception out of sheer hedonism, yet it didn’t quite make up for the daze in which he operated this morning.

Incinerating the straw and wiping the surface of the round table, the elf pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. His gaze fell on a broken piece of simulacrum tech in the corner. Mechanical thought patterns were what stood between humans and paradise.

What he'd gotten up for had also been... mechanical.

They were on the run. The timing wasn’t right: the roots between them were still shallow, and her trust in him fragile, to be nurtured at all cost. The fabric of the fate he had foreseen was delicate, and this time he wanted to be absolutely sure.

And yet...

‘What if we never leave? We could simply stay – here, at the end of the world.’

There were many spheres, many times and places, moments through which fate branched, forked, and twisted.

Crevan covered the cup with a saucer, left it, and went to wake the Swallow, walking across the shards of a broken mirror barely a quarter of a year old. He wanted to take another look and think. Before what was meant next...

#the witcher #avallac'h #ciri #cirilla fiona elen riannon #cirillac'h #cirillach #ciri x avallac'h #the witcher fanfic #smut #psychoanalysis #aen elle #lara dorren #crevan espane aep caomhan macha

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commandtower-solring-go · 4 years

Text

I’m reading through the lore books, and I think its incredible just how insidious the darkness is. The way that, not only is crawls into people’s heads, but bends their desires to their will. In this sense, the darkness are nothing more than mass manipulators since everyone acts for them. Worse yet, it feeds into a lack of trust, as the will of the darkness isn’t tangible and instead masks as the true intentions of the agent in question. Like, there is a section from The Severance in The Forsaken Prince which really frames this well. This moment comes after Ulden is struck my a deep depression at the death of his sister

“He has come to the realization that it no longer matters if he doesn't know what to do or if he's doing the right thing. What matters is what he wants. If he wants to find Mara and save her, if he wants to do the right thing fiercely enough, if his intentions are good and powerful, he will find the way; he just has to believe in himself. No more paralyzing analysis, no more painful regrets—he has to go forward without doubt.

The book continues to talk about these moments joy that Uldren feels, but shows us how he’s actually been miserable. The contrast between flecks of hope amidst a dark depression is the exact moment of hope which warps him; which turns him over to the corruption, to Riven, to the Darkness.

This is reinforced by how his obsession changes. He begins with:

“The Awoken are a beautiful creation. He must keep them safe. Secrets are safe.”

Which is obsessive in its own uniquely Uldren way. But what it does is reflect his connection to his sister, and the kind of ruler that she was. He’s being how Uldren is, but in a way which aligns with reality, and makes sense. Mara wanted to keep her people safe above everything else, and he wanted to maintain that. However, it changes when his perspective on his sister warps too:

“Uldren knows the truth now, and he wants things to be right; he wants it so fiercely that he knows nothing he does in pursuit of this want can be wrong. ‘Witch-lies,’ he spits, venomous. ‘She is alive!’”

and

“‘We all exist through her design, Illyn. We all act only by her consent. I'm going to save her, because she needs me to save her. When she needs me to die, I will die. And when she has completed her great design for the Awoken, the Awoken will die, too. It is the reward we so richly deserve, for we owe everything to Mara. It would be… wrong for us to outlive our purpose’”

And all of this came from the darkness feeding him a depression, and offering hints of improvement which aligned with what it wanted of it. He turned against his own people, the people he swore to protect and who Mara would have wanted him to protect, because The Darkness wore him down so much. he only sore respite in the approval of Mara, and The Darkness used that to their advantage by manipulating him into believing that he wanted what they wanted.

I think that its so important that The Foresaken Prince begins with the story about him and Jolyon. Not only because it prefaces Uldren’s relationship with his sister, but also the kind of person he actually was. Who we see of Uldren in game is contextualised by how much he dislikes Guardians. And so see him go from weenie piss baby in D1, to weenie piss baby in D2, we assume its for the same reasons. But it isn’t and The Foresaken Prince establishes that. It shows how Uldren was, in fact, lovable and curious and complex and kind and how his obsession with finding his sister absolutely changed that.

And I say all this to reinforce my beliefs regarding Beyond Light. The Darkness works in mysterious ways, and its clear that it is beginning to worm its way into The Tower in subtle ways. I think we’re seeing it more and more. Of course there is Eris and the Drifter’s long term doubt regarding the efficacy of the Traveller. But I think we’re also seeing it manifest more in Zavala’s behaviour. The dude is tired. He’s trying to protect people, but he’s finding himself wrong or powerless at every turn. His entirely belief system, and the things he saw in the Tower are starting to become challenged at every turn. The ahamkara skull that Shaxx has that sings to him feels like another way that the Darkness is infiltrating things. And how that song has been in the intro for the game since D2 dropped. Eris’ bone also speaks to her. And look, there is a line in The Foresaken Prince which doesn’t make a lot of sense. In Free Part 1, he’s talking to Illyn, who remarks:

"You've gone mad," Illyn says, with repulsive empathy. "I almost did too, when I knew she'd gone. Why do you travel with that… thing? What have you come to do?"

“Why do you travel with that... thing?”

At first I thought she was referring to Fikrul. But she can’t be because the last books outlines how they parted ways. I also thought it may have been Ace, but it can’t be because Cayde is in a following chapter. I think, instead, Uldren had Ahamkara bones. I think that’s what he finds in The Black Garden, and its what turned him. And I say this because there is a certain lack of detail around what happened in the Black Garden after Uldren’s commitment to explore it. He isn’t sure if he found the heart. In fact, he doesn’t remember how he got out. His memories of Joylon also falter to the point where his presence seems to be blocked out by whatever is happening. So yeah, I think Uldren had bones and its what warped him and I see a lot of that same doubt/depression/temptation manifesting itself in The Tower/

I think what we are going to see really soon is another collapse. Which is also just the logical progression in the series. The Tower and the Vanguard will fall as we reach a climax for the franchise. And not just fall like Gaul, but legit, collapse just like the Iron Lords. There will be complete doubt in the Light and the Traveller a a whole.

I don’t think it’ll be for a while yet. Year 6 will be called Lightfall and that’s a little on the nose, so whatever. But yeah, the pieces line up. Of course it could always be nothing. However, much of what has motivated me to do this is replaying D1 and seeing how much of the story makes sense after understanding so much of D2′s story. Like, The Exo-Stranger could have 100% be talking with The Drifter, just saying.

Anyway, crack theory tl;dr. Uldren found bones. Foresaken foreshadows the fall of the Tower.

#destiny #destiny 2 #Beyond light #crack theory

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thespiralgrimoire · 4 years

Note

I. NEED. TO. LEARN. MORE. ABOUT. FERRO's. UNIVERSE. Like are you kidding me? Fuego and Leo pulled a coup and killed every non-vermillion??! that's, wow, that's rich!! What's the heck is wrong with /THAT/ timeline? What about Asta's story there? the elves? the devils? Fuego really killed everyone? including NOZEL? I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS!

OH MY GOD ANON YOU’VE MADE MY ENTIRE DAY

HONESTLY this AU is underdeveloped because of the way it came to fruition in the first place, so nothing would make me happier but to make it a collaborative fandom project but here’s everything I’ve got on it

Under a Read More because it might get lengthy

First, a disclaimer: This AU was born out of a dream. I had a dream about a plucky teenager participating in a Magic Knight’s exam that was designed more like The Hunger Games, and when I woke up, I said to myself, I gotta get in on that. So that’s why some of the details of this AU are a little fucky. Dream logic.

Now, the inciting event for this AU is twofold: First, Acier lives. SECOND, her sister, Kirsch and Mimosa’s mother, dies giving birth to Mimosa.

Sister’s death completely breaks down any bond between the Vermillions and the Silvas. It’s just. Messy. A lot of finger pointing, a lot of people not handling things well. Because while the Silvas were taught from a young age to bottle up their feelings, Vermillions tend to use their feelings as a weapon. And relations go south fast.

Acier has still been training Meoroleona. Nozel and Fuegoleon have still been rivals. But when this happens, everyone is forced to pick a side. Acier and Meoroleona don’t end their relationship on bad terms, but they do end it. Nozel and Fuegoleon’s relationship swiftly turns hostile. In hindsight, nobody is happy about the way things went down, but at this point there’s a No Man’s Land to civility that nobody is willing to cross, and nobody will cross it.

The Vermillions have the roughest time with this, but unlike the way the Silvas handled Noelle, nobody actually blames Mimosa for her mother’s death. They turn their grief into what they see as righteous fury and determine to turn this into a “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger” situation. This takes different forms over the years, but what basically happens is that everyone internalizes these feelings so deeply that while they all grow stronger, they also sort of grow apart.

Fuegoleon and Meoroleona have a blowout that completely shakes House Vermillion, and when Meoroleona leaves, she vows to never come back. No one believes that she would actually stay away, what with how close Fuego and Meoro were as kids, but when she leaves, she leaves. They see her once a year TOPS, and it’s never for a happy reason.

Fuegoleon, who has let his anger completely isolate him from the rest of his family, throws himself into being the Crimson Lion King, and while he’s incredibly successful, he loses parts of himself along the way. His ambitions override his caring nature and his inclination to share his strengths with others, and he becomes cold and determined, with a methodical outlook on relationships.

Leopold doesn’t become so callous-- he wasn’t old enough to remember his aunt’s death, he just had to grow up in the aftermath of it --but he follows in his brother’s footsteps, and while he’s not as mean about the way he does it, he’s not afraid to make some harsh decisions if it means being the best.

Kirsch and Mimosa decide that the best way to deal with this is to keep their heads down. Kirsch is fiercely protective of his little sister, because even though nobody is blaming Mimosa, he can’t shake the feeling that she may still have a target on her back. This makes Mimosa jumpy and clingy, never really developing the confidence to be her own person. While she can’t really nail down a particular reason for it, she’s scared of Fuegoleon and doesn’t trust Leopold. She can’t help but wonder how her cousins in House Silva are doing, but knows that all hell would break loose if she actually sought them out, so she feels constantly stuck between a rock and a hard place; the living embodiment of a schism between the royal houses.

The Silvas, on the other hand, go the other direction. Acier is still here, and she’s not letting her family rip itself apart like it did in canon. She remains the captain of the Silver Eagles and well-respected. Her kids have an even easier ride to the top with her still there to pave the way. She misses Meoroleona terribly. She knows that none of this was fair to any of them, and losing her sister AND her star pupil is a lot to work through. She keeps thinking that eventually she’ll get a letter or a surprise visit from the Undefeated Lioness, but she never does.

Nozel is genuinely heartbroken to have lost his rival and best friend, and, consequently, be left in the dust when he can’t keep up with Fuegoleon’s ambition, but he’s still got his mother and three little siblings, so they become his whole life. Without Fuegoleon’s rivalry to spur him on, he becomes good but not great, and is content to coast. He’s a mama’s boy, and as long as his mother is satisfied, he’d rather read and organize missions than go on them. On the bright side, he doesn’t deal with 90% of the stress he deals with in the canon universe. He’s actually pretty happy most of the time.

Nebra ends up being the classic middle sibling. Her magic is nothing special, but she’s a Silva, so she can go with the flow and still come out looking a little better than everyone else. While Nozel would rather spend time with books and Solid and Noelle would rather spend time with each other, she’s a drifter; she can hang with any of her siblings, or her mother, but she’s no one’s first pick. It doesn’t really bother her all that much unless she feels genuinely left out, and Mom never forgets about her, so it’s all good.

Solid and Noelle are thick as thieves, and the Silver Eagles’ superstars. They bring out the worst of each other and have a great time doing it. They’re a dynamic duo on the battle field and harbor unfathomable chaotic energy off of it. Getting sucked into their gravitational pull is dangerous, so Nebra, Nozel, and Acier tread lightly, lest they get dragged into, or end up the victim of their shenanigans. Of all combinations of Silva duos, they are by far the closest. Totally ride or die. That doesn’t mean that they don’t drive each other absolutely batshit crazy, and have some HUGE blowouts that waterlog half the castle, but that’s what siblings do. The nice thing about having each other is that neither of them end up in their siblings’ or mother’s shadows. The not nice thing about that is that they’re just. Little shits. Imagine Noelle acting the way she does in the beginning of the series, but being sincere about it. Imagine Solid acting the way he does, except he’s never checking to see if he’s got his siblings’ approval. Now imagine them patting each other on the back for acting like that. Yikes.

Then Ferro comes along. He’s the result of Solid knocking up his unnamed noble girlfriend when he’s 16-17. Acier is PISSED. All the other Silvas are scandalized. Solid is in big trouble. Acier suspends him from the Silver Eagles while she does damage control. What she eventually ends up doing is paying the girl off, and when the baby is born, she takes him into House Silva to raise him in secret. Nobody outside House Silva ever knows about him. He is House Silva’s best kept secret. This is an important detail.

The coup comes together. Fuegoleon has been working on this plan for a long time. Years. Leopold is on board, because Leopold would follow him off a cliff. But he’s also scared shitless. This is a much bigger deal than stepping on a few comrades to rise through the ranks. He slips a little. Kirsch catches wind of the plan. He gets in Leo’s and Fuego’s ear to remind them, hey, we’re Vermillions, too. So we’re cool, right?

Yeah, they’re cool. All they have to do is help their cousins kill everyone whose last name isn’t Vermillion. Kirsch thinks this is a pretty good deal to save him and his sister. Mimosa will later have her doubts, but we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.

Meoroleona was invited, but never shows up.

We’re about at the beginning of the show when the coup begins. I don’t have a good reason that it goes off as smoothly as it does. But everyone in Houses Kira and Silva dies, except Acier and Ferro. Ferro, now two, manages to watch his entire family get bodied without getting a scratch on him, because no one anticipated him being there. Acier is only able to defend herself and him before sneaking away.

Acier and Ferro flee to the Forbidden Realm, to a little town in bumfuck nowhere, to hide. They are never discovered by the Vermillions.

Fuegoleon becomes the Clover King. As far as they can tell, the coup is 100% successful. But the thing about fire is that it’s super useful for making people really dead, but when people are dying in heaps and being burned to ash it’s kind of hard to count how many bodies you’ve got. They don’t realize that they’re one short. With no one to stand in their way, Fuegoleon crowns himself Clover King. He disbands the Silver Eagles, and within the next few years, will crown himself Wizard King. It actually becomes pretty easy after Julius nerfs himself, whoops.

Unfortunately, Fuegoleon is starting to unravel. He gained a LOT of enemies doing all this heinous shit, and he is not a beloved king. Leopold is now the head of the Crimson Lion Kings, and he’s reporting back a lot of hostility among the captains. Not that they didn’t expect that, but there’s no way to practice sleeping with one eye open. That’s not to mention that the people are scared and confused, and that doesn’t make for a peaceful kingdom.

Over the course of years, he puts greater and greater restrictions on magic. It starts as permits to use spells in public places and soon grows into a near-total ban on grimoires for anyone outside the magic knights. With absolute power, he can kick people out of the magic knights AND take their grimoires. These rules both ease and exacerbate his growing paranoia. Everyone is pissed, but effectively stripped of their power, there isn’t much they can do about it.

Meanwhile, Acier is raising her grandson as a peasant, but never forgets that they’re royals. She teaches Ferro all of their family history, even though they have to keep it a secret. That gets kind of tricky since Ferro has royal-level magic in the middle of a town of peasants, but, you know, who’s gonna call him on it?

When Ferro is ten, he get recruited by a mysterious hooded figure to train his magic in secret. 90% of his magic training happens in a location he is taken to by a spatial mage. He, along with about a dozen other kids, are trained by a small band of mages who claim to be the resistance. Their goal is simple: Train the next generation of mages to take out the king and restore order to the kingdom. Ferro thinks this is pretty cool, and the honor isn’t lost on him, but he’s mostly glad that he can learn to control his magic in a way that makes his grandmother proud.

By the time Ferro is 15, grimoire ceremonies have been almost completely outlawed, so it’s a big deal when the resistance throws their trainees a grimoire ceremony. Once they’ve received their grimoires, they begin the next leg of their journey: become magic knights.

The Magic Knights Entrance Exam has changed a LOT in the last 15 years. This exam is deadly. In many instances, the point is to kill or be killed. Magic knights are being trained as a military force first and foremost, and their most important feature must be that they take orders unblinkingly. This does not fly with Ferro. While he’s extremely qualified for the position in every other way, he’s too nice to let people die, let alone kill them. He fails the exam. However, some of the other kids he’s trained with make it in.

So he needs a new plan. Spurned on by his grandmother and his teachers through the resistance, he decides to travel the Clover Kingdom. In the midst of his travels, Acier dies. At 20 years old, he is now the last Silva.

This fact makes Ferro pretty fatalistic, and at this point he decides the only rational thing to do is to force an audience with King Fuegoleon. Surely this won’t end in disaster. Definitely won’t be his untimely end by flames.

So there are a lot of holes in this AU, because it sprang up around this one character I had a wild dream about. A few mores notes:

Noelle joined the Silver Eagles, if that wasn’t obvious

The Vermillion coup takes place 1-2 years after the start of the show, and I have no explanation for how those events could fit into this timeline. They would definitely look a LOT different, that’s for sure

My notes on this end where they do because at the point where Ferro breaks into the royal castle to force this audience with the king, he actually gets thrown out of this universe and into another. So I guess for all intents and purposes, the Silva line ends for good in this universe

I know exactly where Meoroleona is and what she’s doing

I don’t know where exactly Kirsch and Mimosa are and what they’re doing when they disappear

So that’s all I’ve got! This isn’t a super duper happy AU, and definitely not flattering for everyone, but I was forced to flesh it out because I was told, very emphatically, “Evil Vermillions sexy.” I don’t disagree.

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secret-engima · 5 years

Text

Nox-verse Drabble: the Reporter

(couldn’t resist making this, even though it’s ahead of where my Nox collection is timeline-wise. I know some people find Dino incredibly annoying, but I got attached to him in the game, so I thought- why not?)

....

Dino waited in the room royal security had picked out for the interview and didn’t fidget. Really. He didn’t constantly readjust his tie, check his watch’s wristband, or glance at his notepad of pre-chosen questions just to make sure he had memorized them.

Okay maybe he was fidgeting. But really, he didn’t think he could be blamed. The infamously private, public-eye avoiding Second Prince of Lucis had finally agreed to an exclusive interview for the first time since his existence had been revealed in possibly the world’s second most hectic press conference —the most hectic going to the Chancellor of Niflheim’s sudden resignation and vocal support of Emperor Aldercapt’s son Quintus—. News conglomerates all over the world had been clamoring to get an interview —any interview, let alone an exclusive— with the reticent prince since learning of his existence and he’d finally agreed to one interview. With Meteor Publishing. But only on certain conditions.

One of which being that Dino had to be the reporter. Not any of their Insomnia stationed reporters, not any of their world-traveling rising stars that had successfully and winsomely interviewed a hundred public icons without ruffling so much as a single feather. Not any of the people who actually lived and breathed this job rather than used it as simple income while he tinkered with naturally imbued stones to make jewelry for passing Hunters or tourists who liked a bit of local bling. No. According to his boss —his boss who had personally debriefed him—, Prince Nox had requested him specifically. Dino Ghiranze. The twenty four year old rookie gossip reporter with a jewelry hobby.

Once Dino had gotten over the minor heart attack of that revelation, he had frantically prepared for his interview with the Second Prince of the kingdom —and tried not to lose his mind from the thought of “why me?” on endless loop in his head—.

His head snapped up as the door finally opened and Prince Nox slipped in with a single guard on his heels —the prince’s Galahdian Shield, Axis Arra-Amicitia, who had also caused a massive stir when his existence came out—. Dino pasted on his most winning smile as he greeted the eighteen year old, who dipped his head in response and actually deigned to shake his hand. Underneath the part of him running through all the rote pleasantries —it’s an honor to meet you, thank you for agreeing to this interview—, the part of Dino that was a natural at hounding out hidden details was observing the prince.

And getting increasingly alarmed.

Of course he knew that the prince had lived outside royal protection until he was about fourteen or fifteen, that a lot of things could have happened in that time before His Majesty’s agents had tracked him down and brought him to the Citadel and safety but… Dino didn’t think he was looking at a kid with an occasionally rough childhood out in the backwoods of Lucis. He’d seen a lot of people pass through Galdin Quay, learned to pick out a lot of tells that put people into neat, gossip-riddled boxes and Dino wasn’t seeing the tells of a backwoods kid shoved into royalty.

Dino was looking at a soldier. No. Not even that. Dino was looking at a survivor.

Utterly silent footsteps placed as languidly and carefully as a Gralean ballet dancer, long sleeves in the middle of summer that couldn’t quite hide the tips of scars showing on the backs of his hands and peaking out from under the banged up emerald bracelet on one wrist. Blue eyes had taken in everything about the room even before fully setting foot in it —everything about Dino in a way that made him feel oddly small—, checking for threats, exits, and possible weapons with a speed that meant it was instinctive. The handshake was brisk and loose, ready to jolt away at a moment’s notice, and Dino was more than a little certain that the prince’s Shield was plotting out all the most brutally efficient but painful ways to kill him if Dino proved a threat.

Well. That was interesting to know. Even more interesting if all the rumors about the former Chancellor being the prince’s uncle were true. But that wasn’t what Dino was here to ask about, and Dino was in no mood to get thrown out —or murdered— for deviating from the approved questions.

The interview was relatively short but interesting. Once he was settled in the chair —arms loose and relaxed, ready to push himself out of the chair or pull out a weapon at any time—, Prince Nox proved to be friendly in a quiet, reserved sort of way. He even chuckled at a few of Dino’s jokes and ways he phrased the questions. The teenager was not at all like Dino had expected, all soft words and a muted, easy sort of confidence that reminded Dino of a predator at rest rather than skittish and overwhelmed —this wasn’t a teenager afraid of being fussed over and unaccustomed to royalty, this was a survivor who avoided the spotlight because it was easier to stay alive and free that way, but under controlled circumstances wasn’t afraid to talk to people like they were equals—.

Dino noted the seeming fidgeting habit the prince had of running his forefinger along the skin underneath his battered emerald bracelet —Dino had to resist asking if he’d be interested in a new piece, because while it looked nicely made it had obviously been through a lot of abuse over the years— but didn’t comment. It wasn’t on the approved list and hey, everybody had their habits and calming rituals.

After the interview had concluded, the little hand recorder had been turned off, and they were both standing up to leave, Dino couldn’t resist voicing the one question that had been bothering him for weeks now, “Your Highness,” he started hesitantly. Paused. Adjusted his cufflinks before blurting, “Can I ask ya one more question? Off the record?”

Prince Nox tilted his head, something almost amused in his gaze, like he already knew what Dino was going to say before he said it —Lucis Caelums weren’t mind readers were they?—, “Go ahead.”

“Why did ya request me? My boss said I was one of your conditions to the interview. I’m flattered, obviously, but … I’m just a rookie who likes to write gossip pieces. Why pick me to run the interview?”

For the first time in his presence, Prince Nox’s lips curled upward into a smile, “Easy. You scratched my back, so now I’ve scratched yours.”

What.

Sensing the next question Dino was barely holding back —he’d only had permission to ask one after all—, Prince Nox raised one arm and rolled back the sleeve a little, just enough for Dino to finally get a good look at the battered emerald bracelet on the teenager’s wrist. It wasn’t the most complicated piece, elegant but sturdy, like it was designed with Hunters and travelers in mind who were more interested in the natural passive magic boosts certain raw gems gave rather than the bling of them. The thick bronze wires were scratched and dented, and two of the emeralds were chipped, but it was still holding together. More than that, the design was familiar.

Too familiar.

No. Way.

Dino looked up from the bracelet, aware but not caring that he was gaping. Prince Nox was definitely grinning, a small, foxy sort of thing that radiated smug satisfaction, “I don’t know when you’re planning to go full time on the jeweler thing, or if you’re planning that at all, so I can’t exactly give a public endorsement. But I figured people would take you more seriously in your current job if you were known as the reporter who successfully landed an exclusive interview with the enigmatic second prince.”

Dino felt like he needed to sit down. Maybe with a tall glass of water —or wine, wine would be good—. Instead he sputtered, “That’s-! That’s really one of my-?”

Prince Nox flicked his sleeve back down with a nod, that smug smile still tugging on his lips, “I got it on a … whim while traveling through the Quay. Back before … all this. It’s been through a lot of nasty situations with me. Helped me pull through a lot of nasty situations too. I figured a reputation boost was the least I could do.” He tilted his head as if considering something, then casually added, “Of course, if you ever do decide to try being a jeweler full-time -which you could, you do good work-, give me a ring, yeah? I’ll give you an endorsement, maybe even a loan if you really need it. Come to your grand opening wherever you choose to open shop … buy a new piece to go with this one.”

Dino could feel his mind shutting down and going static. Someone took him by the elbow and gently led him away, and Prince Nox was definitely taking amusement in his shock as he waved the hand that wore the bracelet —his bracelet, he sold those personally, when had he met and sold one of his pieces to Prince Nox Lucis Caelum—, but the prince’s tone was genuine as he called after Dino, “Give it some thought!”

The next thing Dino knew, he was back in his hotel room, staring at the wall and clutching a glass of cheap wine, still trying to process … everything. Then, between one blink and the next, Dino started laughing just a bit hysterically. All those years of dreaming and hoping and not really thinking he could —since he was eighteen, Astrals he’d been Prince Nox’s age when he started dreaming of making his family hobby a job— and-. And a royal endorsement offer just landed in his lap.

Because somewhere, sometime, in among who knew how many Hunters and drifters and lost souls he’d talked to in Galdin Quay, one of them had been Prince Nox Lucis Caelum. He’d sold one of his emerald pieces —how could he not remember that, good emeralds were so hard to get when you weren’t a big name jeweler— to the unknown eldest son of the king and had done a good enough job on the piece to help said prince out of who knew what scrapes and deadly situations over the years —Dino could guess, he hunted gossip and rumors for a reason, heard the stories of countless refugees that acted just like the prince—. Done a good enough job that the teenager had remembered him and decided to pay back a favor Dino hadn’t even known he’d been owed —hadn’t been owed, because once he sold a piece that was it, he had his money and they had their product, if it helped them out then that was just good craftsmanship—.

Forgetting all about the article that had started all this —the article that was due in two days—, Dino scrambled for his cellphone. Wait until he called Coctura about this. She would lose her mind.

And maybe help him pick out a nice spot on the beach to open that jewelry shop he’d always wanted, because there was no way that —once he was certain it was actually real and not some dream or joke— he wasn’t taking this chance by the horns and running with it.

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