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rockitmans · 1 year

Note

In case you're still taking numbers: 23. If this is too late, feel free to ignore!

You're not too late! I'm gonna try and do as many of these as I can

23. in relief

from the kiss list / see the rest

Notes: don't be deceived by how this starts it's actually super fluffy I promise 😅

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Blaine is running late. Usually this wouldn't bother Kurt. He doesn't make it his business to keep close tabs on his roommate, generally speaking. But it does bother him today because:

a) Blaine Anderson, neurotic sweetheart that he is, is almost never late. He plans routes with the sole goal of shaving off thirty seconds of travel time. He has an actual pocket watch for God's sake. And,

b) Kurt has lived in New York for five years now and he has never experienced snow in the city like this.

It's like a celestial being has dumped icing sugar directly over New York. It went from normal grey and slightly miserable looking to the sparkling white of a particularly fantastical Christmas card so fast, that Kurt feels like it happened between breaths. And, to coin a phrase, it's showing no signs of stopping.

The blizzard, because that's all it can be, is billowing across the city in huge icy gusts. The snow continues to fall. Kurt is sure that it's already up to his knee height just from a cursory glance out the window. And Blaine is out there. In that.

Kurt pulls out his phone and quickly taps out a message.

Kurt: Where are you?

His finger hovers over the send. Maybe he's jumping the gun a little. He's not out here trying to be an alarmist for no reason. He adds a smiley face to make it seem more bright and breezy and sends it off.

He marches agitatedly back to the window seat and peers out again, staring at the snow like he can make it stop through sheer willpower. He wants Blaine to be here. With him. Drinking hot cocoa and curled up next to him, watching old movies. Not fighting a storm, outside and alone.

Kurt's phone buzzes and he snatches it up. But it's not Blaine. It's an emergency alert for weather. No fucking kidding. But, worse than that, it's quickly followed by a news flash telling him the trains are now closed and no longer running.

The spool of worry that was just starting to unravel in Kurt's belly, drops and spills, unfurling uncontrollably until he's almost sick with it. He's aware he's barely given Blaine five minutes to answer the text but he starts a call to him anyway. It goes straight to voicemail. He swallows painfully.

He knows he's jumping straight to panic with no real evidence that anything is wrong. But he's received too many devastating phone calls in the last few years alone, to ever believe that things Like That could never happen to People Like Him. That bad things couldn't happen to the people he loves.

Blaine is more than a roommate. They've been together since the dorms at NYU. He's Kurt's best friend, his study buddy, his partner in crime. Kurt needs to know he's ok.

Kurt's phone buzzes again and he scrambles for it, but this time it's his dad.

Dad: Saw the weather alert kiddo. Hope you and Blaine are safe at home and you're stocked up.

Kurt: I'm home. But Blaine isn't back from work yet.

Kurt: I'm worried about him.

Kurt types out the message with the vain hope of a child whose parent is going to magically fix everything. Even though he's way too old for all that.

Dad: Well he's probably just been delayed by the storm. He'll be back any minute. Let's give him ten before we panic. You can always call him.

Kurt doesn't want to admit he's already called and that he doesn't feel particularly soothed by Burt's practicality. So he just sends back a thumbs up.

He calls Blaine again. It goes straight to voicemail. Kurt takes a steadying breath. He's letting the fear fuel him. Maybe all that's happening is that he keeps calling Blaine at the exact same time Blaine is trying to call him. That roommate psychic link they have that means they know exactly what take out food the other person needs in times of crisis is just in full effect. He resolves to wait for a few minutes to see if Blaine will get through.

It's painful. He takes to pacing, staring at the blank screen of his phone. The screen only reflects back his own pale face, mirroring his own stress. He unlocks it again, feeling squashed by his inability to do anything practical. He goes back to his message to Blaine to check the read receipts. It was never even received.

He moves toward the door and grabs his coat before he even knows what he's doing. Some instinctual part of him was really about to march out into a snow storm to… what? Where would he even begin looking for one tiny human in a city of millions. Blaine's probably not even out there. If he has any sense, he's hunkered down with a friend or colleague that lives nearer to his work.

Sensible thinking doesn't curb the growing terror. Kurt just knows that life without Blaine in it, is not a life that he really wants to contemplate, ever, and that's far too big a thought to try and explore right now. Not with his heart trying to claw its way out of his throat.

He slowly puts his coat back on the hook.

And that's exactly when the door opens and Blaine is walking through it, snow in his hair. "Holy hell, it's freezing out there," he says and he sounds so… normal. Cheerful even.

Kurt has to accept that all things considered Blaine is only twenty five minutes late home at most. But seeing him here so suddenly, whole and smiling, makes embarrassing tears spring to his eyes.

Blaine notices that he's standing right by the door and lifts an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Where were you?" Kurt gasps before he can even attempt to act cool.

Blaine looks confused but then he seems to clock Kurt's expression and he softens instantly. "Were you worried? I'm so sorry. They closed the trains so I had to get off at a stop early and walk the rest of the way. Disaster."

"I called you…"

"Ah." Blaine ducks his head and pulls his phone from his pocket. It's spidered with vicious cracks. "Bad day to smash my phone."

Kurt looks from the broken phone to Blaine's face. He's pink from cold and his curls are loose and damp from the melting snow. He's beautiful. He's perfect and alive and he's here and God is he in trouble.

"You idiot," Kurt snaps. "You absolute idiot."

He doesn't even think. Fear and relief mingle into blind action. He grabs these lapels of Blaine's coat and hauls him forward. Straight into a crushing kiss. Blaine drops his phone again.

Kurt feels Blaine's ripple of surprise all the way down his body but then he relaxes and, after a moment, his lips respond under Kurt's. Kurt softens all at once, his mouth gentling and his hands feeling across Blaine's shoulders and back and down his arms, subconsciously checking that he's truly okay.

Blaine moves with him, turning his nose to tuck against Kurt's cheek and it's freezing but Kurt doesn't care. His arms have settled comfortably over Blaine's shoulders and he presses their chests flush, greedy to feel Blaine's responding heartbeat thumping against his.

He kisses Blaine until Blaine's mouth and cheeks are warm again. He kisses Blaine until Blaine's hands have moved to cup Kurt's jaw and neck and the small noise he makes shows it's obvious that he's not just being kind, and humouring Kurt's moment of madness, he's as lost in it as Kurt is. He kisses Blaine because he can't ever imagine stopping. And Kurt thinks oh.

It's Blaine that eventually breaks it, moving back only enough to rest their foreheads together. "Please tell me that wasn't just a 'thank God you're not dead' kiss," he breathes into the space between them. He sounds like he's trying to make a joke but the vulnerability and hopefulness are tangible.

"Not just that," Kurt assures. He feels dizzy and warm. And some things are starting to make a lot of sense. "I um… might be having an epiphany."

Blaine huffs a small laugh, intimate in its closeness. "Took you long enough."

Kurt wants to ask about that but there's too many thoughts crowding for space. "Let me make you a hot drink," Kurt says instead, pressing another soft kiss to Blaine's mouth to show it's not a rejection. Blaine needs to warm up and Kurt needs to de-stress and now is not the moment for life changing conversations. There will be time for all that.

~~~

Later, once Blaine is showered and dressed in dry clothes and Kurt has coaxed him into drinking two cocoas and they're wrapped around each other while they watch Wizard of Oz, Burt texts again.

Dad: I didn't hear anything else so assumed Blaine was safe. But just wanted to double make sure my third son was home.

Kurt smiles. Burt has always adored Blaine since the moment they became roommates in the dorms. Kurt's eyes slide to Blaine. He's resting in the vee of Kurt's spread legs, his back to Kurt's chest, his loose curls tickling Kurt's chin.

Kurt ducks down slightly to press a kiss to Blaine's clothed shoulder and Blaine turns into him, brushing his nose against Kurt's cheek. It feels so natural, being with Blaine like this. Kurt doesn't one hundred percent know what this means for them yet but he does know one thing. He opens the text from his dad back up.

Kurt: Yes. Blaine is home.

#klaine #klaine fic #klaine fanfiction #glee #my fic #the kiss fics #asks #little-escapist

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shares-a-vest · 1 year

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Platonic Stobin Month, Day 9: Outfit Swap

Prompt List

Even before Robin became friends with Steve Harrington, she knew the dude was vain. Hell, one of his nicknames throughout high school was The Hair. She'd watch him from afar fix that hair all the time, only surfacing from sleeping at the back of Mrs Clicks' class to readjust his locks and carry out a wordless flirt session with Tammy Thompson.

After becoming friends with Steve, Robin quickly learned he is what she can only describe as a fashionista. The dude had coordinated shoes for that stupid sailor's outfit, remember? So of course he has a closet filled floor to ceiling with clothes and complementary accessories.

But that wardrobe is, is not-so-tidy. Like, at all. In fact, most of the time it is bursting at the seams because Steve enjoys buying clothes and dares not repeat whole ensembles.

Plus he's the worst, a complete menace when it comes to borrowing (and never returning) clothes. What's worse is he never remembers borrowing things in the first place, insisting all the random, sometimes ill-fitting and definitely not-Steve clothes are in fact his.

Case in point: Robin is standing at his unorganised built-in closet, having trekked from the bus stop just outside Loch Nora with her duffle bag on a mission to get all her stuff back he's borrowed since the Summer of 1985. And yeah sure, Robin borrowed her fair share of jackets, jeans and general dude-attire from Steve. But she always gave it back, hand-delivered on time and freshly cleaned.

Her breaking point was an oversized (fitted on Steve) black jacket with patches she'd sewn all over, customised to her liking. A jacket that was hers in every way. A jacket perfect to take to Indy on an upcoming trip with Nancy.

Steve had asked to borrow it months ago in some feeble attempt to impress a certain equally rabies-infected brain-dead idiot named Eddie Munson.

Speaking of the (not according to his acquittal via a secret government) devil, she pulls a Corroded Coffin cut-off right out of Steve's top drawer. She spins around to face her best friend with a quizzical eye, despite holding a solid piece of literal boyfriend material in her boney hands.

"That's mine," Steve says, startled and leaning forward to snatch it up with a swift swoop of his hand.

"Ah yes, because you're always wearing Corroded Coffin shirts," she shoots back, rolling her eyes. "Totally goes with your whole preppie-jock vibe."

"I sleep in it," Steve retorts, hugging it to his chest as he resumes sitting criss-cross applesauce and looking if it the excuse hasn't dug him in deeper.

Robin resumes her search and locates a baby pink sweater that could only belong to one pretty girl named Nancy. She tosses it at her duffle bag, smirking at the possibility of impressing her girlfriend with a long-lost item of clothing.

"Soooo?" she sings a few minutes later as she spots the thinnest pair of jeans she's ever seen.

"Yes, Rob?" Steve sings back, the sarcastic eye roll evident in his voice.

She spins again to find Steve laying back on his hideous bedspread. She dramatically unfurls the denim with a flick, gaining his attention.

"Those are mine," Steve splutters, reaching haphazardly for the jeans but misses, almost toppling over the edge of the bed.

"Really?" she barks, narrowing her eyes. "Now I have to sort through Munson's stinky clothes too?"

Steve makes a face, somewhere between a pout and his signature bitch look he gives when the Dork Squad is nagging.

"Okay so," he huffs, leaning back on his pillows. "Maybe Eds has some clothes here. So what? We hang out all the time!"

He gestures in the air as he talks, not doing himself any favours in order to sound convincing.

"Hmm, sounds like you're dating."

"But-"

"Nope," she cuts him off, popping the 'p'. "I'm not arguing with you about this again, Steve. I'm already on the verge of wanting to claw you into submission about this damn jacket."

"I don't have it!" he whines.

"Yes, you do!" she argues back, admittedly sounding equally whingey.

God, Robin doesn't even get like this with her own brother. She sighs, fluttering her eyes shut as she makes what she assumes is a calming zen pose before returning to the labyrinthine closet.

"I'm going to be so pissed if this jacket is crushed up in here or folded in half over a hanger. I swear to God, Steve!"

She spots a maroon sweater, eyes widening even though now is probably not a great time to request borrowing an article of clothing. Although it looks too small for Steve anyway... So maybe... Wait.

She whips around.

"Hey, I thought we cleared out all your old clothes when we were making up donation boxes after Vecna tore Hawkins a new one?"

"Please don't say his name," Steve begs, pinching his nose until he catches a glimpse of the clothing in her hand and his eyes widen. "Shit."

"What?" she frowns, holding the sweater up to her body.

Yep. It'll fit.

"Yeah, sure," Steve says, waving his hand, not at all sounding casual as he puffs out a nonchalant breath. "Have it."

"Whose is it?" she queries, stepping closer and jumping square on the bed to pin Steve down and loom over him.

The move knocks a breath out of him and Steve just lays there, all wide-eyed with worry as he gawks at the deep red knitted sweater. Robin tosses it to the side and stares him down, all the while Steve does nothing but nervously chew at his bottom lip. So she tickles him, sending Steve into a fit of whining giggles.

"Noooooo," he chokes.

"Tell me whose sweater this is, Steve?" she demands through laughs, nodding in the direction of the item in question.

"No! Please."

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Yes, dingus! Spill!"

"It's Tommy's, okay!" he admits, rolling on the spot and successfully flipping Robin off him, leaving her scrambling for the sweater.

He throws a hand over his face as he flops back on the mattress.

"Details!" she insists, making grabby hands like it's the only thing that could possibly satiate her at this moment.

Steve screws his eyes shut. He runs panicked hands through his hair as he focuses his breathing. After a moment he finally opens his mouth and what comes out is pure, unadulterated word vomit.

"One night after a party, Tommy stayed over and we were high and stuff and then we kissed," he pauses to suck in another breath. "Then we were totally making out and I took my shirt off then he took this stupid sweater off. But we were way too high turns out and stopped. We forgot about it and he left the sweater here, rushing off the following morning. Then I was with Nance and all the Upside Down shit happened and Tommy and I weren't friends anymore. And..."

He trails off into a huff and yanks the maroon sweater from Robin’s hands.

"Yeah," she starts through gritted teeth, creeping off the bed. "If it’s Hagan’s, I do not want it. Also, lesson learned. I don't want to hear about your various escapades in this bed. Seriously, I sleep here too, y'know?"

She makes her way back to the closet as Steve curls in on himself, groaning. And from an ever-so-slightly distant view, Robin spots her jacket, hanging thoughtfully amongst Steve’s Members Only jacket and... a costume that looks like it belongs at a Renaissance Fair.

"What the hell is that!" she screeches.

#steve harrington #robin buckley #platonic stobin #platonic with a capital p #platonic soulmates #stobinmonth #stobin month #platonic stobin ficlet #steve and tommy are just bros who make out let's goooooo #stobin 🍨#👕🧥

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tsaiko · 1 year

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Another scene

For all that my writing in my last post drove me nuts, I really like this one.

***

She kept to the deer trail, following the faint depression as it wound through the forest. The forest was ancient, draped in moss and leaf litter and dappled sunlight. Each tree was easily so large that three of the village men could hold hands and still not encircle its trunk. A jut of rock pushed up from the forest floor, covered in lichens in a riot of colors. Ferns unfurled bright green fronds to catch the dim light. Somewhere a bird called. In the distance, another answered.

The village elders had said that the forest was uninhabitable. No one lived there. No one could live there. It had always been that way. Dark. Forbidding. Sacred.

It did not take Ilana long to figure out that they were wrong.

The evidence was everywhere. It was in the mossy stone fence, half fallen but still there, that marked the border of someone's land. She saw it in the remains of a wooden lean-to listing to one side and supported by the trunk of a near-by tree. There was the pile a stones at the edge of a patch of much younger trees where someone had tried to clear a small field. Or a half-crumbled brick chimney that marked where long gone house had once stood.

The remaining trapping of civilization did little to soothe Ilana's fears. Instead they made her clutch her shawl around her shoulders, and move more quickly.

Look. the mushrooms on a rotting log whispered. Stray and you will become part of the woods.

Others have been here before. chittered a squirrel in the canopy above.

See what remains? See what they left behind? said insects that rustled in the leaves.

This could be you, if you are not careful. whispered the wind through the trees. The barest trace of existence, and nothing more.

Walk softly. Walk softly. a bullfrog called out from a nearby pool.

Ilana continued on.

#my writing #fragments #original

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 3 years

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Drown In My Desire

also on ao3

written for the Monster March prompt list prompt: siren pls see ao3 for the full list of tags, this is... something edit: some formatting got fucked up and I had to make some adjustments, sorry if there are any wonky bits now 😅

Geralt is barely off the boat back from Skellige when he hears about the contract. There's a lone Siren causing trouble along one of the trading routes; drawing the ships closer until they wreck on the jagged rocks of the bay. The fishermen complain loudly about it as he disembarks and as soon as his feet hit dry land, Geralt makes straight for them. It's basic Siren behaviour, likely to be an easy job and then back on his way.

The men are offloading barrels and Geralt keeps out of the way as he approaches the one giving orders.

"Heard you've got a Siren problem," he says and the man straightens up to look him over.

"Aye, we do. You're a Witcher, right? You'll take care of it for us?"

"What are you offering?"

"Godsdamn anything at this point. Things wrecked six shops, we've lost 11 good men, countless hours of labour... Name your price, Witcher, we'll pay it."

"Five hundred," Geralt suggests.

"Fine by me. Bring back proof of the kill and you'll get your coin."

"Agreed." Normally, Geralt would request half in advance, but he's dealt with Novigradian merchants before and they're reputable and trustworthy most of the time. Plus, this is a simple contract, probably not even worth the 500 he asked for.

He stays to get the rest of the details from the merchant, then heads into town to rent a room at the Kingfisher. He won't be in town long, but he may as well have somewhere comfortable to sleep when he inevitably comes back cold and wet.

Geralt bribes a local fisherman to take him out to the bay or as close to it as possible - no one will go right in any longer. They moor on the far side and Geralt disembarks, thanking the man and paying him a generous fee for his service. He didn't have to bring him out here, and many other men wouldn't dare go this far.

He hears the song immediately and it makes him pause. Geralt has heard the Siren song before, has even fallen under its spell in the past, and this is not it. This is a Siren, for sure, and he is singing, but his song is... sad. Geralt frowns as he makes his way over the swell of the hill, the beach sprawling out before him in a wide arc.

It's sandy, devoid of rocks and debris but the tide is down and large, jagged rocks break the surface of the water. Waves roll up gently onto the shore and Geralt scans the shoreline, looking for any sign of the Siren. The song is coming from the far side of the small bay, but he sees nothing.

Readjusting the belts across his chest, he makes his way down to the beach and across the sand.

He spots him shortly, tucked under a shelf of rock out of the sun, curled around himself. Geralt thinks at first, that he may be injured, hence the despair in his song, but as he approaches he recognizes a sense of desperation in the tune. Approaching further, he catches the creature's interest and he looks up at him, his confusion a mixture of desperation and fear and resignation. Geralt looks him over as he approaches, not trusting the Siren not to jump out and attack. He knows well enough they're crafty and wouldn't stop short of setting a trap in dire situations.

But when Geralt is within a few feet, the Siren still makes no sign of wanting to hurt him. If anything, he looks miserable to have been discovered and Geralt does a quick once-over for injuries. There are none visible, but as the Siren unfurls himself, stretching out to his full length, Geralt pauses.

He doesn't know a lot about Siren anatomy past what a sorcerer will pay for what, but he's seen enough pricks in his life to know one when he sees it.

Jaskier whines internally and shuts up as soon as he sees the figure approaching. He was trying to attract... well, not him. Not a Witcher. He needs someone to solve his problem, not to be killed as the solution to someone else’s. But maybe that would be better than going through this every five years out here alone. Maybe the Witcher will be kind and put him out of his misery and then- well, at least he wouldn't be stuck here on his own like this.

But the man approaches and doesn't do anything. He just looks, walking closer until Jaskier could nearly reach out and touch him. Slowly, as non-threateningly as he can, he uncoils himself to prove he's not a threat. His cock aches and he's reminded of the fact that it's very blatantly on display, but that's the least of his problems now.

"You're the one who's been wrecking ships?" the Witcher asks and well, yes, Jaskier assumes that's his fault.

He's seen the wreckage washing up on shore, seen the men floating lifeless amongst the waves. He tries to help, but in this state, it's impossible to do much before the burning need overtakes him again and he's rendered useless.

"I didn't-" he starts, but he doesn't think a Witcher will care whether he meant to or not. He just wants a companion, wants someone to help ease this ache as his own attempts aren't helping any longer, he didn't mean for the humans to get in the way.

"Didn't what?"

"Didn't mean for them to get hurt." Jaskier doesn't look at him, but the Witcher is quiet for some time and then,

"It’s... a mating song?" he guesses and something in Jaskier’s stomach twists uncomfortably that he could figure it out so quickly. Jaskier avoids his eyes looking instead at the way the sand coats the toes of his boots.

"Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Jaskier's head snaps up at that and he looks the Witcher dead in the eye. He's never heard of a monster being given a chance to tell their side of the story, to redeem themself. The Witcher drops to the sand, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his thighs.

"I-" Jaskier starts, unsure if this is some sort of twisted game. "I just- I was hoping someone might be nearby to hear-" he feels pathetic, his only consolation the fact that the Witcher doesn't know that he came here willingly, he left his family willingly to go out and explore the vast oceans and now he’s miserable.

"How long have you been here?" the Witcher asks, "you've never caused problems before now."

"Before now I wasn't-" he rolls his eyes in frustration at himself, slapping his tail against the sand. "Sirens," he starts again, "go through cycles. I'm in heat and I'm alone and every attempt I've made to reach out has only ended in ruin." Jaskier scowls at his own confession.

"I tried to help," he adds solemnly, "I just... I can't focus, I don't have the strength to pull them to the surface- I tried," he persists, "but I'm not much use like this." His cock aches and he groans at the timing. "I hardly think that deserves a death sentence." He wraps his tail protectively around himself, hiding the evidence of his situation.

"Not here to hurt you," the Witcher explains, "just here to keep people from dying. I could... help?"

Jaskier starts at the offer, his wings snapping tight against his back. "What do you mean, help?"

The Witcher huffs a light laugh and Jaskier tries not to be too hopeful. He's never strayed beyond his race, though he knows many who have and if he were to, well, the Witcher isn't awful to look at. In fact, Jaskier thinks, taking in his shining golden eyes and shock-white hair tied back in a loose bun, he’s quite lovely.

"Now, I know you're not stupid," the Witcher says, almost sounding amused. "The offer’s there. I'll help if you stop with the singing."

Maybe it's the need coursing through him, or maybe it's the fact that no one has ever been so kind to him before, or maybe there's just something about this man's smile that makes him weak. Jaskier agrees.

"Not here," he says. "Can you swim?" The Witcher cocks an eyebrow at him. "I'd prefer not to have to do this out in the open where anyone could just wander upon us. I do have some sense of decorum."

"Where are we going?"

"Home," Jaskier says simply. "It's not far." He shifts in the sand, sitting up and gesturing out toward the sea. "A human could make the swim, surely a Witcher can as well."

"Fair enough. I'm Geralt, by the way. And I can swim."

"Jaskier."

He squirms in the sand, trying to force his cock to withdraw, but it's no use. Geralt rises, kicking off his boots and removing his gear, tucking it away into a crevice in the rock. He bends down, scooping Jaskier into his arms. It's a shock and Jaskier is helpless to do anything but wind his arms around Geralt's neck and hold on, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the way his cock juts out obscenely, betraying him.

Geralt walks into the waves, releasing Jaskier as soon as the water is up to his waist. He holds his breath, lets Jaskier take his hand, and follows him down beneath the surf. Jaskier feels marginally better out of the sun and sand, in the cool water, but not much. He swims quickly, eager to return home and get on with... whatever Geralt has in mind to help.

He ducks into the narrow tunnel, dropping Geralt's hand and gesturing for him to follow behind. He does, and Jaskier leads the way back to an underwater cave. Glowing coral grows near the ledge of rock, where the water gives way to open air again. It gives off a little light, but Jaskier can see perfectly well and he knows Witchers have night vision.

He slips up onto the stony cave floor and offers a webbed hand to Geralt as he breaks the surface. To Geralt's credit, he only seems a little out of breath as he's hauled up out of the water.

Jaskier flops back on his side, watching the way Geralt rises to his feet, tugging his soaked shirt off and wringing the water from it. His trousers remain in place and Jaskier finds himself disappointed, curious to see what's hidden beneath. But this isn't a fun romp for the sake of it; this is an agreement, Geralt is simply doing him a favour.

When he seems pleased with the state of his shirt, Geralt lays it out and lies down next to him, lining his body up with Jaskier's. He's... stunning up close and it takes more of his effort than it should not to simply reach out and touch him just for the sake of it. He remembers fucking other Sirens, the touching, the press of bodies - he misses it, and he finds himself wishing this was something more than a simple favour. But that's selfish; Geralt is already offering him so much, for so little in return and nothing, even, for himself.

"You'll have to walk me through it," Geralt says with a smile, "I've never fucked a Siren before."

"Oh. You can just... touch me?" Jaskier says and Geralt reaches out tentatively, slipping a hand over the swell of his hip.

"Like this?"

Jaskier nods. It's not exactly what he wants, but it does feel nice and he's not about to try and direct. Geralt's hesitation is short-lived and he slides his hand up Jaskier's chest, brushing his thumb over a nipple and Jaskier's breath catches. He watches the movement of Geralt's hand as his fingers press into his skin, warm, despite the swim through cool water.

He shifts slightly, leaning up on one arm and pressing back down, over the swell of Jaskier's hip and he tugs him forward before abruptly before dragging his fingers up the length of Jaskier's swollen cock. He's slow, but delicate like he's learning his way around, but it feels incredible and it's hard for Jaskier not to just thrust up into the touch and take the pleasure from his hands.

Geralt's fingers slip over the ridge at the base of him, curling around him beneath it and squeezing as he pulls up over it.

"What is this?" he asks. He sounds intrigued, curious, and Jaskier can't help but indulge him.

"'S hard to fuck underwater," he hums, moaning as Geralt's fingers reach the tip of his cock. One dips into the slit, pressing against it, and Jaskier whimpers. "Keeps me from... slipping out." The noise Geralt makes in response is hard to determine, but it sounds interested. He moves his hand back down to squeeze around the ring.

His fingers slip over the swell of skin, pressing against it and running his thumb along the edge. He likes it, Jaskier realizes. It prods at something inside him and he presses his hips forward encouragingly.

"Does that feel good?" Geralt asks and Jaskier nods, pressing his forehead against his arm to keep from moaning out loud. He wants to show his appreciation, wants Geralt to know he can do as he pleases with him, but he doesn't want to push too hard.

Geralt’s light touches grow bolder, pressing more firmly, jerking him quickly and firmly and as Jaskier whines and squirms beneath him, Geralt grows more confident. His fingers slip down, pressing between the folds of his sheath, pressing right down to the base of his cock and within. No one has touched him like this before, the sharp jab of a Siren's claws not conducive to pressing inside.

Something warm spreads through his chest and he finds himself pulling away, embarrassed by how vulnerable he suddenly feels letting a stranger touch him this way, a Witcher no less. Immediately, Geralt withdraws his hands and the look on his face implies worry.

"Sorry," he blurts, then softer, "tell me if it's too much."

"No, I just. No one's ever-"

"I'll stop."

"No," Jaskier says again, a little too abruptly. "No, it was good, it just... caught me off guard." Geralt doesn't wait to be told twice, but his fingers move more slowly as they slip back into place at the base of his cock. Jaskier gives a little thrust on encouragement and Geralt presses his palm against him, giving him something to rut against while he explores.

Jaskier rocks against him, burying his face in his arm as the need takes over. Given an inch, he's no longer able to control himself, so needy for it that he's invited a perfect stranger into his home to fuck him. But Geralt doesn't seem to mind his desperation, doesn't mention it. He picks up quickly on Jaskier's most sensitive spots, going back to rub over them, pressing his thumb beneath the swollen ring and Jaskier's mind goes blank with the pleasure of it.

He's never noticed how sensitive it is there; the use of hands in Siren coupling is rare and limited to squeezing and jerking, not prodding and rubbing like Geralt does so easily. It's hardly Jaskier's fault that he can't contain himself in the face of this new, wonderful sensation.

The swell of his climax creeps up on him slowly, his mind too preoccupied with where Geralt's fingers are and what they're doing. It's not until Geralt wraps around the base of him, pushing as far into his sheath as his fingers with reach, that Jaskier realizes how close he is. His hips jerk hard and Geralt's other hand shoots out to steady him, holding him close as Jaskier writhes against him.

There's not much else he can do like this, just squirm and try to press as much of his cock against Geralt's palm as he can. Otherwise, he's under Geralt's control, letting him do what he wants, take him apart as he will. Geralt's thumb presses along the underside of his cock, pressing up toward the tip and Jaskier jerks hard as his orgasm washes over him, spilling over Geralt's hand and up his arm.

His hips twitch, cocking slipping easily against Geralt's arm with his own spend to slick the way. He'd be embarrassed, coming so quickly with so little stimulation to anything but his cock, but Geralt hums, sounding very pleased.

He continues touching him, fingers slipping through his spend and using it as slick, rubbing down the full length of him and rubbing against the slit at the tip.

"Good?" he asks and Jaskier can only nod and whimper, still struggling to catch his breath.

Geralt leans in, pressing his nose into Jaskier's neck abruptly and Jaskier shifts onto his back to allow him better access. He likes the warmth of Geralt's breath on his neck, the soft press of his lips and the occasional flick of his tongue against his skin. Geralt says nothing as his kisses become firmer, pressing down the column of his throat and down his chest.

His hand remains on Jaskier's cock, stroking slowly as he kisses down the length of his body, not even pausing as pale skin gives way to shimmering scales. He seems unbothered by it and Jaskier likes the feeling of his lips on his tail. Geralt doesn't release his cock until he's moved fully down the length of Jaskier's body, straddling the end of his tail.

Geralt kisses around the base of his cock, not touching it but for the barest brush of his cheek as he passes. Jaskier holds his breath in anticipation, arching off the bed with each kiss that gets closer to where he wants it. When Geralt's lips finally press against him, he lets out a strangled groan and arches off the ground, hands immediately and automatically groping for Geralt's shoulder.

Geralt kisses up the length of him, teasing the tip with his tongue before moving back down again. Jaskier wants his mouth, wants to feel that wet heat around him, so different than the cool touch of one of his own kind. It wouldn't be the first time he's had a mouth around his cock, but he's used to sharp teeth, to slow and cautious strokes. When Geralt gets his mouth around him, he's anything but.

The moment Geralt's lips wrap around him, quick and eager, sliding his tongue over him and pressing his lips in close, holding him tight as he sinks right to the base. His tongue presses in where his fingers had been and Jaskier knows now that he likes exploring, likes discovering what makes Jaskier squirm and taking advantage of it. And he's incredibly good at it.

His fingers that had, up until now, been happily settled on his hips, push up to brush against his skin. One hand remains, seeking out the smallest part of his waist and settling in the dip as the other moves down again. Jaskier's foggy mind suggests that he intends to wrap around the base of his cock, but Geralt gets distracted somewhere between. His fingers pass over Jaskier’s slit and he pauses. Slowly, Gerlt lifts his head, licking up the length of Jaskier's cock and looking at the opening beneath his fingers.

"Can I?" he asks and Jaskier nods.

This is... new. He knows for women it can be pleasurable to be touched this way, but he's never had anyone do it to him. As a child, they told stories about men who fucked each other like this, the way they fuck women, but Jaskier had been young and naive and passed them off as nothing but stories. He'd never found anyone who wanted to touch him that way and had assumed, like most things children talk about, it was a rumour.

But Geralt's fingers tease the opening and sparks rush over his skin. Jaskier's cock throbs and he pushes himself up to watch. Geralt catches his eyes for a brief moment, before dropping back to his work and pushing inside.

"Oh," he breathes, "you're wet." Jaskier squirms, as his body gives way to Geralt's finger, quickly joined by a second.

As with everything, he moves slowly at first, pushing deep and rubbing into him. It feels good, much better than Jaskier could have expected and then Geralt bumps against something inside him and Jaskier cries out, digging his claws into Geralt's shoulder.

When he realizes what he's done, he releases him quickly, but Geralt seems unfazed and he's smiling when he meets Jaskier's eyes again.

"You like that?" he asks and Jaskier lets out a breathy, yes. Geralt grins at him and ducks down to wrap his lips around the tip of Jaskier's cock.

Geralt's fingers work in time with his mouth, picking up speed as Jaskier's groans become more frequent, less controlled. It doesn't take him long like this, with his cock slipping down Geralt's throat and Geralt's fingers constantly pressing against whatever that is inside him that feels so fucking good.

He comes with a gasp as Geralt thrusts up into him again and Geralt makes no attempt to keep him from pushing his cock deeper into his throat. If anything, he seems glad for it, and when Jaskier slumps back against the ground again, Geralt pulls off his cock with slow precision, careful to wrap his lips tightly around the head. Jaskier's eyes drop shut and his chest heaves, but he's aware of Geraly lying back down next to him.

"That felt... good."

"No one has ever touched you like this?" Geralt asks lightly. Jaskier waves a clawed hand at him in response. "Mmm, understandable. But you liked it?" Jaskier huffs a tired laugh and turns to face him.

"Very much."

"Can I?" Geralt asks, already sliding slick fingers along his waist.

"Please."

Geralt rises to his knees, straddling Jaskier's hips for a moment before dropping to the ground on the other side of him. He presses right up against him, slipping an arm under his neck and holding him close as his other hand presses flat against Jaskier's stomach, sliding downward. He crooks two fingers, pushing inside him and seeking out that same spot again.

He finds it with ease and when Jaskier jerks hard, Geralt pulls him in against his chest. He drops his forehead to Jaskier's, breathing hard against him and Jaskier shuts his eyes, letting the pleasure wash over him. Geralt thrusts into him, quick and precise, then slows to tease at the opening, fingers slipping slowly in and out, and Jaskier can't decide which he likes more.

When he's quick, it punches the breath out of him, leaves him mindless and aching for more, but then he slows, gently caresses and rubs into him and it's like a slow fire burning within him, gradually burning brighter. His mind goes blank, foggy with lust, and he wraps himself around Geralt's shoulders, drawing him close. Even with Jaskier wrapped around him, he never falters and before long Jaskier is writhing again, his tail slapping hard against the floor as pleasure courses through him.

He's overwhelmed, so entirely encompassed by pleasure that he can't do more than cling to Geralt and whimper until, at last, he comes, his cock untouched where it spurts over his hip.

Slick drips from his slit, mixing with his come and Geralt pulls out slowly, swiping his fingers through it and sliding them around Jaskier's cock. He cries out at the first touch, oversensitive from multiple consecutive orgasms, but it still feels good underneath the sensitivity and he can't bring himself to tell Geralt to stop.

When Geralt finally lets him go, Jaskier flops onto his back and stares up at him. Geralt is watching him, his eyes dark but bright, and he smiles. Unthinking, Jaskier reaches up, wrapping one hand around Geralt's cheek and tugging him down toward him. At the last second, he realizes what he's doing and hesitates, but Geralt closes the distance, pressing their lips together in a gentle kiss.

It doesn't last long and Jaskier has to keep himself from nipping at his lips when they part. Geralt presses up close and for the first time, he feels the hard line of Geralt's cock beneath his trousers and it makes his breath catch. For a moment, he just stares at him, enthralled by the idea that Geralt is turned on by this.

"You're... aroused?" he asks and Geralt huffs a soft laugh.

"I'm fine."

"Could I touch you?"

"Mmm, if you like."

Jaskier grins, shifting onto his side and pushes Geralt over. He laughs and goes easily, watching as Jaskier spreads a hand over his chest. He maps out the planes of his chest, pushing clawed fingers through soft chest hair before dragging them lightly down toward the hem of his trousers.

He rakes his eyes over the jut of Geralt's cock, but doesn't touch, afraid of pushing too far. A favour, he reminds himself, Geralt is doing him a favour here. So he slips his hand back up to his stomach, mimicking the way Geralt touched him at first, exploring the little dips and rises in his skin, careful not to catch his claws.

And when he looks up to him again, Geralt is watching him. Something in the way he looks at him makes Jaskier's chest tight and he dips down again, catching Geralt's lips in a kiss. Geralt kisses back with enthusiasm, wrapping an arm around so he can pull Jaskier on top of him.

Both hands move down, cupping the swell of Jaskier's tail and rocking him slowly forward. Jaskier's cock, still sensitive, presses against Geralt's through the rough fabric of his trousers. He hisses at the drag, but Geralt moans at the friction and the sound goes straight through him. This time, Jaskier does it on purpose.

They find an easy rhythm between the two of them and even with Geralt's trousers in the way, the sensitivity soon gives way to pleasure and Jaskier ruts against him, kissing him hard despite the lingering fear that he'll bite too hard. Geralt however, seems unconcerned. He's got one hand buried in Jaskier's hair, the other pressing between them, fumbling with the buttons on his trousers. It takes him a moment, but he gets them undone, finally pulling his cock free and Jaskier groans as he ruts against him.

Geralt is hot, his cock even more so, and Jaskier basks in the warmth, pressing himself closer, even with Geralt’s hand still between them. He's sure he could come just like this, happy to rut against him, but then Geralt's fingers are pressing against his slit again. His fingers come away slick and he winds his hand around Jaskier's cock, stroking him slowly.

"What do you need?" he asks and Jaskier whimpers.

"What you did before," he breathes, "could you... do that again?" In an instant, Geralt flips him onto his back again, dragging his fingers up to his slit, but Jaskier stops him. "Could you... with your cock?"

"Oh. Fuck, yeah."

Geralt shifts, pushing his trousers down and kicking them off before pressing up close again. He pulls Jaskier into a deep kiss, his hand sliding away to bring his hips closer. He ruts against him, pushing through the slick and come and when he catches on Jaskier's slit, Jaskier lets out a little gasp and grasps at Geralt's shoulders.

Geralt pushes forward pressing into him and Jaskier holds his breath as he stretches open on his cock. Geralt's eyelids flutter as he settles and then he rocks forward, slowly at first, just short little thrusts that leave Jaskier aching, pushing himself onto him, wanting more.

And Geralt gives it to him. He sinks deep, hooking a knee over Jaskier's hip to hold him close as he ruts, his cock pressed firmly against that spot that makes him wild. Jaskier bucks and whines, his own cock slipping against Geralt's with every thrust. He delights in the feeling of Gerslt inside him, of his warmth and the stretch of his cock, sliding into him and filling him wholly.

He's surprised to find Geralt as breathless as he is when he looks up at him and he can't help but tip forward and nip at his lower lip. Geralt groans and kisses him hard. He pushes him onto his back so he's straddling his hips and when he sits back, Jaskier's cock presses between his cheeks.

He rocks his hips, suddenly overwhelmed by the heat around his cock and Geralt shudders as he pushes back against him. His eyes flick up to Jaskier's and he licks his lips.

"Can I try something?" he asks and Jask nods enthusiastically.

Geralt withdraws immediately, pressing his fingers into Jaskier's slit. When he withdraws, he reaches behind himself, and Jaskier burns to know what he's doing, but the slick fingers wrap around his cock, and Geralt sits back on him. Jaskier groans low as Geralt's body engulfs him, heat seeping into every inch where they touch and he reaches out, fingers digging into his thighs, so careful not to leave scratches.

Geralt rocks back onto him, taking the full length of Jaskier's cock and grinding back against him. He rolls his hips and squeezes around him, pulling right up to the tip before dropping back down the length on him. Jaskier is breathless, helpless to do anything but squeeze Geralt's thighs and bite his own lip.

Tentatively, he wraps one hand around Geralt's cock, slipping webbed fingers over the head of his cock. Geralt moans softly, sliding one hand over Jaskier's and guiding it down. Jaskier nearly stops breathing as the head of Geralt's cock nudges against his slit and then he's sliding in again, filling him up even as he squeezes around Jaskier's cock.

It's so much. Jaskier's body sings with the twin pleasures of being filled so wholly and sinking into Geralt himself as he shifts his hips up.

"Fuck" he groans and Geralt drapes himself over his chest, kissing the moan from his lips.

He finds a rhythm, a careful balance that keeps them joined in both places and Jaskier has never felt such overwhelming pleasure in his life. He meets Geralt's thrusts, thrusting in deep as Geralt sinks into him and it's hardly surprising when he finds himself creeping close to the edge. Geralt's thighs shake around him and he wants to hold out, to make Geralt comes first, but Geralt reaches up, nipping at the sensitive skin over his throat and the pleasure that zips through him is too much.

His hips snap up hard and Geralt kisses him through it, deep and hard, his whole body arching against him. He follows shortly, burying himself deep in Jaskier's body and rutting into him urgently. The moans and pleas that drop from his lips do nothing to ease Jaskier's persistent erection, but as Geralt slumps against him, Jaskier feels the exhaustion creeping in.

Geralt, too, seems tired and Jaskier withdraws reluctantly, mourning the loss of Geralt's body around him. His cock remains stubbornly hard, still unsheathed, but the aching desperation wore off some time ago and he flings himself into the water, quickly rubbing himself down to prevent waking up sticky and uncomfortable. A moment later there's a splash as Geralt rolls off the ledge next to him.

He swims closer enough for Jaskier to reach him and he makes a point of wiping Geralt down first before wrapping a hand around his cock and sliding slowly. Geralt's eyes drop shut and he winds his arms around Jaskier's neck with a soft, shuddering moan.

"How long does this usually last?" he asks and Jaskier shrugs.

"Anywhere from a week to six."

Geralt gawks at him. "Six weeks?"

"On and off," Jaskier huffs, amused. "I don't swim around with an exposed prick for six weeks. And besides. It's usually two, though it is much more in much more... concentrated bursts."

"Meaning I should stick around?"

Jaskier's heart thuds heavily at the suggestion which is, realistically, ridiculous. He's known Geralt for all of a few hours and under normal circumstances, the man would have just killed him. But the idea of keeping him close spreads warmth through his chest.

"You don't have to," he says anyway. "You kept up your end of the deal. I'll be quiet."

"Mmm," Geralt agrees, nosing at his neck, "but it'll get bad again. What would you do with no one here to get you through it."

"Are you..." Jaskier starts, hesitant. "Are you saying you want to stay?"

"Maybe not exactly here," Geralt shrugs, "I'd appreciate being warm and dry part of the time. But I don't intend to go far. Maybe I'll camp out on the beach."

"Will you stay for now?" Jaskier asks hopefully.

"Yes."

Jaskier doesn’t acknowledge the way his heart clenches a little. He shouldn’t want Geralt to stay, shouldn’t care what he does with himself now that he’s fulfilled his end of the bargain, but as they finish cleaning up, he seems happy to be there.

Once they're both clean and Geralt has managed to pull another orgasm from him, they settle on the ground, Jaskier curled up around him. His cock rests perfectly against the cleft of Geralt's ass and he has to be careful not to move too much, lest he work himself up again. He spreads one wing out over Geralt, using it as well as he can to keep him warm.

“You should go back,” Geralt says quietly and if Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d say he sounded almost disappointed, “leave here and find more of your kind so you don’t have to suffer alone next time.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Jaskier admits, “but I like it here.”

“Mm,” Geralt hums sleepily, “guess I’ll just have to come back then, hm?”

Five years later…

The need returns, just as it always does, creeping up slowly and then hitting him all at once, but this time it's worse. This time he has the memory of his Witcher, soft and sweet touching him and kissing him and working him through it. And the memory only serves to make the need stronger.

But he made a promise.

So Jaskier holes himself up in his cave and deals with it as well as he can on his own and when that quits working on the first day, Jaskier swims to the surface in the hopes of coming across some other passer-by who might be willing to risk their life to fuck a Siren.

But when he breaches the surface of the water, there's a figure on the beach, moving oddly. He keeps low in the water, just his head breaking the surface and when he gets closer he realizes it's a man taking off his boots. It takes a couple of seconds to register as the man strips completely naked, but as he gets closer, as Jaskier swims further, he recognizes him. There's a swell of something warm and pleasant that settles in his chest and his heart beats just a fraction too quickly.

Geralt came back for him.

#geraskier #siren #monster march #spicy #nsft #rex writes

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sidehugsnsideblogs · 2 years

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FCSU#66 Trial of the Century

Two weeks before Royce Culton’s trial was slated to begin he fired Geoffrey Landgraab and decided to represent himself in court. While he was a lawyer at one point his mental state had unfurled considerably since then.

Greyson began by giving a detailed timeline of Royce Culton’s crimes; from labour violations to misappropriation of church funds to fleeing from justice to child abuse. The charges he was focusing on were fathering children with two underage girls and the marriage and abuse of Rebecca-Dawn Prichard and Isaac. Since the two other wives weren't present, Greyson had to rely on birthdates, DNA evidence and unsettling photos (supplied by Becca-Dawn and other family members.)

Royce objected. He presented the letters penned by Farrah and Evangeline claiming they wanted to be married and were in full support of their husband. He also had letters from Evangeline's father and Farrah's mother stating that they provided parental consent to allow the unions. Allie-Jayne cringed from her seat in the gallery. She knew her mother hated that Farrah was taken from her so young. She wondered how they'd managed to coerce Jayne into writing such a lie.

Finally it was Rebecca-Dawn's turn to take the stand. Greyson started off easy, showing her photos of Royce's wives and asking her to list their names and ages. Next he asked her to describe her wedding day. Becca took a deep breath and began her story, describing the emotions she felt knowing that she'd be married before then end of the day. She told the judge of her shaking hands and quiet tears. How Vangie and Farrah were sympathetic and traumatized themselves when they recalled their own wedding nights.

Finally, she got to the end of the night, her wedding. Newly aged up he'd taken her into the temple. She recalled how his breathing grew heavy and his hands shook while he recited his vows. The way his voice changed. She spoke of the secret room and what happened in it. How she grasped her sisters' hands as all three of them cried but Royce took no notice. Tears were streaming down her face when she finished her testimony.

Royce attempted to cross examine her. The point he was trying to make was that she married him of her own free will and was trying to paint her as a vengeful ex-wife. "Is this legal?" Asked Becca-Dawn. "Having my abuser interrogate me?" The judge allowed it for some reason. Becca sighed and turned her attention to Royce. He was emaciated, withered and so pompous it was almost funny. How had she once been so afraid of this pathetic man?

"If you didn't want to get married, then why did you go through with it? You could have said no." He said in his sickly soft tone. One that he used when he thought he had the upper hand. "Because I know what happens to wives who say no." She answered, her tone icy. "May I elaborate?" She asked the judge. "We were taught that every decision your Priesthood Headship- your father or husband, is guided by God. So to say no to your husband or father for any reason is akin to refusing God's will. It's one of the worst sins one can commit."

"I would like to introduce a piece of evidence if I may." Said Royce producing a small tape recorder. He switched it on without waiting for a answer. It was the audio recording from the temple room. Greyson objected loudly but his voice seemed so far away. Though he didn’t manage to play much of the tape, the entire courtroom heard the first part of their wedding night. Just hearing her own voice on tape was enough to shatter Becca-Dawn’s confidence.

She was already distraught from having to recall the night in such detail. Suddenly she felt very small. She was shrinking, no...falling. Then everything went black. The judge called for order, Greyson snatched the recorder from Royce's hand. Penny, Teresa and Aj rushed to Becca. "We're here. We've got you." Said Penny gingerly taking Becca's hand. Teresa grasped her other hand. As they pulled her to her feet Aj offered her water. The judge declared a brief recess.

Royce had planned on using the tape to prove that Rebecca-Dawn had been a willing participant in their marriage but his plan had backfired spectacularly. All the judge heard on the tape was a frightened child in an unimaginable situation. Becca and Penny took some time to calm down while Isaac testified. He detailed some experiences from his youth to draw a pattern in Royce's behavior. He had always been a bully. He felt small and insecure around other men so he took his rage out on children too weak to fight him off. At the end of his statement Isaac collapsed into Teresa's waiting arms. "It's over now. I'm so proud of you." She said softly.

All the Prichards sat together listening to the closing arguments. Royce Leroy Culton was found guilty of the assault of Evangeline Brown Culton, and the aggravated assault of both Rebecca-Dawn Prichard and Isaac Leroy Culton. The judge thought the case regarding Farrah was the weakest of the lot so she didn't enter a charge for that one. Royce was sentenced to life in prison. He would be eligible for parole on his 90th birthday. Allie-Jayne, Teresa, Isaac, Penny and Becca-Dawn, all wearing red watched as he was led away. The FCSU men and women in the audience sobbed.

#fundie sims #fcsu #fundie tumblr #fundiesims #sims 4 story #cult blog #sims 4 #the sims 4

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diphthongsfordays · 2 years

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First Lines Tag

Thanks for the tag, @afoolandathief! This is a new one and it looks really fun!

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all).

1 - Deathdancer

Ailin stood in the dust. Knives heavy in her hands, she flexed her toes as the crowd cheered.

2 - Firetide Rising 1

Everyone knew dragons were extinct. Even Kina. They had to be, after all.

If dragons were real, then her dreams could have been real.

3 - Firetide Rising 2

Kina couldn’t control her magic.

4 - Firetide Rising 3

It was good to be back on the ocean.

5 - Chance Magic (the file is called Dealer of Death)

Kyra’s clothes stank of smoke. Not the pleasant smoke of an evening bonfire, but the acrid scorching of fabric, and chemicals, and burned flesh. Two days of running, and fire still flashed whenever she closed her eyes.

Fire, and two dead faces.

6 - Mirrorshine

Cecilia resisted the urge to chuck her laptop at her apartment wall.

Barely.

7 - Stormshaper

Kayali ran. Air crackled with static against her skin, the roar of rain sweeping in from behind growing relentlessly louder.

She had never tried out outrun a storm wall before. Generally you either got to shelter first, or you hunkered down in the violence.

Today wasn’t the day for ‘generally.’

8 - Shadowrunner

There were eight people in the Central Cell today. More than usual. And the front panel had been left off, exposing the heavy criss-crossed bars, leaving the prisoners in plain sight.

9 - Death by Dawnlight

Taja's hands were sticky with blood. It had started to go cold on her fingers, the thick heat fading as it congealed to dark red goo.

10 - undead short story I never finished

No one likes to admit when they have a problem with undeath. It’s not necromancy, not really. Necromancy is organized. Nice, and neat, and utterly incomprehensible in spite of itself.

Undeath is just messy. Echos of the world gone wrong. A microcosm of reality all warped apart and tied around itself, trapped away in something that can never know real consciousness.

11 - prologue for a super complicated story I might draft someday

They ran.

She still didn’t know him, not really. A few odd jobs did not make a partnership. Certainly not a friendship.

But apparently they were still prepared to die for each other. She’d never thought she could die for someone before. She’d never thought anyone would die for her.

12 - The Shattered Sky

Selby awakens alone, surrounded by stone.

There are no shackles on her. It’s still a surprise. She unfurls slowly, eyes darting, but she’s alone in the wild, at an unfamiliar crossroads in an unfamiliar age.

13 - Rook and the Red Tree

Rook stood in the entrance arch, pulse beating steadily in her throat. There was no evidence that she was at the edge of a Splice. There was no discernible temperature change in the air on her back versus her face, no unnatural wind, no distant sounds that didn’t belong. None of the usual signs were there.

And yet...

Her heart was the wrong size in her chest. Her feet weren't grounded, like standing on a slanted surface, her whole body working just slightly harder than usual to stay steady and upright.

14 - The Onyx Castle

I knew the ocean crashed a hundred feet below me, but couldn’t hear it over howling salt wind.

15 - The Never-Dog

Darkness came early that night, descending fast and unexpected on the little cluster of buildings of Deepwater Crossing. Moonlight glinted in rippling, black water as the river tore ever-onward.

16 - Siphon

One street over, someone screamed. Coletta froze, just for an instant. She was the last person who should head for screaming.

17 - Starfall

Not for the first time, Kaya was alone. It was getting old, this endless walking, heading for mountains she wouldn’t see for another month at least.

18 - The Haunted Doll

“Here’s a question,” said Kory, folding their hands across the diner table and leaning forward slightly. “What is darkness?”

I stifled a groan.

“The absence of light, genius,” I said.

19 - Flash fiction thing I forgot existed

“I don’t know how competent you think I am, but let the record show that I spent most of last night watching Mythbusters and seeing how many twizzlers I could fit in my mouth at a time without using my hands.”

20 - The Guidebook

The path down is non-euclidian. Be mindful.

I'll tag (no pressure!!): @the-orangeauthor, @akindofmagictoo, @winterandwords, @ink-fireplace-coffee, @uraniumwriting, @shaheenarnitipsyart, @dontjudgemeimawriter, @papercutsunset and OPEN TAG for anyone who wants! Seriously, take it, I love seeing stuff like this!

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raleighcarrera · 3 years

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saved by the bell

foreign affairs | m!blaine hayes x mc (kennedy monroe)

blaine springs kennedy from her date in chapter 10.

catch up: knockout (E) / on the ropes (T) / outpoint (T) / parry (E) / pulling punches (T) / ringside (T)

tagging: @pixeljazzy ; @zigtheeortega ; @pixelsandkink ; @writinghereandthere ; @choicesarehard ; @dakotawinchester ; @flyawayboo ; @withbeautyandrage ; @blainehellyes ; @levineseth ; @gryffindordaughterofathena ; @thefirstcourtesan ; @josieplayschoices

~3.5k words | T

he’s not going to look.

no matter how much his phone lights up with incoming notification after incoming notification, he’s not going to look. blaine refuses to torture himself by checking for photos of kennedy’s date, though his curiosity is eating him alive.

it’s a nice reprieve from worrying about her, at any rate, even if it is maddening.

lately it feels like all he’s done is worry about her, though that’s mostly because kennedy looks to be about an inch away from tears every time she’s around -- not that it’s often, anymore. there’s absolutely nothing worse than seeing her suffer from the sidelines; he still feels just as helpless as he did when he watched her give that first disastrous press conference in his dorm, the day after the pictures hit voyeur.

it’s unbelievably frustrating, being forced to sit on his hands and watch everyone else try to control her life. kennedy’s under a microscope like neither of them have ever been before, and for the first time in his life, he’s in the uncomfortable position of having to be careful -- not because he gives a shit about himself or his own reputation, but because of her, and what it might do to her if he was reckless.

he’s bitten his tongue more times in the last week than he has in his entire life. it’d taken every last ounce of his self control not to snap and defend kennedy at the pet store, not to panic when she’d clued him in on her mom’s newest pr strategy, not to keep her locked in the teacher’s lounge with him for the rest of the semester and refuse to let her go when she snuck out to meet him.

already he knows he’ll never forget the names and faces of the classmates of theirs that’d picked on her. if he ever really does wind up in charge in ardona, one day, he’ll come to power with a ready-made list of enemies, all because of the way they’d made her look when she sunk down low into her seat in class, her shoulders hunched in shame.

he’s laying in bed, moping miserably, thinking over it all when peter pokes his head in with a hesitant knock. “how’re you holding up?” he asks, tactfully, given that blaine’s pretty sure he looks utterly awful. “those daily post photos were... rough.”

blaine groans, burying his face in his hands. “i’m not looking at them. i don’t want to know.”

“that’s probably for the best,” peter says sympathetically, and that does it -- seals the deal completely. he reaches for his phone, snatching it off the nightstand.

dionne’s also texted him, which means the photos are as bad as he’s hoping they won’t be. his stomach twists into knots as he navigates to his favorite gossip site, certain the pictures he’s looking for will be plastered all over the homepage.

sure enough -- there they are: kennedy and alexei, huddled together outside of some swanky restaurant, hand-in-hand. she’s all dressed up for the occasion, because with alexei she’s allowed to be; she doesn’t have to sneak out to see him, hidden under a baseball hat in some far away place where no one will recognize either of them. the point of this date is to be seen, and judging by the crowd of flashing lights surrounding them, they’ve done a perfect job selling their relationship to the press.

so the second picture accompanying the story is an unnecessary twist of the knife -- complete overkill. they’re kissing, in this one, lips pressed together chastely just outside the limo. he feels nauseous.

“they’re probably having a terrible time,” peter says, though blaine’s still staring at his phone, eyes fixed on the photo in his hands. “i heard that restaurant is horrible.”

“it’s fine,” blaine says hollowly, tapping back to his texts to answer dionne. she wants to know how he is, too, and he gives her the same answer: fine. everything is fine.

“you’re so full of shit,” dionne says, when she shows up at his dorm twenty minutes later, her arms folded across her chest and her expression unimpressed.

yeah. he forgot she knows him so well. “well -- whatever,” blaine sighs, dragging a hand down his face. it doesn’t matter. it has to not matter, for kennedy’s sake. “it’s not like i can do anything about it. this is the way it has to be.”

the look in dionne’s eyes grows distant, and he sits up slowly as a smile starts to overtake her face, cautiously optimistic while what’s obviously an evil plan begins to unfurl. “no,” dionne says, “it’s not. i think i have an idea.”

so -- that’s how he finds himself sweating through his jacket, overthinking this whole stupid plan while he waits for kennedy to slip out the back of the stupid opera house and meet him and his stupid rental car in the alley. he thinks back over all the ways they’d had to cover his tracks to get him here: how peter’d had to call in the car, how dionne’d had to threaten and sweet talk alexei at the same time, how there isn’t a single hurdle he wouldn’t leap or hoop he wouldn’t jump through for even just half an evening alone with her.

this is probably a terrible idea. at the very least, it’s dangerous, and sure to get them fucking caught again, no matter how careful they all were in making it happen.

maybe he should call the whole thing off. call dionne and get her to tell kennedy to forget it -- to go back to her date and take the easy way out, because who is he kidding, anyway?

the sound of heels on the cobblestones takes the decision swiftly out of his hands. blaine looks up to see kennedy standing in front of him, admiring the rental with a gentle smirk on her beautiful face. she looks even more ridiculously gorgeous than she had in the daily post pictures, as annoying as that is.

she’s alone.

“no limo? that’s not very romantic, mr. hayes,” she teases playfully, mouth stretched wide with a smile.

he leans over to pop the door open for her, grinning to cover up his nerves. just having kennedy around is going a long way towards keeping him calm -- he feels undeniably more sane out here with her than he had in his room, pouting with fruitless jealousy. “take it up with dionne,” he shrugs, eyes raking up and down her outfit. she really does look nice. “now hop in.”

“we have three hours and forty-five minutes,” kennedy says helpfully, as soon as they’ve slipped out of town unseen and headed to the highway, “i have to be back by curtain.”

“i know,” blaine hums, sighing with relief as soon as he glances in the rearview mirror and sees they aren’t being followed, “dionne briefed me. she figured out a whole plan.”

“oh,” kennedy says. she sounds... happy. “that was really nice of her.” there’s a pause, and he fidgets with the steering wheel for a moment before shifting his left hand up to the top to steer so his right arm is free to drape across the back of kennedy’s seat. she leans in closer to the center console and continues, “i really wish it was you in there with me.”

he exhales heavily. more relieving than not being followed, than being with her at all is hearing that -- that he’s not alone in his insanity. lately he feels like a completely different person, and he has no idea what’s come over him, so it’s comforting to know that it’s all for something, beyond just making kennedy smile. evidently, she wants to be his stupid girlfriend just as badly as he wants her to. “me, too. you have no idea. i’ve really missed you, these past few days.”

“i know. it’s weird,” kennedy agrees, “hardly seeing you. not being able to text you, and tell you about my day... i mean -- i barely even get to talk to you, outside of class.”

yeah. he knows. and when there’s other people around he has to watch what he fucking says, too. it’s far from ideal, and he knows he’s gotten sloppy, but...

part of him almost wants someone to catch them. blaine knows it’s selfish and stupid, but he wants it all the same. because if someone found out the truth and spilled the beans... they’d be free, and the impossible decision of what to do next would be out of their hands.

he could never ask kennedy to go public on her own. he would never ask her for that, no matter how badly he wants it. but a slip-up... that would be beyond their control.

blaine shakes his head. “it’s fine,” he says again, clearing his throat, “i’ll plan some secret meet up for us every night, if you want. even if it only buys us a few minutes.”

he glances to the side just in time to catch the look that crosses her face. kennedy’s quite obviously touched by his offer, her teeth digging into her bottom lip as she stares down at her hands. forcefully, he drags his eyes back to the road. “i’d really like that,” she murmurs, so quietly he almost misses it. when he only nods, she raises her voice and asks, “so, where are we going?”

“you’ll see,” he directs, taking the exit that’ll bring them to the drive-in, mentally cataloging the travel time it’d taken to get up here and making a note of the minutes he’ll need to account for to get kennedy back, especially if he has to circle the block until the street is empty before he drops her off.

her eyes light up when he pulls into the parking lot. “a drive-in theater, seriously? i used to love going to the drive-in back home. i didn’t know they had them near vancross.” her nose is practically pressed against the window as she looks around excitedly while he idles.

“this is my first time,” blaine admits, though how eager kennedy is definitely bodes well for the experience. even if it completely sucked, he’d still bring her back every weekend, just to see her smile like that. “we don’t really have these in ardona, but dionne talked it up.”

kennedy finally peels her eyes away from the window to smile playfully at him again, her eyes sparkling. “so you’re a drive-in virgin? interesting.”

his face feels hot, suddenly. blaine rolls his eyes at her, gesturing at the map of the venue in front of them. they’re kind of holding up the line. “yeah, yeah. pick your movie, rutherland. it’s just background noise for the real show, anyway.”

if he’s being honest, he barely hears her make her choice, the instructions on where to go flying in one ear and out the other. all he cares about for where he parks the car is that it’s secluded, and dark, away from prying eyes and any other people in the lot.

fortunately, blaine finds them the perfect spot, and he doesn’t even waste a second pretending like he gives a single shit about the movie at all, his eyes on her just as soon as the gear shift’s out of his hand.

kennedy’s turned in her seat and already looking back at him. she smiles and says, “thanks for doing this. it’s nice to have a normal date. i never pegged you as the type of guy who was all about carnivals and drive-ins and making these fun experiences for us.”

he shrugs, more nonchalantly than he feels. “probably ‘cause i’m not,” blaine answers honestly, “but everything’s different, with you.”

kennedy makes a soft sound of disbelief, lifting her hands to cover her face. when she peeks out from between her fingers, he sees that she’s smiling widely again. “you keep saying stuff like that. it’s so charming.”

blaine laughs, reaching out to tug her hands off her face. “that’s kind of the point.” he clears his throat, then continues more seriously, “but... i want you to know how i feel, you know? you shouldn’t have to guess. the truth is... i’ve been all-in for awhile, now, and -- those pictures were just a shitty setback. they don’t change the way i feel about you at all.”

she reaches out for his hand, and he lets her lace their fingers together, squeezing affectionately. “you have no idea how nice it feels to hear that,” kennedy sighs. “honestly...” the hesitation in her voice makes it clear she’s unsure of whatever she’s about to say, but she continues, “it kind of just felt like i ruined everything. things were actually going pretty well, for once, but now it’s like there’s this... dark cloud hanging over everything i do. i can’t even hang out with you without worrying we’re going to get caught again.”

his expression softens. he’s not usually one for optimism, but for her, and in the interest of getting some of that thick sadness out of her voice, he’ll try. “well, we’ve done a pretty good job avoiding that so far.”

“that’s true.” kennedy’s head tips back agains the carseat, and she smiles at him again. “i guess we’re making it work, in our own way. i love that i can always count on you to be real with me. it’s so -- refreshing, after all the fake posturing we deal with.”

well -- that’s probably as good an opening as he’s ever going to get. he spares a moment to silently thank whatever god is listening for the chance to ask the question that’s been eating at him for hours, the one thing he’s most desperate to know, beyond even the other stuff that usually keeps him up at night, everything from the simple inner workings of kennedy’s mind to why he’s so tripped up over a girl he’s only spent a few short months with. “speaking of fake...” blaine pointedly looks somewhere beyond her, staring out at the parking lot, “how’d your date go?”

kennedy’s quiet for long enough that he has to look back at her. there’s a knowing little glint in her eyes that he decidedly does not like. “are you jealous?”

“what?” he scoffs, “of course not. you left alexei to go out with me.”

“right,” she laughs, one small word injected with endless disbelief. “well, we had a good time. alexei’s not so bad.”

he’s an egomaniac and a self-centered prick, actually, blaine thinks. out loud, he says, “oh. cool. glad it worked out. cool, cool, cool...”

he fidgets restlessly. kennedy’s visible amusement only grows. “you know it was still a fake date, right? neither of us have any interest in the other.”

“i know,” blaine insists defensively. kennedy only arches an eyebrow at him. with a groan, he slumps back in his seat, a hand rubbing at his jaw. “fine, maybe i am a little jealous. give me a break, okay? this is kind of a unique situation for me.”

“if it helps, i think you’re doing a pretty great job.” she’s still smiling at him, but less like she thinks he’s being funny and more like she thinks he’s being sweet. she leans in a little closer, and -- it actually does help. the knots in his stomach that’d been coiled there since she first said her mom’s team was planning a pr relationship for her are finally starting to unwind.

“yeah?” he asks, gratified by the immediate nod she gives. “that’s good. i don’t wanna half-ass this boyfriend stuff just because it’s new to me.”

there’s a long stretch of silence. he realizes what he’s said all at once and starts to feel nauseous all over again, staring silently back at kennedy while he waits for her to say something -- anything.

“boyfriend stuff?”

“ah.” his hand slips around to rub at the back of his neck sheepishly. “sorry. slipped out.” he should probably just cut his losses now -- bring her back early to be on the safe side and go back to his dorm and drown himself in the shower, because he is an idiot and that’s what an idiot deserves. “i know you kind of already have a boyfriend.”

kennedy huffs out a quiet laugh. “i kind of do.” she tilts her head to meet his eyes, forcing him to look at her again. his heart stutters painfully in his chest, picking up into a pace that’s almost frantic. “but... that’s not a ‘no.’”

their hands are still linked together. he looks down at where their fingers are interlaced, hoping his palms aren’t as sweaty as they feel. blaine disentangles his hand to lift it instead to kennedy’s face, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes with a hesitant smile she immediately returns tenfold.

it’s also not a ‘yes,’ but he’ll take what he can get.

as it turns out, three hours and forty-five minutes is kind of not actually a long time at all.

or maybe it would be, for some people, but with kennedy in his lap, squished between him and the steering wheel so she can kiss him senseless, the time flies by. they watch what’s probably ten minutes total of the movie, they’re so busy kissing and talking, his hands wandering along her new outfit to show his appreciation for it the only way he knows how.

for her part, kennedy gives as good as she gets, tugging his hair out of place and messing up his jacket and making him forget his own name, with the way her hips are pushing into his lap and all the sweet little sounds she makes when he whispers something dirty in her ear and presses her in closer against him.

no amount of agonizing over her fake dates and not being able to kiss her in public is ever going to drive the way she shivers with her whole body when he says something she likes from his mind.

still, the drive back is somber. it’s time to bring kennedy -- kiss-swollen lips and raised hemlines and all -- back to the opera house before he knows it, and he’s really not looking forward to everyone who sees her thinking she spent four hours fooling around in the private box with alexei, of all people. he’s looking forward to driving home alone and going to bed by himself even less.

tomorrow he’ll have to sit by her in class again and pretend like everything’s fine.

because they had tonight, and he knows he should be content with that. the problem is -- he’s not.

“you okay?” kennedy asks, checking the time on the watch on his wrist with a frown. she’s holding his hand in both of hers. “and don’t say you’re ‘fine.’”

“i am fine,” blaine insists, running his thumb across her wrist. “this sucks, but it’s what we have to do. if you’re good, then i’m good.”

she studies his expression for a minute, then sighs. “i’m as good as i can be,” she murmurs, “but things will get better.”

he knows that, too. even if no one ever finds out it’s him in the photos, even if they have to spend the rest of their lives sneaking out and ditching their bodyguards so they can find a few hours alone together -- things are good. the alternative -- winning the fight with his parents to keep him away from vancross, never getting the chance to know kennedy as well as he does... that’s a future that seems bleak, now that he’s seen the alternative.

“it’s really alright,” blaine assures her. “i’ll miss you, but... do what you gotta do.”

something about the way he says the words seems to instill new confidence in kennedy. she straightens her shoulders and glances back at the opera house door with determination. “thanks,” kennedy sighs, squeezing his hand one last time before slowly pulling away. she probably has only seconds until the finale starts up, though he’s desperate for a way to make them stretch longer. an eternity would be a nice place to start.

“will you... text dionne goodnight before you go to bed?” she asks, looking so hopeful he finds it’s impossible to do anything other than nod.

he grins widely at kennedy, leaning in to steal one last kiss. “dream about me, will ya?”

“every night,” she promises, and blaine lowers the window to get a better view of her and the sway of her hips when she slips out of the car and back inside, sighing heavily once she’s gone and he’s alone again, whacking his head against the carseat.

this is some mess they’ve gotten themselves into.

but, he figures, as he pulls away from the curb and starts back towards campus, the image of kennedy walking away in the heels and skirt she’d been wearing playing over and over again in his mind like a highlight reel, it’s definitely not without its perks.

#blaine hayes #foreign affairs #choices foreign affairs #blaine hayes x mc #myfic #long post

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kopikokun · 3 years

Text

DAY SIX: kim jungwoo.

↳ i happen to make very good hot chocolate. don’t look down on me.

pairing: brother’s best friend!jungwoo x reader

contain(s): fluff, older brother!kun, childhood friends to lovers

word count: 1010 words

← BACK TO NAVI. | ← BACK TO CHRISTMAS PROMPT LIST.

— 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝.

You remember the date exactly: 6th December—the day you and Jungwoo explicitly went against your older brother’s words, right under his nose.

“Don’t pull anything while I’m gone.”

Was what Kun had said, neck wrapped in a fuzzy mustard scarf and his head of hair adorning a beanie of the same shade. Really, in that get-up, your brother looked the furthest from threatening, but in your peripheral vision, Jungwoo was uncharacteristically stiff. From your spot on the couch, you really didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but it was practically impossible not to; they were being so glaringly obvious. It was criminal if you didn’t.

Kun had stopped midway out the door just to rasp the warning out, his breath leaving his chapped lips in cold wisps. His gaze hardened. “I mean it, Jungwoo.”

Jungwoo was indisputably nervous, yet he easily slipped into an insouciant smile. “Of course, man. I’d never do anything you wouldn’t.”

Kun squinted, his face a prime example of dubiety, as if to say, That’s bull. Regardless, he nodded shortly, turning on his heel and trudging down the remainder of the path. Jungwoo stood rooted to his spot until Kun’s car disappeared down the road; a dark fleck against the white snow.

He pushed the door shut, movements oozing with relief: loose shoulders, languorous gait and an easy-going smile directed at you. “That was unnecessarily stressful.”

“Sorry, Kun can be—”

“Overbearing,” Jungwoo said for you, “I know. We’re friends, after all.” You casted a sympathetic smile at him.

A familiar tension permeated the room soon after, as it tended to. The air felt thick with Jungwoo’s cologne: orange and pine, reminiscent of autumn. His stare scorched your skin and you felt the sudden urge to fan yourself, despite the freezing temperature.

You coughed lightly, growing increasingly antsy. “Maybe we should… hang out in my ro—”

“Your room?” Jungwoo cracked a grin.

A blossom of bashful heat unfurled in your cheeks. “I - I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” he chuckled, eyes glinting beneath the lights, “still, I don’t think we should—whether I could do that, regardless of what you meant.”

“Right,” you croaked. “Noted.”

Another bout of anxiety, of twiddling thumbs, waiting for the other to say something first.

“Do you want some hot chocolate?”

You had lifted your gaze from the clasped hands which sat snugly in your lap. “You know how to make hot chocolate?”

“Of course I do,” he rested his palm flat upon his chest, mocking a wounded expression, “and I happen to make very good hot chocolate, at that.”

You arched a brow in challenge. “Alright then, be my guest. You know where the kitchen is.”

Jungwoo didn’t just know where the kitchen was, in fact, you were certain he knew where every single item in the house was. He had perhaps even acquainted himself with every crevice and corner too. You’d known Jungwoo longer than you’d known anyone else (excluding Kun, of course). He and Kun had been deskmates in kindergarten and a friendship had naturally woven itself into existence since then. You and Jungwoo had always been close, but you couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment where you had wanted to be closer. Maybe it was when you had scraped your knee badly after a catastrophic skating incident and he’d made you forget all about it with ludicrous jokes that weren’t even funny as he patched the injury up. Maybe it was when your first boyfriend had dumped you and Jungwoo had stroked your hair as you sobbed into his shoulder, undoubtedly staining his jacket with tears and snot. Maybe it was when he’d spent all night, learning how to make your favourite dish even though he’d showed up the next day with cuts all over his fingers. You couldn’t precisely distinguish exactly when and what because the details seemed so futile in the bigger picture; it was every day and everything about Jungwoo. It was simply because he was Jungwoo, and who needed anything more?

“So, how is it?” he probed as you sipped on the hot chocolate thoughtfully. “Good, right?”

After a bit of consideration, you nodded slowly, deliberately. A coquettish smile presented itself, pulling at the ends of your lips. “A little.”

“A little? Yeah right,” scoffed Jungwoo, ridiculed. “Let me have a taste.”

You passed him the mug, his icy fingers brushing against yours; a whisper of a touch, or a stirring in the winter air.

Jungwoo had said sip, but he took more of a swig, swallowing the drink down with haste. “Liar. It tastes amazing.”

His tongue, the colour of the bubblegum he used to steal from Kun’s backpack to split with you after school, peeked out to lap up the chocolate smeared across his top lip. He missed a spot. You leant forward without prior thought, like the two of you were once again just little kids wreaking havoc at the park or sharing ghost stories in the pitch black of midnight, not the adults you were now, the ones who snuck fleeting glances, heavy with yearn, temptation threatening to strike like an icicle dangling precariously on the side of a rooftop.

“You missed a spot,” you echoed. Your proximity rammed into you like a freight train and you had to physically remind yourself to breathe. Jungwoo had the prettiest eyes. They reminded you of the gold necklace he bought for your fifteenth birthday, the one that still hung around your neck, hidden by the collar of your sweater, cold on your heated skin. The light reflecting off his pupils were brittle snowflakes, the ones drifting down that you and him had cupped in your palms last year; so beautiful and delicate.

You swiped the corner of his lip, your eyes never leaving his. He gaped at you with all the restraint he could muster. Evidently, it wasn’t enough.

Cautiously, experimentally, he cupped your cheek. You settled the weight of your face into it; a silent message.

“I know your brother told me not to pull anything,” he murmured, “but I can’t help myself.”

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clearlynotjanus · 3 years

Text

Loceit Week Day 7 Teaser: Anniversary

This one got really long & admittedly I still need to give it one more pass through before I can be really happy with it, but for all intents & purposes, this one's complete enough to be put here! I found myself really disappointed with how this fic unfurled over the last two months of writing it & I came to the conclusion that Loceit is just a ship that isn't well portrayed through the same kind of big conversational moments that Moceit shined in. That being said, I'm still proud of the writing & hope people enjoy it anyway!

Anyway enjoy this teaser! & as always, if you’d like to be on my tag list to be @’d in works like this as well as my fic related stuff, give this linked post a like or send me a message. If you have any questions or suggestions, my ask box is always open! If you would like to get the rest of this fic early access, please consider subscribing to my Patreon. If you’d just like to support my work or request a writing commission, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi. Thanks so much for being an awesome audience 💛

CW: Anxiety, crying Word Count: 5960 (Teaser: 1223) Genre: Hurt/Comfort Rating: Teen Ships: Loceit

@sanderssidesangsttrash @catalinaacosta @whatishappeningrightnow @anxiousbean4404 @vexelore @the-dead-and-the-decaying @serpentinesomebody @poptartsaysurloved @robertdownerjr @dangitsbrightinhere @iamuncomffy @sanderdarksides @evertriedsoywithyourpopcorn @dragonfander @virgilstarantula @a-rudethude @indubitably-emo @gay-artist-626 @cosplayhanna @edupunkn00b @wouldntyou-liketoknow @awesomerandomgirl1

“What happened that day?” He asked in a hushed tone, respecting the intimacy of the topic.

“Remus never told you?” Logan replied, finding that hard to believe.

“He did. He told me how it went for him. Patton told me his experience as well.”

“So you already know.”

“I don’t know your experience,” Janus insisted and Logan’s brows furrowed.

“Are you implying that my experience differed from everyone else’s?” Defensiveness crept into his voice despite himself. Janus shook his head.

“Everyone’s experience differs every day,” He paused and Logan rolled his eyes at the ambiguity. “You were the youngest,” Janus conceded, spelling out what he meant. “Of course your experience was different.”

Logan sighed and pushed down his guard. Janus was right. It made sense that his perception of that day might contrast greatly with the others’, as much as he didn’t like to think it did. Logan stared at the floor, his eyes becoming distant as the scene of that day played out.

The voices in the hall had woken him up. Logic blinked at his clock; it was just after seven, which was fine enough. The alarm would’ve woken him up in half an hour anyway. It was mostly Creativity’s voice he could hear, though nonspecifically. If someone was responding, Logic couldn’t make it out. “I woke up to Remus’ voice in the hall at seven-thirteen that morning,'' Trying to tune into the words echoing from outside his door, he sat up and felt his stomach lurch oddly. A sense of foreboding filled him. “I got out of bed and went into the hall.”

“You didn’t change first or brush your teeth?”

“No,” Logan blinked at the interruption, his tone suddenly tinged with offense.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” He rushed in frustration. “Why?” He flipped the question with venom.

“It’s just,” Janus shifted against the couch, his tone thoughtful. “You always insisted on doing that, every morning. Before you did anything else,” Janus chuckled at the memory. “You’d come out of your room, already dressed, and head right to the bathroom, no matter what was going on.” Logan’s forehead creased deeply; did he used to do that? It sounded very much like him, but the way Janus described it almost felt foreign. “So I’m just wondering,” his voice and expression gained an edge as he reached his point. “Why did you skip that on this particular morning?”

Logan debated the question. The answer that immediately came to mind was because he heard Remus’ voice and he had sounded angry, but Logan could tell there was a deeper response Janus was asking for. He attempted to recall the exact sensations of the morning; mild annoyance at being woken up, a stomach ache that crept up on him as the minutes ticked by, a slightly quickened heartbeat ...

“I was worried,” Logan realized in a whisper at the floor. He pulled in a quick breath as he met Janus’ eyes again. “Something felt...wrong, and I wanted to know what was happening first.” Janus gave a small smile and nodded deeply.

“Continue.”

Logan licked his lips and turned away again.

Remus stood over Morality, who was disheveled on the floor with strips of what appeared to be paper in his hands. Roman seemed to be half heartedly holding Remus back with a loose grip on his shoulder. The scene wasn’t incredibly new; Creativity and Morality rarely got along, though usually it was Self Preservation that intervened. Logic wondered sleepily where the older Side was, figuring it’d be wise to intervene in the meantime regardless. “I saw Remus, Roman, and Patton in the hall, outside where your door used to be.”

“Did you notice it was missing instantly?”

“No,” Logan whispered, shaking his head. “Creativity, what are you doing to Morality?” The tensions remained high as he approached with caution. Not even Morality looked up.

“Nothin’,” Remus continued to glare down at the crumpled teen. Confusion crossed Logic’s expression; clearly something was going on. Context clues provided enough evidence that it was Remus who instigated it, but Logic didn’t want to believe that. As brash as Creativity was, he wasn’t mean usually. If he was hurting Morality, there was probably a reason. “But you should ask him what he did with Pwezzi.”

“Self Preservation?” Logic looked at the empty wall finally, realizing chunks of the wallpaper were missing where his door usually stood. The drywall stared back at him solemnly. “Ah,” He said, deflating all the air in his lungs. Logic’s heart sank as he suddenly understood, feeling very stupid for not having noticed the glaring inconsistency sooner. “His door is missing?”

“It...wasn’t until I had asked Remus what he was doing to Patton that I understood.” “Yupp,” Remus’ tone was caustic and impatient. Logic frowned. Why was he blaming Morality for this? Were they not equally upset?

“He blamed Patton,” Janus continued the scene from what he knew from the other points of view. “Did you?”

“No,” He answered automatically. “Well, there’s no need to hurt Morality for that,” Logic rushed, “I bet he has an explanation, you just haven’t given him time to say it,” At least Logic wanted to believe that Morality had an explanation. He wasn’t the greatest at explaining himself or anything in general really, but if he were the first to realize Self Preservation had gone missing, then surely he had something useful to say. “Morality?” Logic pressed, feeling his own impatience rise. He leaned to the side to meet Patton’s eyes, goading, or perhaps begging him to please, for once speak clearly. “Care to explain what’s going on?”

“I mean, yes, in a way and for the most part after a while, but,” Logan’s voice abruptly cut off. The words on his tongue tasted bitter like bile; like his insides were forcibly regurgitating a truth that had settled deep in his stomach lining, forming a heavy pit for the last fifteen years. Logan’s eyes burned again as he looked down at his white-knuckled hands. His lips quivered with restraint. Suddenly the room felt far too hot.

“Who did you blame at first?” Janus whispered and Logan exhaled a sob as his head fell.

Patton didn’t have anything to say that morning, or any morning as the days trudged on. In Logic’s young mind, the memory never made much sense, and no recount of the event was ever given. Days turned into weeks into months; mild misunderstandings with Morality turned into arguments into fights. Months morphed into years and adolescence had nothing good to offer for Logic who began equating emotions with childishness. He shoved his down and forced a neutral expression. The world was splitting; serious or silly, repressed or emotive. Though deep down Logic knew better, he lacked the nuance it took to convince Morality otherwise. A nuance that existed in another Side, one that was now gone. One that had, in all of Logic’s conceivable and unexplained perception of reality, left. The one that had left Logic alone to fend for himself against the wolves of black and white thinking. Doomed him to inadequacy.

“You,” The word spilled out in a pitchy tone that Logan didn’t identify with as tears quickly fogged his glasses. Disdainfully he discarded them and in the same motion, Janus reached to place a reassuring hand between Logan’s shoulder blades.

#loceit #logan x janus #tss fanfic #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #fic teaser #loceit week

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cherrypieships · 3 years

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the amusement park: chapter one

A/N: Hi all! This is my first fic posted here on my self ship blog! I’m really proud of this story, it’s gonna be a two-parter.

Ship: davey jacobs x pepper simmons (s/i), featuring my best friend V and my gf Khourey and their respective f/os, race higgins and jack kelly!

Summary: Some of the newsies head to Canobie lake's haunted house/amusement park. Pepper and Davey are the only non-couple.

The backseat of Race’s mom’s minivan was one of the last places Pepper wanted to be at 7 o’clock on a Friday morning. Yet here she was, awaiting their arrival to Canobie Lake Park’s annual Screemfest as she got crammed in next to Davey Jacobs.

Not that she disliked Davey. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Pepper liked Davey a whole lot. And that was exactly the problem. Here she was, in such close proximity to him that their knees knocked together every time Violet hit a pothole, harbouring a gigantic crush on her best friend. And everyone in the car knew beside him. And they were totally fifth- and sixth-wheeling on this trip.

It was fine.

Besides, Pepper was willing to endure a few hours pining quietly if it meant she could go on some sick roller coasters. So she sucked it up and tucked quietly into her seat.

Mickey turned around from the middle row and handed Pepper a piece of her chocolate croissant. “You cold back there?” She asked, wild red curls framing her face as she spoke.

After popping the pastry into her mouth, Pepper shrugged. “I’m fucking always cold.”

Jack tugged his hat up from where it rested over his eyes. “That is a fair point, she is always cold.” He said pointedly, and yelped when Pepper flicked the back of his head.

“I have poor circulation, dickhead.” She whined.

Race snickered from the passenger seat. “Good thing my dickhead doesn’t have poor circulation.” He quipped.

Though Pepper couldn’t see it, she could feel Violet rolling their eyes at their boyfriend. “I’m gonna file for divorce, Race.” They picked up their coffee and took a brief sip. “And I’m taking the kids.”

Beside her, Davey was digging around in the duffel bag he’d brought for the ride. He’d described it to Pepper as a ‘Minor Catastrophe Bag’, with a tiny first aid kit, nail clippers, some snacks, ibuprofen, pads, and a pair of tweezers. As much as she would have loved to gently bully him for being such a mother hen, she knew she’d be thanking him later through an inevitable headache. He straightened, finally, and emerged with a sweater. “Um, if you’re really cold,” He held it out to her. “You can wear this. It’s my backup but I’m pretty warm.” He said.

Pepper took the sweater in both hands with a gentle smile, trying to ignore the soft brush of his fingertips against hers. “You sure?” As much as she would love to immediately engulf herself in his clothes, it was Mid-October and she didn’t want to steal Davey’s source of warmth from him.

Like usual, he waved off her gentle concern. “I have my jacket and I’m wearing layers.” He explained, pushing the sweater towards her.

She took it in her hands, hoping and praying that the heat in her face wasn’t visible. “If you insist.” The teasing was playful, as it always had been. Their friendship had existed for years, the product of a few friend groups merging and discovering that they fit like puzzle pieces. Davey always gave up his cherry Starbursts to Pepper because they were her favorite. Pepper let Davey borrow her favorite poetry books. They spent summers at the pool together. Had napped, cried, laughed, celebrated together for what seemed like forever.

So why did wearing his clothes make her so much more flustered than anything before?

She slid the sweater on, enveloping herself in his scent- oh Christ she was dying- and did actually feel much better. Even though the dark blue didn’t exactly match her outfit.

Davey smiled at her. “When will you learn to dress for the weather?” He admonished gently.

“That’s why I keep you around.” Pepper said, rather than admitting that she was just forgetful and liked her outfit too much.

“Davey’s new occupation: Pepper’s coat rack.” Violet chimed in, handing their phone to Race to switch the song that was playing.

Davey sighed. “I’m really putting that college education to good use.”

The rest of the car ride went by relatively quickly, much to Pepper’s delight. They hopped out into the cool autumn air, cracked their cramped joints, and headed into the park. Davey thankfully left most of his supplies in the trunk of the minivan (save for the ibuprofen he’d managed to sneak into Pepper’s purse just in case), so they’d made it through security and into the place without much fuss as well.

Jack, ever the natural born leader of the bunch, snagged a map and immediately started planning their route for the day. He unfurled it in front of the group and, as Mickey curled into his side, eyed the pathways and rollercoasters thoughtfully. “So do you guys wanna start at the front and work our way back? Or the other way around?”

There was a beat of silence as everyone worked the thought over. “We should just head towards the back, I think everyone’s gotta start testing the rides first anyway.” Mickey piped up first.

Davey nodded. “Gives us more time.” He added.

They made the trek towards the back of the park, Mickey and Jack leading with the map.

Race sidled up beside Pepper and hip-checked her. “You been to these haunted houses before?” He asked, making reference to the night-time festivities. Once the sun set, the park released creepily-costumed actors to scare those who stayed, and previously blocked-off areas were transformed into small haunted houses. Truthfully, Pepper had never been to any haunted house, let alone ones set up at an amusement park.

So, she shook her head. “It’s my first haunted house, actually.” Something she’d confided in Mickey and Vi about.

Race feigned a gasp. “Well ain’t this a hell of a place to start!” He elbowed her, and she returned the gesture, their own weird little handshake.

“Are you serious?” Davey asked, his own elbow catching her shoulder, fucking ow, he’s bony.

Pepper nodded. “I was too scared when I was a kid, and then when I stopped being a baby, all that stuff with my mom happened, so I just never went.”

Davey hummed in acknowledgement, evidently eager to skip past the whole ‘my-mom-is-ill’ conversation. “Ah, well. If you need a buddy, I’m sure we’ll be left alone. Together.” He said, his head tilting to their friends, who had once again broken off into couples, leaving them to their own devices.

Shoving the impending smile down, she nodded. “I’m sure we will.”

“Well, we have a good, um,” He checked the watch on his wrist (the one with the brown leather strap that he wore with every outfit, even if Pepper told him it didn’t match, or that it was too clunky.) “Like, ten hours before we need to even think about that.”

She crumpled into a fit of giggles. “Perfect. I’m sure we’ll spend that time wisely.” She swatted his arm as he shoved his watch in front of her face.

---

They did not.

Six and a half hours later, the group stood in line at one of the concession stands, staring at the menu and nodding to the song playing in the background; some mid-2010s Kesha track that was making Vi go absolutely crazy.

Jack squinted at the chalkboard. “They don’t even have chicken tenders here?” He nudged Race. “They don’t even have chicken tenders here.”

Race nodded slowly, also squinting. Pepper wondered, briefly, if the pair needed glasses or if they were just trying to look contemplative. “Mickey’s gonna call it homophobic, you know.” He said.

“It is!” Mickey called dutifully from the table they had snagged for the gang to inevitably sit at. “I’ll take some cheese fries though!” To which Jack nodded and stepped up to the worker behind the plexiglass, beginning to list off the group’s orders.

Vi’s voice floated through Pepper’s ears. “Oh what a shame that you came here with someone,” they approached her, eyes closed and hands up by their shoulders as they got all the way into their performance. “My god, if they have candy apples at a stall somewhere, I’m gonna go buckwild.” They said suddenly, snapping out of their trance to stare at Pepper expectantly.

Before she could say anything, though, Davey stole the words from her mouth. “You are allergic to apples, V.” He chided, maybe more kindly than Pepper would have put it, but she was willing to overlook it for the sake of the way a small smile pulled at his mouth.

Violet dropped their hands. “Only a little bit.” They argued.

“A little bit allergic.” Davey repeated, and Pepper pressed her lips together firmly to fight off the grin at the exasperation in his voice.

“To apples, yes.” They nodded, and, evidently done with arguing, turned to keep Mickey company at the table.

Davey turned to Pepper, disbelief crossing his features. “Can you believe-”

“Yes.” She cut him off. “Yes I absolutely can believe it.” Pepper said, digging through her memory of the times V had pulled some similar shit; eating eleven mozzarella sticks despite their lactose intolerance, buying a Panic! At The Disco vinyl despite wanting Brendon Urie dead, and spending $40 on a Funko Pop figure of Spiderman Noir for no real reason other than some guy at a convention told them to.

Jack turned to his friends. “Okay I did the ordering, someone else has to do the collecting.” He announced, shoving the receipt with the order number on it towards Davey, who had inadvertently become Second In Command. Then, with a signature Jack Kelly Smug Smile, he stalked off to where V and Mickey were seated, Race following behind.

Great, Pepper thought, another conveniently timed moment alone with Davey. Briefly, she wondered if her friends had planned this ahead of time, and then she came to her senses and realized that yes, of course they had. Those conniving little weasels had been conspiring to get Davey to like her since senior prom.

She still remembered the way Mickey had shoved Davey at her when a slow song came on that night. Work Song by Hozier had drifted over the speakers, and V’s elbow caught her in the ribs as they growled a furious “Dance with him or I’ll fucking kill you.” and skipped off to sway with Racer. Pepper had stood on the dance floor, gaping as she watched Jack wink at Vi. Those two never got along about anything.

Davey’s hand had entered her field of vision, skin almost glowing under the light of the mirrorball. He’d smiled sheepishly, admitted that this was one of his favorite songs, and asked if she’d like to share a dance.

The strange thing was, she didn’t actually like Davey before that. At least she thought she didn’t. It wasn’t until she was cradled close to his chest, breathing in the smell of his soap and some soft, powdery cologne he frequented, that she found her heart pounding and her palms going clammy. And when he’d started humming against her hair, one hand in hers and the other around her waist, she knew she was absolutely fucked.

She’d started thinking about it and, yeah, it made sense to want to be with Davey. Handsome Davey, who sometimes made her laugh until soda came out her nose, and whose affinity for children’s cartoons made him the ideal conversation partner. Three years later, she was still in love with him.

And it was all her stupid, evil friends’ faults.

Back in the present, Davey tucked his hands in his pockets, his lips twisting as he lost himself in thought. “We’re gonna have so much shit to carry.” He murmured, exasperated at being the ones left behind.

“We sure are. At least you and Jack ordered drinks, so that’s more stuff to spill.” She twisted a long strand of hair around her finger.

Davey scoffed good-naturedly. “Yeah well you made me leave my water bottle in the car so I needed to be hydrated somehow.”

Pepper kicked at his shin with the toe of her sneaker. “And a caramel hot chocolate is the best way to stay hydrated?” She grinned up at him, watching him tuck the receipt into his back pocket and start moving for the pick-up window as the drink in question was called out.

He hummed in assent. “You bet it is.” He picked up the paper cup, taking a short sip and licking at his bottom lip. Pepper ignored the urge to run her thumb across it.

She must have been staring, because after a second, Davey held the cup out towards her. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. She loved chocolate and caramel, and always ran cold. He knew there was no way she’d have turned down a sip if he’d offered, so he must have decided to save his breath. She took the cup in her hands, the warmth emanating from it seeping pleasingly into her palms, and took a sip as well, subconsciously hoping to taste more than the drink. She licked her lips.

Davey watched her intently. He opened his mouth, ready to say something to her, when the order bell rang out. “Order sixty-nine!” The college girl behind the counter announced.

“Oh, fuck yes.” Race cackled from the table. V leaned into him, trying to hide their own laughter as Mickey gave him a high-five.

Pepper sighed, she should’ve known that would be their luck. The pair of them moved forward, Davey pushing in front of her to grab the tray before she could even reach for it. “I got it.” He mumbled, holding onto the plastic tray like a nervous Disney-Channel-Original-Movie teenager. “Grab the drinks, don’t worry about it.” And then he smiled up at her, a closed-lipped little smile that made her heart race as she picked up Jack’s orange soda.

Behind her, someone clicked their tongue. Pepper turned, making immediate eye contact with an older lady with greying black hair and soft folds in her skin, who gave her a knowing smile. “And they say chivalry is dead. You got yourself a sweet one, honey.” She said, then winked.

Pepper’s jaw went slack trying to think of a response. She turned back to Davey, whose eyebrows were so far up his face that they were basically in his hairline. “Oh God,” he said simply, “Um, thank you, ma’am.”

The woman laughed softly, leaned over and patted Pepper’s shoulder as if she knew something Pepper didn’t, and then disappeared into the line to order food.

There was a long, silent moment, where Pepper was racking her brain, searching every corner for something to say that would shift the air, move the mood from awkward to playful with a joke of some sort. She looked at him again, and he was staring at her, unblinking. There was a funny look on his face- regret maybe- his eyebrows low and his eyes a little soft. She wondered, distantly, if he was realizing that she was in love with him; if it was a look of pity-

“Hurry up with my goddamn cheese fries!” Mickey yelled, their hunger obviously taking control over their inhibition.

Without a second thought, Pepper turned on her heel and walked to where their friends were, leaving Davey and the unnerving encounter behind.

#pls drop a like/rb if you read! i'm really proud of this one!#davey #olive talks #my fic #the amusement park

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black-paraphernalia · 3 years

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There are so many similarities from 1968 and 2020 when it comes to protesting for civil rights and the disparities between color within the judicial system. Read and research the information and come to your own conclusions.

Also consider how then and now all roads lead to the political government system and what ever happen to judge Julius Hoffman for his racist behavior- Nothing ! not a damn thing, and what was horrible and sad was and still is, he stayed on the bench with his racist view of the law and when judging exemplified the very definition to the word Kangaroo Court.

Court in which the principles of law and justice are disregarded or perverted 2: a court characterized by irresponsible, unauthorized, or irregular status or procedures 3. An unfair, biased, or hasty judicial proceeding that ends in a harsh punishment; an unauthorized trial conducted by individuals who have taken the law into their own hands, such as those put on by vigilantes or prison inmates; a proceeding and its leaders who are considered sham, corrupt, and without regard for the law.

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The 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago is most-remembered for what happened on the streets outside of it, “One day in Grant Park somebody took down a flag and the police used that as an excuse to go through the crowd beating people with nightsticks,” recalls John Froines, who helped organize the DNC anti-war demonstrations with Rennie Davis of the National Mobilization Committee to End the War in Vietnam.

“Rennie Davis and I were hit on the head with night sticks.”Froines, who is now a professor emeritus of the UCLA Fielding School of Public Health, wasn’t arrested that day. But a year later, the U.S. government accused him, Davis and six other men of conspiring to incite a riot at the DNC. The others were Bobby Seale, co-founder of the Black Panther Party; David Dellinger, a longtime anti-war activist; Tom Hayden, cofounder of Students for a Democratic Society; Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin, founders of the Youth International Party (whose members were called “yippies”); and Lee Weiner, who had volunteered as a marshal for the DNC demonstrations to help with crowd control.

The evidence against the Chicago Eight, as they became known, was always slim. None were convicted of conspiracy, and although five of them were convicted of inciting a riot, an appellate court dismissed the charges because it found that the judge had been biased against them. Fifty years later, here’s why the Chicago Eight trial that opened on September 24, 1969 was such a big deal.

1. The Chicago Eight were the first people tried under the first federal anti-riot law.Anti-riot laws were all at the local or state level until the passage of the 1968 Civil Rights Act, which included a provision making it illegal to cross state lines to incite a riot.

2. Prominent voices challenged the legitimacy of the anti-riot law The New York Review of Books arguing that the anti-riot law set a dangerous precedent. “The effect of this ‘anti-riot’ act is to subvert the first Amendment guarantee of free assembly by equating organized political protest with organized violence,” It read. “Potentially, this law is the foundation for a police state in America.

There was a clear cultural clash between the judge and the defendants. Judge Julius Hoffman,. In one instance, they showed up to court wearing judicial robes to protest Judge Julius Hoffman’s decision to revoke Dellinger’s bail. When the judge demanded they remove their robes, they took them off and stomped on them. Underneath, they were wearing Chicago police uniforms.

Another time, Hoffman unfurled a National Liberation Front (aka “Viet Cong”) flag on the defense table, and engaged in a tug-of-war over it with a court marshal who tried to remove it. Sharman says the media tended to emphasize moments like these because they were so unusual. However, he thinks it’s important to understand these incidents in the context of the judge’s behavior toward the defendants. “Even on the first day, Tom Hayden gave a fist salute to the jury and he was given a contempt of court citation,” he says. “It was like nothing could be done without the judge sort of stamping on them, so that sort of encouraged them to do it, I think.” By the end of the trial, the judge had charged all of the Chicago Eight as well as defense attorneys William Kunstler and Leonard Weinglass with contempt of court.

4. The judge ordered Bobby Seale to be chained and gagged in court. Courtroom drawing of Bobby Seale bound and gagged during the trial, by argues Hoffman and Rubin’s robe incident “was basically a minor disruption,” and that “the main event in terms of disruption was Bobby Seale being chained and gagged. Seale—the sole black defendant—called him a racist, and continued his attempts to represent himself in court. On October 29, about a month after the trial started, the judge became irate and ordered staffers to chain Seale to his chair and gag him so he couldn’t speak anymore.

A week after Judge Hoffman first chained and gagged Seale in court, the judge sentenced Seale to four years in prison for contempt of court. He also declared a mistrial in Seale’s case and removed him from the trial, turning the Chicago Eight into the Chicago Seven. Judge Hoffman intended to try Seale separately for conspiracy in a new trial next year. However, after a jury failed to convict the Chicago Seven of conspiracy, the U.S. attorney in Chicago told Judge Hoffman that “it would be inappropriate to try Seale alone on a conspiracy charge,” and the judge dropped Seale’s charges

6 To make this point, the defense called over 100 witnesses, many of whom had been in Chicago during the protests. At the time, a lot of prominent writers and performers were involved with the anti-war movement, and the witness list reflected this. The court heard testimony from comedian Dick Gregory,

7. The conservative judge’s disdain for the defendants helped overturn the convictions. Portrait of the Chicago Seven and their lawyers as they raise their fists in unison outside the courthouse where they were on trial for conspiracy and inciting a riot during the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago, Illinois, 1969. Judge Hoffman sentenced the five convicted men to five years in prison and gave each a $5,000 fine .

Two years later, an appellate court threw out all of the convictions and the sentences Judge Hoffman had handed down—including Seale’s four years for contempt—citing the fact that the judge had been obviously biased against the defendants. At one point, Judge Hoffman even prevented former attorney general Ramsey Clark from testifying in front of the jury in favor of the defense, arguing that Clark had nothing useful to say.

Excerpts from History.com

Part 1

Black Paraphernalia Disclaimer - Images from Google

#black paraphernalia #same old same old #different day same face of racism #this is america

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lilydalexf · 4 years

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Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Mary Ruth Keller

Mary Ruth Keller has 42 stories at Gossamer, plus her stories are at AO3. She's written a number of short standalone stories, but she's thought through the X-Files mythology and written about it probably as much as anybody ever has. So if you want to dive into the mythology and all its drama, you need to go read her mythology fics ASAP. (But read this long, interesting interview first!) Big thanks to Mary Ruth for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)?

Quite frankly, yes. The Kuxan Sum Cycle branches off the actual series following the Third Season episode Syzygy. I took the myth-arc as it stood at that time, post Nisei-731, and the agents in mid-Rift. Although I didn’t quite realize it when I started out, I was most interested in moving the myth-arc forward in a continuously unfurling narrative, one where Scully and Mulder became an effective investigative team who support each other as partners and friends again. After I started writing in my little corner of the X-F universe in 1996, there was a lot of stuff on the show that just happened, with no real storytelling logic to it I could fathom, but that seemed to be popular. I stopped writing in 2000 because I was frantically busy at my new job (which consumed far too many twelve-plus-hour workdays and weekends) and because my sister and I were trying to take care of my elderly, increasingly frail, Mother. So, I never expected, when I started writing in 2018 and posting again in 2019 (I reposted all my stories, in order, to AO3 and fanfiction.net, because Chermera would never have made sense without them) for readers to take an interest in myth-arc and character issues that the series writers had simply abandoned to go chase, well, anything else, especially if it made no coherent sense whatsoever. What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it?

The fandom was a lot of fun. There were many interesting, engaging discussions I took part in with other fans of the show, some of whom I am still in touch with.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)?

All of the above. I spent a lot of time discussing writing and characters with other writers on ATXC, except when I was actively working on my novels. Since I was doing basic research into microwave remote sensing of the Earth while working at the Naval Research Laboratory at the time – yes, I was one of those dreaded Department of Defense scientists the show had a love/hate relationship with – my writing happened at night and on weekends. Novels, especially the longer ones, take me about a year from first words on disk until release, which meant I didn’t have all the time to participate on-line as I would have otherwise. But, I enjoyed chatting with the fellow denizens of the Endies Board, and on the EMXC, Scullyfic, and Je Souhaite mailing lists. I’ve saved some of those posts and conversation threads on my older computers, where it’s fun re-reading them from time to time. What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general?

There were a lot of generous, funny, very intelligent fans involved with X-F back then (not that there aren’t now; there are, of course). I started writing because I wanted to get the myth-arc and the characters back on-track, the long-term story moving forward and the agents again being the smart investigators I loved hanging out with on Friday nights. But, outside of having read a lot of myth, literature, fiction, and non-fiction, I didn’t know enough about the mechanics of writing fiction. Several authors were willing to help out, some explicitly through E-mail conversations, and some from general comments about crafting stories that were posted to ATXC. I had a real problem with how I initially handled dialog, which I had some E-mail guidance on, that was very much appreciated. I also had two quite diligent beta readers, one an on-line fan, and one a real-life friend, both male, who helped me with the direction of the Scully-Mulder half of Anath. I was, at the time, utterly exasperated with how the pair of them had become such complete morons on the series, both totally incapable of investigating anything successfully, which was affecting my writing the characters in that story. What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show? Ooh, boy. I’d like to say I started watching with the show with the Pilot, but I didn’t, quite. Tom Shales was the Washington Post TV critic at the time the Pilot aired – yes, not only was I a government scientist, I was living in Alexandria, Virginia, in 1992. He was intrigued by the characters and premise and found Duchovny and Anderson engaging while playing their roles. At the time, I was wrapped up trying to work on a PhD while still employed at NRL, so I tucked the review away, waiting until I had Friday nights free to check it out. I’m a great lover of science fiction, so I thought to give the show a try, eventually. [Lilydale note: I found a couple things Tom Shales wrote about The X-Files premiere in 1993: Fall 1993 TV preview article and a “Pilot” episode review.]

The first episode I sat down to watch was the First Season Darkness Falls, where Mulder and Scully get trapped at the logging camp with the Earth Firster, Doug Spinney, the logging executive, Steve Humphries, the Forest Ranger, Larry Moore, and the gooey green bugs. I was amazed by that story. It was as perfect a little piece of science fiction as I have seen on TV (except for one bit toward the end), with an environmental moral to it as well, where all the characters make good and bad choices, and they all suffer or succeed because of them.

What hooked me, really hooked me, were the first/second acts, specifically, Dana Scully’s actions, once they find the desiccated logger in the tree. The investigation is handled logically, in that it’s not the big male agent who goes shinnying up the trunk to look at the evidence while everyone else stands around watching and wailing, “Whatever shall we do!” No, it’s little Dana Scully who takes the ride to the upper branches. This made oodles of sense, in that she was this tiny woman whom two men could lever up that far with a rope, a hand winch, and pulleys. When she gets there, after grimacing (who wouldn’t, considering what she saw), she starts investigating. She does an on-the-spot post-mortem exam, while Mulder makes an ooky male-body-parts joke, but everyone takes her results seriously. I was thrilled. Here was a female character I could really relate to, someone who could hold her own in a difficult situation, unlike most of those on the tube, then or now.

I made a point, over the following summer, of watching as many re-runs as I could, catching up on the episodes and characters. The stories ran to science fiction and horror, which are my preference. Further, although there was an emphasis on the paranormal, several of the first season episodes were written so both Mulder’s wanting-to-believe-but-needing-proof intuitive, emotional approach and Scully’s logical, scientific, justice-oriented viewpoint each got the narrative coherently from initial crime to identifying and apprehending a suspect. It was some spectacular, complex writing, and I was hooked, hopelessly hooked. I discuss this some on my old author web-page, which still exists, courtesy of the Wayback machine), so I won’t belabor it. What got you involved with X-Files fan-fic? The shenanigans within the Third Season, quite honestly. The myth-arc wasn’t moving forward, as it had during the Second Season, which I really couldn’t understand. Carter had given us this bang-up start in the ABC Trilogy with all these new fictional possibilities to explore, but instead, bupkis. The MOTW’s were retreads with no depth or moral/ethical weight to them, except for Darin’s stories. The intelligent agents I had enjoyed spending time with while they pursued their oddball investigations were evaporating before my eyes. Mulder had always been this deeply intuitive character who cared about others and knew he could get it wrong, so needed Scully’s logic in their investigations, even if he didn’t always want to hear her observations and questions. But that character was being replaced by a cookie-cutter misunderstood anti-hero, who wasn’t thinking, just running off to chase butterflies, who was always right because he was The Guy. Scully, as an investigator, the little agent who could, was simply being sidelined. Sure, she’d argue with Mulder, but the writers had stopped giving her and her logical viewpoint a real role in their cases, Darin excepted, again. As the series went on, the Agent and Doctor Dana Scully I respected was replaced with this snappish little female whose only notable skill was running in high heels, who spent her time standing around with her arms crossed, and made pruney faces at Mulder if she were required to do any actual investigating. I hated that character, but, apparently, the all-male writing staff just loved her.

I knew about the on-line fandom, so I thought to check out if anybody else had noticed these “improvements.” First, I spent time at ATXF, discussing the changes with the series, that disturbed a lot of folks, not just me. Eventually, I tripped onto ATXC. There were writers there who understood the two characters, quite well, but weren’t that interested in the other problems with the show that bothered me deeply.

Like many fan-fiction writers, I decided to try to bring in, or in my case, bring back, what I was missing in what was being aired. Sins of the Fathers was the result. As I mentioned above, it was a far from perfect story, but I learned much putting it together, and it got a lot of positive feedback. So I kept writing and trying to improve what I wrote. Folks appreciated it, then and now, surprisingly, which was endless encouragement to keep going. What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom? With work and my Mom, as I mentioned above, I dropped out for a few years. My new job is still microwave remote sensing of the Earth, at a University-affiliated laboratory, not working directly for the government, but the NASA/NSF-type funding for the research I like to do is much harder to come by, so it takes up a lot more of my time to keep funded and working. Adding to that, I haven’t found places like ATXC in the 90’s or the Endies Board, but I suppose lightning only strikes once. Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files?

Not really, no. I’ve enjoyed other TV series, but, I never felt those shows were just throwing away essential parts of themselves as X-F did, or, if they went bad, I simply stopped watching them. A fandom is, or can be, a huge time commitment, which, as I’ve noted, I don’t have that much of. I discuss this quite extensively in my author’s notes at the end of Chermera, so I won’t repeat myself. [Lilydale note: the long author notes are at the end of the story’s last chapter, not in the AO3 notes section.] Who are some of your favorite fictional characters? Why?

As a child, I loved reading myths and legends from many different cultures. So many amazing stories, so much that touches on truth. Greek myth, Norse legends, Islamic tales, Celtic fables, all of them. It goes without saying that discovering Tolkien’s fully-realized Middle Earth in my early teens was like falling into an river of endless delights.

In literature, perhaps the character I enjoy most is Sherlock Holmes. On television/in movies, I’d have to say: Beverly Crusher, (early) Dana Scully, Susan Ivanova of Babylon 5, Pa’u Zotoh Zhaan and (early) Aeryn Sun on Farscape, Samantha Carter on Stargate SG-1, Hermione Granger, and most recently, Lagertha on Vikings. Dunno, there might be a pattern there. Possibly. Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully?

Yes, absolutely. I started rewatching the series when it ran on BBC America, enjoying the first two seasons again. I’d actually never stopped thinking about Mulder and Scully; I just lost the time to write about them, until two years ago, when I managed to land some long-term funding so I wasn’t staying up nights writing proposals every few months. I’d have a thought about how to advance the story that became Chermera, so I’d make a mental note and play with it in my head. I also have two more novels and a satyr play left to go in the sequence of stories I want to write, so I’m turning over plot-lines and potential arcs in my head all the time. Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom? I do read X-F fan-fic. Since the series has wandered so far away from what engaged me, and most fan-fic keeps up with that, I don’t read very much. As far as other fandoms, one was enough. Do you have any favorite X-Files fan-fic stories or authors?

Reaching back into the dark ages, I’d say Pellinor and Nascent. They may both be available on Gossamer. [Lilydale note: Fortunately, they are!] What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise? Zurvan is the favorite of my older stories. It, like Twelfth Night (Denha on AO3 to avoid confusion with another X-F story named Twelfth Night), builds on the past stories in their trilogies and brings the overall arc to new places. It’s fun to uncover surprises when writing and develop challenges to address in the future, which both of those stories did. Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online?

I’d certainly like to. I had planned to write three trilogies with their satyr plays, each of them focusing on an aspect of the mythical Triple Goddess: Maiden, Matron, and Crone, in the X-F universe. Only, being me, I turned it around. Sandra Ann Miller (Samantha) is the Maiden, but I’ve just started telling that part of the arc with the transitional Anath and the first trilogy story Chermera. I’m approaching this trilogy as a coherent tale spread across the three novels, which is different from the other two. The Caroline Lowenberg Trilogy didn’t really get organized until Twelfth Night. It was only the third story I’d ever written, so perhaps I can be excused. The Dana Scully Trilogy was all interconnected, but that was more of an organic, rather than a pre-planned and deliberate, effort. I didn’t really grasp the full arc of what I was creating there until I was writing Chermera and looked back over the threads running from Rustic Suite through Anath. The next story in the Sandra Ann Miller Trilogy involves the exposure of the Japanese arm of the Consortium, but, I need to read up on Japanese history, myths and legends, and world view before I write it. After finishing and posting Chermera, that’s what I’ve been doing. The conflict between Amaterasu, the Sun goddess, and her ne’er-do-well brother Susanoo-no-Mikoto, the god of, among other things, storms, marriage, and love, as told in the Kojiki and the Nihongi (both written down in their near-final forms at the same time as we in the West were just recording the first skeletal versions of the Arthurian Legends), will definitely get worked into the Sandra Ann Miller Trilogy. I’m starting to put the arcs and plot-lines together, but, I’m not ready to begin writing yet. Do you still write fic now? Or other creative work? As I’ve discussed, I do. Part of why I take my time is because Mulder and Scully are owed real, challenging cases to solve - the two intelligent agents with their own approaches, strengths, and weaknesses, remember. Partly, because I have original fiction ideas I’d like to pursue. Trying to do the best I possibly can in the sheltered world of X-F where I attempt to create stories with universal themes, well-realized settings, coherent plot-lines, and original characters who resonate with my readers is practice for the original fiction. I’ll never write the Great American Novel (whatever that is), but I’d like to write stories that are as good as I can make them and fun for my readers, so I keep plugging. Where do you get ideas for stories? Reading and thinking, mostly. I try to look for ideas that haven’t been done to death, or different approaches to old themes. I have four original novels I scribble mental notes on. After I bring this myth-arc I’ve been working on to its (to me) logical resolution, I hope I’ll be able enough of a writer to get started on them. What's the story behind your pen name? Actually, it’s my real name. At the time I started writing, I didn’t think to do anything else. On ATXC and Gossamer, I wrote several of the shorts that are separate from the Kuxan Sum Cycle under the pen name Lise Meitner. She was a Twentieth Century theoretical physicist who explained nuclear fission, then was cut out of a Nobel prize because the judges of her day thought Marie Curie and Irene Joliot-Curie were “enough” women physicists working in radioactivity to be so honored. [Lilydale note: here’s her Wikipedia page. Among many other fascinating things talked about there, she was nominated for the Nobel Prize 48 times in two different categories and had the 109th chemical element, meitnerium, named after her. She also escaped Nazi Germany in a plot involving trains, boats, planes, and an emergency diamond ring. You really ought to read about her.] Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions?

I’d shared the first five of my novels with my family back in 1996. They liked them, my sister especially. I’m not sure they knew what to make of them. I haven’t shown them to my in-laws, but, I think my sister-in-law found them on her own. We haven’t discussed them, as they aren’t her usual preference, which is Romance. One distant blood relation was thrilled to discover them on-line and wrote me about them. My sister, though, is my (self-admitted) biggest fan. When we were kids, she and I shared a bedroom, where I’d make up stories to tell her at night so she could fall asleep. She and I correspond regularly by E-mail (she’s in Florida and I’m in Maryland). Back while I was working my way through Chermera, she asked out of the blue if I was ever going to write any more. She was thrilled to hear I had been but she doesn’t have regular Internet access other than at her job. I made printed, bound copies of all my stories to mail to her last Christmas. She loves them, bless her. Is there a place online (tumblr, twitter, AO3, etc.) where people can find you and/or your stories now?

I’ve sent Chermera to Gossamer, but, it hasn’t been updated since July 2018. All the rest of the stories are there.

At AO3, my stories are under: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrkeller. The Kuxan Sum Cycle is linked together at: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555492.

I’ve published the Lise Meitner stories under my own name there: Faustus Mulder; Late Night Thoughts on Evolution, Hard Times, and Lost Pets; You Just Don’t Understand; and Lux Perpetua. Since I could separate out the trilogies into their own cycle, it just made sense.

At fan-fiction.net, they’re under: https://www.fanfiction.net/~maryruthkeller

Again, the Lise Meitner stories are under my own name. Since fanfiction.net doesn’t have a linked series option like AO3, I’ve added a header to all eleven of the stories in the Kuxan Sum Cycle so far explaining the order. The novels all are tagged with thumbnail versions of the covers I made for them. Also, the literary quotes I started each chapter and begin and end each story with, are kept in the AO3 versions, but are removed at fanfiction.net to avoid potential copyright issues. Shakespeare, Christine de Pisan, the Popol Vuh, the Ugaritic myths around Anath, and others are all long out of, or never were in, copyright, of course, but, just to be on the safe side, I’m following fanfiction.net’s rules.

If folks care to write, I’m still at my old eclipse address: [email protected]. Is there anything else you'd like to share with fans of X-Files fic?

Enjoy it, use it as an opportunity to make connections and expand your horizons as a storyteller. Fan-fiction was much more of a home-grown effort back in the 90’s than it is now, when there are how-to books, of all things. But, don’t get so wrapped up one forgets about real life. That’s where all the best stories are.

(Posted by Lilydale on October 27, 2020)

#new post #old school x #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #xf fanfic author interviews #mary ruth keller

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tindomielsilverthorn · 3 years

Text

Void Bolt Ch 9

I have let my writing get posted mainly on our website and have neglected you all! I am sorry! I will try to start catching everything up <3

Chapter 8

As always, these chapters include characters that belong to @devsash.

Niqi pulled out her runestone and set it on the table. Pulling a piece of parchment, she wrote out a few simple words. She folded it gently and brought it to her lips, giving it a soft kiss. She placed it on the stone with a sad smile.

My Dearest Anas and Mehe,

I cannot begin to thank you enough for all that you did for me.

Please let me know when I may send something to you.

I don’t wish to wake Anas.

All of my love,

Niqi

Anas blinked at the runestone as the parchment materialized on it. Picking it up, he unfurled it, his eyes skimming over the words. He pressed his thumb to the rune before saying, "Niqi? Are you there, little one?"

Surprised, Niqi picked up the stone and put her thumb in place. “Anas! You’re awake? Why aren’t you resting? You should be resting.” Her voice was tinged with concern.

He chuckled. "I am, little one, though I'm not tired enough to sleep right now."

She sighed a little, relieved. “Please promise me you aren’t doing too much. You do too much.”

"I'm not." He smiled. "Mehe wouldn't let me. He wants me to rest as well."

She turned the stone in her hands a few times, staring at the surface “All right. Where are you? Can I send some things to you?” Her voice came through clear, but its usual cheerful ring was missing entirely.

"I'm at home." He frowned. "What's wrong, little one?"

“I...no, it’s ok. You don’t need to worry right now.” She set the freshly washed clothes that Mehe had lent her onto the stone and watched as they disappeared.

"TelI me, little one," he said, picking the clothes up from the stone and setting them aside. "Did something happen?"

“I’m afraid to sleep, Anas,” she murmured. “I...I don’t want to...to see him again. And people keep asking what happened and...and,” she sobbed out. She bit down on it hard forcing herself to stop. Taking a few breaths, she whispered, “I just want to forget...” She picked up a small jar of tea leaves and set that on the stone.

"I'm sorry, Niqi. I wish I could give you a hug." Anas blinked at the jar. "Tea leaves?"

“It’s all right,” she replied. “Oh, yes. You remember that nice cool tea I sent you? I thought Mehe and Goldeneyes might like it while they are working outside. Though Goldeneyes might not touch it since it came from me.”

"He might prove hard to convince otherwise, little one." Anas sighed regretfully as he took the jar carefully. "Still, thank you."

“Well, maybe Mehe will like it at least. Just um..” she sniffled. “Steep it strong and then add cool water to it to taste.” She picked up another small jar and placed it on the runestone. Its contents shimmered with swirling light.

"What's that?" Anas peered at the jar as it materialized on the stone.

“A little bit from the moon well? I thought it might help you, I..I wasn’t sure how much is good.” She sighed softly.

He chuckled. "It doesn't really work that way, but thank you Niqi. I really appreciate it."

"Oh..." she replied. "How does it work then?" Her curiosity started getting the better of her. Her voice started to lift a little. “I thought maybe you could drink some of it.”

Anas blinked at the stone before pressing a hand to his mouth in an attempt to stifle his laughter. "Oh Mother Moon," he finally managed, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "No, they're not for drinking, little one."

“Oh...so I guess that little bit doesn’t help much.” She smiled slightly at the shift in his voice. “I guess I cheered you up a little though.”

"You did." He smiled. "Thank you, Niqi."

“Good,” she sighed. “I...I want to try to practice with the shadow again. But it’s not a good idea by myself, is it?”

"Maybe get Tindo to help you with it?" he suggested gently.

“Maybe. She was doing something with the Void I think. Earlier today. I could barely see her through the shadows around her and she was muttering in Shath’yar about locating something.” Niqi shuddered. “Then she banished it all and started writing things down.”

Anas frowned. "That sounds odd. Is she okay?"

“I’m not sure. She seemed a little frantic, so I just told Forosuul and let him take care of it.”

"Right." Anas sighed. "I hope she's okay."

“Me too,” she agreed. “Is that normal? To delve into the Void to find things?” She pulled her legs up under her on the chair.

"Some people do it, but it can be unsafe." Anas carefully set the jar of water on the bedside table. "Mehe tried it as well to find out about his family."

Niqi gasped. “Is that why Gilræn called him ‘Umbric’s plaything’?” She clapped a hand over her mouth.

Anas nodded sadly. "Mehe really wants to find out about his family. Umbric promised that if Mehe assisted him willingly in his experiments, he would help Mehe obtain some information about them from the Void."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have repeated that though. It was not a nice way to put it." She winced. "I really am sorry for how he was treated."

"So am I." Anas sighed. "He doesn't like to talk about it."

"I know," she offered sadly.

He glanced out of the window, to where Mehe and Goldeneyes were working in the garden. "I hope I'll be able to get back to work soon."

Niqi squirmed a little. “I...um...” she sniffled. “I went back today.” Her voice was quiet and small. “I got a big order too. One of your court gowns.”

Anas blinked. "What? So soon? Are you sure you should be working, little one?"

She gently played with the runestone in front of her. “There was no choice, Anas. I had to. It’s been a week, and Wynne...it’s fine, really.”

"Wynne?" Anas's brow knitted. "What did she do? Did she threaten you?"

“It’s ok, Anas. Just get better, that’s what’s important.” She pulled a blanket around her shoulders.

"No, it's not okay," he growled. "You should be resting, Niqi."

“Please don’t be upset, Anas,” she pleaded. “She said one of us had to come back or we would both be fired. I couldn’t just let her do that to you.”

"She said what?!" Anas exclaimed, outraged. Mehe glanced at him through the window in concern.

Niqi shrank, her voice quivering. “Sh-she said we can’t both be out like this… so she… I,” trailing off, she took a deep breath. “I can do it, Anas. I just wanted to make sure she didn’t try to force you to come back yet.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "She can't do this to you. To either of us," he said in a more measured tone.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’m sorry. Please relax, brother. I didn’t mean to upset you,” concerned pain evident in her voice. “But I got another person who likes your designs, that’s good, right,” she asked, trying to change the subject.

"That's not the point, little one." Anas sighed. "Mother Moon. I'd hand in my resignation on the spot if we could get our shop up and running."

Niqi blinked at the stone. “We just need to choose a spot, Anas. The rest is just getting everything delivered.”

He nodded firmly. "I like the one facing Lion's Rest. We should take that and start setting up."

Niqi smiled. “That one was very nice. I’ll see to setting up the orders for things if I get a break tomorrow.” She took out a piece of paper and wrote out a list of items they needed. Setting it on the stone, she giggled. “I need help. I don’t know who the fabric suppliers are.”

"I've already met one in Boralus, though we'll have to see to the other suppliers." Anas smiled at the stone. "If it's all certain, you don't have to go in to work after that. I'd imagine we'll be quite busy getting everything in order and tracking down suppliers."

“Not we, Anas. You have to rest,” she chided.

"I think I've been resting long enough." Anas glanced at the blanket. "Any longer and I'll be bored stiff."

“Are you certain? I don’t want you to push too hard. I have to get that order done anyway. They wanted the gown in a week and a half.” She looked down at her hands, realizing how much they were going to hurt soon. “I spent all day tracing and cutting the pieces.”

Anas shook his head. "Give it back to Wynne. Let her figure it out. We need to see to our shop now."

Niqi laughed aloud. “Anas! She couldn’t make that gown if she had a year!” Pulling the blanket closer around her, she sat thoughtfully for a few minutes. “I wonder...I wonder if I could convince the client to let me finish it. Wynne has the money for the materials. So if I convinced him to demand them, and he brought them to us...”

"I'd rather let Wynne get through it on her own." Anas's face darkened. "Let her understand exactly what she was demanding that you do."

“All right, my brother. All right.” She leaned back against the wall. “I won’t suggest anything to the client. If he comes to us, it will be his choice.”

He nodded, picking up the paper on the stone. "I'll help you with this." He rose from the bed. Stepping towards the window, he waved Mehe inside as Goldeneyes watched curiously.

"Please don't do too much though?" She urged him gently.

"I will as much as I can, little one," he said.

"What would you like me to start with?" She took a new piece of paper and started a numbered list. Her pencil made a soft scratching noise as it moved over the parchment.

"We need to confirm with the landlord that we're taking that place." Anas nodded as Mehe entered the room. "Niqi and I are going to start our shop."

"About damn time." Mehe scowled. "Get out from under that bloody woman's thumb."

"I'll secure it and pay the first few months rent to ensure they don't try to give it to someone else," she jotted it down. "Hello, Mehe. How are you?"

Mehe dusted off his hands. "Doing fine. How are you, Niqi?"

She whispered, "Tired, but managing. I went back to work today."

"So soon?" Mehe threw Anas a concerned glance.

"Not anymore," the Kaldorei said firmly. "I won't let Wynne exploit us any longer."

"Wynne didn't give me a choice, Mehe. She said if I didn't show, she would fire both of us. I was trying to make sure Anas could rest," she offered through a tired yawn.

"Well, you won't have to worry about that anymore, little one." Anas glanced through her list. "We should get started on these in the meantime."

“After I secure the space, I will see if I can hire someone to move your work table,” she marked that down. “What else?”

A very soft knock could be heard. “Miss? Are you in here?” Niqi took a quick, sharp breath before letting it out.

Anas and Mehe glanced at the stone. "Who's that?" the Kaldorei asked.

Gerald inclined his head. “Names Gerald, Sir. Master Kalithil asked that I keep an eye on Miss Niquisse.”

“It’s all right, Anas,” she reassured. “I’m just a little jumpy when I’m alone.”

"Are you a friend of Kalithil's?" Mehe asked.

Gerald chuckled. “Don’t suppose he’s got many that call him friend, ‘cept maybe his wife, sir. I’m part of the guard here. I helped Miss Lilybeth when she had troubles. So he asked me to do the same for Miss Niquisse.”

"Did you need something, Gerald? I was just talking to my brother and Mehe," Niqi asked, not unkindly.

"Just wanted to see if you would be stayin' here tomorrow or going back to Stormwind again. Wasn't sure if I'd be needed." He smiled.

"Will he be coming along with you?" Anas asked curiously.

"I can if she needs me, sir. Master Ælithil took her to work yesterday. But he's got some training to do tomorrow." Gerald stated plainly.

“I...I won’t be at work, it would be a lot of errands, Gerald,” she apologized, sounding completely embarrassed.

Anas glanced at Mehe, who shrugged. "Having someone to help you with errands would be a good idea," he opined.

“You’re probably right...” she nodded.

Gerald bowed and moved for the door. “See you in the morning, Miss.”

“Thanks, Anas. I...feel like I...” she swallowed. “I shouldn’t be scared. But I am. It’s foolish.”

"It's not," Mehe said quietly. "You've been through a terrible ordeal. It's only natural."

“I’m afraid he’s going to find me again,” she whispered. “Æl says they’re gonna find him. But what if...if he...”

"He won't, little one," Anas said gently. "Ælithil would never let that happen on his watch."

She took a shuddering breath, nodding. “Thank you both. I..I’m trying not to let it...” she choked it back. Clearing her throat. “I’m sorry. We were,” she sniffled. “We were talking about the shop. I will umm, get your new work table moved and then what?”

"If you're not feeling up to it, we'll get it all sorted out," Anas offered, glancing at Mehe. The Ren'dorei nodded in agreement.

“I can do some. Please,” she pleaded. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

"Only if you want, Niqi," Mehe said. "Your brother and I don't want you to wear yourself out."

Niqi chuckled mirthlessly. “I need something to do if Æl will be training. But thank you, Mehe. You’re very kind.”

A soft humming from a male voice could be heard from outside the room. Mehe raised an eyebrow. "Is that your friend Gerald?"

“Yes,” she said, smiling slightly. “He’s always humming. Or singing.” She picked up a small purple flower on the table and set it on the stone. “Mehe? Do you know what this is? It’s pretty.”

Mehe lifted the newly materialized flower from the stone, examining it. "Looks like a Twilight Jasmine to me," he said. "Did you recently visit the Twilight Highlands?"

“No, Lilybeth has a garden here full of all sorts of flowers. She grinds them for pigments,” she explained. “Is that where it normally grows? I was thinking, maybe for my wedding?”

"Yeah, they're from that area." He set the flower back onto the stone. "A garden, you say? What other flowers does she grow there?”

"Yes, Niqi. They look perfect for your wedding," Anas said, grinning.

“All kinds of things. There’s something that looks like an orchid, there’s some roses, a few varieties of lilies, ummm...” she stopped suddenly. “I don’t know what the others are.”

"I'd love to see that," Mehe said thoughtfully.

"I will ask if you can visit sometime," she offered.

"That would be nice. Thank you.”

Anas smiled at his mate, placing an arm around the other man's shoulders. "Are you planning on having just those jasmines at your wedding?" he asked, returning his attention to the stone.

“I don’t know. I wanted a couple of things, for variety, but...” she sighed. “I don’t know what would look nice and also smell nice together. The jasmine is pretty with the orchids but the smell together was terrible!” Niqi yawned wide, and shook her head. “Excuse me. I’m sorry,” she whispered.

"You should rest, little one," Anas said, his voice concerned.

“I’m ok...” she murmured, setting her head down on the table in front of her with a soft thud. “I...I don’t want to...” she started to softly snore. The humming from the other room stopped and soft footfalls could be heard approaching.

Mehe's ears twitched. "Is that you, Gerald?"

"Yes'sir. It looks like Miss Niqi fell asleep on the table here," he clicked his tongue. "Hmmm," he shuffled about the room and found the blanket that had fallen from her shoulders. "I'll cover her up and see what the Master thinks I should do. Not sure if I should touch her or not, what with what happened."

"Perhaps that's a good idea," Anas said thoughtfully. "Thank you for looking after my sister, friend."

"Don't mind at all, Sir. She's a sweet soul. Not right someone should hurt her." He picked up the stone. "How do I turn this thing off? So she can rest, I mean."

"Press her thumb against the rune," Mehe instructed.

"Please see that she rests," Anas added.

"I'll try, Sir. 'Cept she's trying not to. You got ideas on how to convince her, I'm all ears." The man sighed. “She just keeps goin’ till she nods off. Then she apologizes for fallin’ asleep.”

"She's afraid to sleep," Mehe murmured. "It was like that when she was here too."

“Hmmm, all right. I’ll see what can be done,” he turned the stone over. “Good night, Sirs.”

"Goodnight," Anas said before severing the connection. Gerald held the stone against Niqi’s thumb and went to find Kalithil.

#World of Warcraft #wra #wraroleplay #Wyrmrest Accord #wyrmrest rp #void elf #ren’dorei #night elf #kaldorei #Niquisse Greythorn #reianas starmane #tailors #Void Bolt Storyline #Meheaaris

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alottanothing · 4 years

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Left to Ruin: Chapter Ten

Summary: Nouke returns to the palace to confront Ahk about his intentions, and worries her heart may shatter. Kahmunrah’s suspicions sink deeper, and someone close to the pharaoh goes missing.

Previous Chapters

Word Count: 5875

Warnings: Bit of sugar 🥰, bit of spice😏, bit of no so very nice 😬 (a n g s t)

Tag List: @xmxisxforxmaybe, @r-ahh-mi, @theultraviolencefan, @hah0106, @rami-malek-trash, @diasimar, @sherlollydramoine, @flipper-kisses, @ivy-miranda-2390, @txmel, @sunkissedmikky, @concentratedsassandcandy, @babyalienfairy, @edteche2 (Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)

A/N: This chapter can be summed up pretty well with the 😬 emoji. But don’t worry, it will get better...eventually.... Also! Thank you to everyone who has been keeping up and commenting/rebloging/Liking. The fact that this has gotten any attention at all warms my heart. 💕 I hope you enjoy this chapter! Once again as a disclaimer, I am not an ancient Egyptian expert and google only knows so much. So yeah, I took so historical liberties while writing this to make my life easier, but tried to keep it as “authentic” as possible

Every part of Nouke’s sensible mind spent the next day trying to curb the growing desire that yearned to see her sweet prince again. From the beginning, her plan was to cut ties with Ahkmenrah for good once she had everything she required. As cold as such an act seemed, it was smarter to not allow matters between them sink deeper. And matters had already grown well past the realm of amicable charity.

Ahk had tainted her resolute composure with the decadence of his soft lips, giving her heart a taste of the one thing she wanted for herself, but could never have. His unforeseen kiss struck her with a bolt of brilliancy, feeding the dormant desire that had been lying in wait since the day she saw him in the city center, freshly crowned and so handsome—no longer the boy she remembered.

The mere thought of him sent her heart racing up into her throat, and heat to color her cheeks foolishly. She was veering into a path that was not meant for someone like her. Ahkmenrah was second only to the gods—who did that make her? A step above the sands of Egypt?

He was a glittering gem, and she was a pebble in someone's sandals.

Still, those melancholy thoughts could not deter the euphoria of being in Ahk’s arms; his warmth and softness were a welcomed contrast to the reality she’d lived. His path—grand, and out of reach—beckoned like a siren's call. The promise of his smile and the honey-drenched words he spoke made it difficult to stray from the foreign course she walked.

By the time she found the turned stone marking the passageway into the palace, Nouke’s heart was pounding against the walls of her chest with a vibrancy stemming from one-half excitement and the other apprehension. The anxiety that coursed in her was not due to threats made long in her past, but rather the notion before the night was through, her heart may break.

Naively she held onto that pulsing glimmer of excitement; hope that a different conclusion would mark the end of their reunion. Hope was a dangerous thing for someone like her—who had nothing. And yet, hope was all she truly had. It fed dreams no matter how utopian. More specifically, hope fed her heart with the idea that Ahk wanted her as much as she wanted him—forever, and not just for the night.

Minutes passed, stretching longer than the one before, as she stood with her feet buried in the sand, her eyes fixated on the singular crooked stone. Her hand hovered over it while her mind waged war with her heart, both screaming and neither coming to an absolute decision.

The vibrant hues of the sunset were swiftly succumbing to the black of night when Nouke shut out reason and bottled both the dangerous hope and the nagging insecurity. Her lips parted in a long breath, letting her rapid heart slow and her mind empty. If she could will her head to keep her heart from reaching too boldly, then perhaps it would not betray her.

There was a slight tremor in her hands as she pulled the bricks from the stone wall—each stone seeming heavier than she remembered. Nouke did her best to ignore their peculiar weight and the shake in her hands, not wanting to breathe too much life into such a sign.

When the hole was large enough to climb through, she did so easily, avoiding the sharp stones that threatened to scrape her elbows as she passed.

“Evening,” a familiar deep voice bellowed softly, startling her.

Nouke gasped and jumped finding Kamuzu standing on the other side of the foliage in the garden.

“Forgive me, lady Nouke,” he apologized with a bow of his head. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

She’d forgotten Ahk’s promise that his trusted Medjay companion would be waiting to escort her, and quickly composed herself.

“No harm,” she assured him.

Kamuzu responded with his usual nod and stepped into the bush enough to hand her a neatly folded garment. Nouke eyed it quizzically, her brows furrowing with intrigue as she cautiously accepted the bundle.

“Our king thought it would be best if you were to hide in plain sight.”

The silent question faded, her creased brow leaving only the intrigue as she carefully unfolded the linen garment: a simple but distinctly elegant sheath dress. The wide straps were decorated with fine blue and red beads, stitched into place with golden thread. In the right light, the faceted beads and metallic threads sparkled. The article was far too fine a thing for a commoner to possess, and she couldn’t keep from brushing her fingers over the textured straps and well-made cloth.

It wasn’t until Kamuzu cleared his throat that she looked to see he’d ventured back beyond the foliage and into the garden, standing with his back to her.

“If you would, my lady,” he spoke kindly. “Our pharaoh is very much looking forward to seeing you. We should not keep him waiting.”

Nouke glanced down at the dress again, running her fingertips over the beads one last time.

“Right.”

Without ceremony, she removed her tired, work warn garments, kicking them aside and slid the dress over her head. The fabric fell to encompass her in a display of feathery movements, disturbed only by the sight breeze that cascaded through the hole in the wall behind her. Nouke bit her lip as a smile unfurled on her face. It was as though she’d plucked a cloud in the heavens to wear; the fine linen was too gentle to scratch her skin—so light it felt as though she wore nothing at all.

When she stepped through the grove of bushes and trees to join Kamuzu in the garden, he cast her a faint, approving smile, and motioned for her to follow.

Venturing down the halls of the pharaoh’s palace with Kamuzu to lead fostered a sense of serenity. She was safe in his presence. A grin threatened to curl her lips at the newfound peace and the thrill it sparked, but she did her best to play the part—keeping her face noble and indifferent. Nouke let her eyes wander freely, however, marveling at the structures and the artistry of Ahk’s home like she never had before.

As a girl, she never thought to appreciate the beauty. The gold and mixture of painted colors suited Ahk; amidst vibrant colors and glittering interiors was where he belonged: a descendant of Ra.

A descendant of Ra—the smile on her mouth faltered as her mind reminded her that he was next to godliness, and she was next to nothing. Had it not been the sudden slam of closing doors seizing her attention, Nouke was certain those thoughts would have sent her back through the garden wall and away from Ahkmenrah forever.

Nouke was unfamiliar with the corridor Kamuzu was leading her down, and her eyes followed the noise to find a towering set of double doors at the end of the hall. Several men exited, and at first glance, she thought they were palace guards, seeing the weapons strapped to their belts. However, their miss matching armor pieces were evidence to the contrary.

Kahmunrah walked at their head, and Nouke felt disgusted knots tighten in her stomach at the sight of him. A thinly veiled frown worked onto her features; her loathing pressing deeper as she watched him approach carrying an air of hubris befitting for a king despite holding no significant title.

“Ahh, there’s my brother’s trusted companion.” Kah stood before them, as though he expected them to kneel. “Slacking on your duties, are you? It’s not often to find you not glued to his side.”

“I am always loyal to my king. A trait you would do well to learn,” Kamuzu quipped straight-faced and unprovoked, much to Kahmunrah’s chagrin.

Anger spread over his face like wildfire, turning his features impossibly red, causing his smug grin to swiftly turn into a scowl.

“And you would be wise to learn your place,” Kah spat. “I am the son of a pharaoh—you are nothing more than a glorified soldier.”

Kamuzu squared his shoulders and suddenly it was, as though he’d grown an extra foot, making him taller than Kahmunrah. A tight-lipped smirk settled onto the Medjay’s face.

“Move aside, disgraced son of a pharaoh. Or I shall move you.”

The band of roughians at Kahmunrah’s flanks all stepped forward defensively, hands to their weapons, ready to draw. Almost instantly, four more Madjey appeared to stand with Kamuzu. They too had their hand over their weapons, but Kahmunrah’s raised hand stopped the impending bloodshed.

When Kah’s men backed down, the Medjay returned to their stations without need of command. Nouke’s heart was racing again as her eyes darted back and forth between Kamuzu and Kahmunrah even though she knew it was best not to look directly at the pharaoh’s brother.

“So, my brother has you fetching his entertainment for the evening; I see.”

Nouke could feel Kah’s black eyes snake up and down her body with a wicked hunger that made her skin crawl. He stepped closer to circle her.

“This one is certainly pretty.” Kah stepped back into his previous position, wetting his lips as his eyes continued to undress her.

“See to it that she is brought to my chamber once my brother has had his fill. They’re always better a little broken in.”

Nouke’s stomach churned sickly; the idea of his vile hands touching her made her skin crawl even more. She would sooner throw herself from a balcony than share a bed with Kahmunrah.

Nouke through a fiery leer at Kah, and it only made his fiendish smirk grow.

“Oh, this one has fight. Even better!” he laughed, as did his men. Their wicked chortle filled the hall with a malevolence thick enough to suffocate.

Instinctively, Nouke’s fists clenched into balls; with any luck, she could manage one blow to Kahmunrah’s head before his guards descended upon her. The joy such an action would bring almost outweighed whatever punishment he would think up. Kamuzu, however, stepped between them.

From his tone, Nouke could almost see his vehement expression—his mocking smirk gone.

“As previously stated, you are a disgraced son of pharaoh—you a are not worthy of the likes of her. Now, I ask again. Please. Step. Aside.”

Kahmunrah squared his shoulders in challenge, not quite matching Kamuzu’s stature. Still, Kah’s eyes narrowed and the tint of red bled into his face once more.

“One day I will make sure you regret these fun exchanges we have.”

“I look forward to that day,” Kamuzu assured him without a twinge of fear to cloud his tone.

The two were locked in a stare-off for a minute before Kah folded. He snapped his fingers, and his men moved collectively to flank him as he sulked off down the hall, muttering orders to his men that Nouke didn’t catch.

The moment he was out of sight; all the fury vanished inside of her.

“You will have to forgive our king’s brother,” Kamuzu said in a tone of heavy distaste. “Although, if I may speak freely; he is undeserving of your forgiveness.”

Nouke smiled at him, “Thank you."

A gentle smile ghosted over Kamuzu’s expression, casting it to her with a bow of his head. Without anyone else to interrupt, he led her through the double doors and into what she could only assume to be the pharaoh’s private chambers.

Nouke’s mouth fell open when her eyes took in the grandeur of the interior of his room. Ahk’s chamber, itself, was akin to a small palace. The ceiling was as high as the heavens, held in place by towering columns, etched with storied hieroglyphs. Directly across from the entry, the far wall gave way to a large balcony were two statues of Ra stood sentry on either side. Her eyes skimmed every sight, reveling in all the splendor and ornateness of the various pieces of furniture until her breath caught and her heart leapt into her throat, finding the most breathtaking feature in the whole of Egypt.

Ahkmenrah was draped lavishly in the golden finery that marked his station; the gold of his jeweled bracers and wesekh gleaming under the torchlight. Nouke had to fight a frown seeing the crown on his head—it hid his boyish curls she loved so much. Still, she smiled seeing him again.

Something felt off, however. Nouke could sense it the moment her eyes locked on him. Ahk’s usual devil-may-care charm was masked by tense muscles, a heavy brow, and the hastened gait of a ruler whose mind was fraught with worry. He paced about the large room, one hand on his hip, the other pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Whatever it was that plagued him, held his focus with an iron grip; not even the echoing thud of the double door's closing drew him from his thoughts.

All at once, Nouke wanted only to run to him, to wrap her arms around him and console her sweet prince from whatever it was he found so troubling. Her mind, however, kept her feet planted in spite of what her heart wanted. She remained several feet away, Kamuzu at her side, chewing her bottom lip as she watched her friend, feeling helpless. Her reason for being there still eluded her, and until she knew beyond a doubt that he called upon her for reasons her heart yearned, Nouke would force herself to remain neutral.

“My king, I have brought you the lady Nouke, safely—as commanded.” Kamuzu bowed his head respectfully as he spoke.

Nouke hesitated, seeing the gesture and feeling obliged to do the same, bowed her head despite Ahk’s reassurance she needed not address him so formally.

The distinct cadence of footfalls that filled the chamber as he paced, halted. Nouke glanced up, peering at him from under her lashes as she slowly raised her bowed head. The moment his eyes found hers; all the burden melted away.

Ahk dazzled her with a smile, all teeth, and sparkling eyes, that was reminiscent of her carefree prince. His rapturous expression found its way into her heart, filling it with warmth, and she returned his smile before she could think better of it.

He crossed the space between them in a flurry of fluid movements illustrated regally by the flowing of his golden robes and without hesitation, scooped her into his strong arms. A surprised chuckle broke from her lips when her feet left the ground; the sound of her laugh painting even more radiance on his face.

Before Ahk settled her back onto her feet, he claimed her lips in a searing kiss that Nouke foolishly leaned into, utterly intoxicated by the sensation of his luscious mouth on her own. Every moment spent in his arms with his lips brushing against hers was like a drug; it muffled the reasonably cautious part of her mind that begged her not to act on her heart’s hopes and desires.

Each of his tender touches, every embrace, and intimate gaze Ahkmenrah bestowed upon her, tempted Nouke a little further down the path she was forbidden to tread. True, her body burned to have him, but her heart was greedier. Her selfish heart wanted him all to herself every day, until the end of her days. Nouke wanted to be bound to him in body and spirit for more than just a single night.

When he kissed her so deeply there in his chambers, squeezing her against his chest, Nouke knew she should have stayed away. Her mind could not compete with her greedy heart.

“I have waited all day for this moment," Ahk said on a puff of breath with hearts in his eyes.

“Me too,” she replied just as wistfully.

Her eyes fell to his glistening, wet lips; the sight of them shooting a wave of fire through her veins, and she bit down on her own to keep from tasting his again.

“I trust you traveled well?” he asked, a smirk growing having caught her gawking.

Nouke nodded, forcing herself to meet his eyes, struggling to keep from looking at his lips.

Ahk pulled his lower lip between his teeth as his grin grew, stepping back and tangling his fingers with hers.

“How beautiful you are. That dress suits you.” The pharaoh’s eyes wandered hungrily down her figure—drinking in the sight of her. His tongue poked out to wet his lips before his lewd gaze returned to hers.

“Such beauty,” he confirmed, stepping back into her orbit.

“Is it the dress that makes me beautiful?” Nouke tested imploringly, feeling unworthy of his compliment.

Her skin was darkened from years of labor under the sun, making it more akin to a hide than delicate flesh—coated in callouses, sand and dirt. Nothing about her ever alluded to being beautiful.

Soft fingers cradled her jaw as she watched the blue of his eyes smolder with the compassion she admired, and he tipped their foreheads together as he spoke.

“If it were the dress I found most appealing, I would have noted its beauty and not your own. Your beauty outshines any raiment or jeweled crown.”

Ahk kissed her again, a meditative draw—slow and brimming with the conviction behind his words. Warmth cascaded over her skin in a wave of goosebumps when his palm pressed against her back, pulling her against him with fervor.

“Come,” he implored, breathless against her lips. “I have something to show you.”

He took her hands and led her onto the balcony; the euphoria sweeping over her made her powerless to deny him. The weight of his hand twined with hers was comforting, and it worked to crumble the wall meant to keep her a careful distance. She squeezed his fingers—a test to make sure he was truly there—and when he cast her a smile in reply, it was brighter and more ethereal than Ra himself. The starlight reflecting in the blue of his eyes made her heart soar and her breath catch. He was so beautiful.

Waset glistened in the light of Khonsu. The glow of amber firelight flickered like a mirror of the twinkling stars overhead. The sleeping city looked so calm from the perch of the pharaoh’s balcony, and the sight worked over her with awe. Nouke could have stood for hours watching the city that way.

Her eyes skirted the far away horizon, standing at the edge of the veranda, against the stone railing until her vision met Ahkmenrah’s profile. The shadows and the flicker of torches highlighted his strong jaw and high cheekbones with a sharp contrast that made his features regal and masculine. Suddenly, the city was inconsequential—he was the most stunning thing within her sight.

Ahk tossed her another quick smile before dexterously maneuvering to stand behind her, looping an arm around her waist to hold her against his chest. Nouke felt so safe encompassed in his arms. She fit so perfectly.

“I found your farm,” he murmured against her ear, pointing to the horizon.

Nouke could hear his proud and delighted grin in his tone—too easy for her to picture in her mind.

“You have to squint, but it’s there.”

He moved his hand back to her waist, and as his fingers spread over her abdomen, their warmth settled in her core. Instantly her mouth was dry, and she struggled to swallow. Her whole body tingled—betraying her rational mind. Nouke gnawed her bottom lip biting hard enough to drown the desire building in her center that made her heart pound excitedly.

“What--um--what had you so worried before I came in?” she asked in an attempt to deter her want.

The lines of Ahk’s body went rigid against her. Whatever his concern had been; it was still bothering him.

“I don’t think I have ever seen you so worried before,” Nouke tried again when he offered no explanation.

She felt him shrug, and his body relax once more.

“It’s no matter,” he assured her, but there was a hint of unease in his voice.

Ahk’s hands slipped from her waist and she mourned their loss with a frown he couldn’t see, afraid she had upset him. A second later, feather-light touches swept up and down her arms; gentle brushes that aroused goosebumps to prickle her flesh and more longing to cloud her sensible mind.

His right hand glided all the way up her arm, just the pads of his fingers ghosting over her skin, before hooking them under the strap of her dress, sliding it to expose the tender flesh of her shoulder.

“My men are handling it.” Heat danced from his words and over her skin—lips against her shoulder even more tantalizing than the touch of his fingers.

Nouke sighed when his lips pressed firmly to the juncture of her neck and shoulder—mind in a fog, her heart beating too fervently to count. Her mouth fell open with a soft sound she couldn’t quell as her eyes fluttered shut to savor every moment; head falling aside, encouraging his ministrations.

Ahkmenrah’s lips quirked into a smile, and he hummed; the smug sound sent a rush of heat through her. His lips were sinful and heavenly at once, moving against the column of her neck, stopping to suck a bruise over her pulse before smoothing the mark with a sweep of his tongue. The warmth of his palms snaked up her torso, gliding over her hips and sides before cupping the globes of her breasts, thumbs dragging over her nipples. Despite the layer of linen between his hands and her skin, they tingled to a point almost immediately and the pharaoh made a throaty sound of approval.

Nouke bit her lip to keep the, frankly, lewd sounds from escaping her throat. It wasn’t until his mouth mapped a trail to her earlobe, licking and nipping as his hands gently kneaded each breast, that something akin to a moan broke from the cage of her closed lips. Her breath hitched and for a moment she feared she would fall from the sudden rush.

In a swift movement, he was there to catch her. Ahk’s hands circled her waist, the tips of his fingers digging into the soft swell of her rear as he possessively pulled her against him as his mouth found hers again. His tongue quickly flicked along her lips, stealing a taste, and she opened for him with a sigh—lost in the feel of him. Tendrils of lazy warmth worked through her as his teeth took her bottom lip with a nip with just enough pressure the pleasure outweighed the pain.

Nouke whined in the back of her throat as her arms twined over his shoulders, holding him closer until all of her senses were marked by the feel of him. Her heart was hammering in her chest; the muffled scream of alarm dulled by the taste and the feel of Ahk’s tongue swirling with her own.

Ahkmenrah broke the kiss with a breathless gasp to fill his empty lungs before searing a trail of kisses down her neck and opposite shoulder, sucking every sweet spot that drew a cry or whine from her lips. Nouke's head was inundated by desire—heat pooling with need at her center.

When his fingers threatened to slide the other strap of her dress away to undress her, the alarm of reality rang loud with warning.

Suddenly, it was all too much, too quickly with no rhyme or reason.

Nouke’s eyes shot open, and she wrangled herself free of Ahkmenrah’s grasp, yanking the straps of her dress back into place, suddenly dizzy. The abrupt loss of his closeness ached, but she fought against it.

Her abrupt movement almost sent Ahk careening forward into a stumble but he caught himself as puzzlement and the unfamiliar sting of rejection settled on his features in a wide-eyed expression. No words left his open mouth, but his question was in the crease of his brow and perplexed unblinking stare.

It took Nouke a moment to recover from the stardust and euphoria, and when she finally calmed, she gathered her resolve to keep her heart from leading her astray.

“Why did you ask me here,” she said.

She could sense the onslaught of tears brought on by the confusing mix of emotions at odds with each other inside of her. Her voice sounded cold—she didn’t mean for it to sound cold. But she wanted an explanation. She deserved an explanation.

He said nothing, his stunned expression pressing deeper as his eyes lost their focus. Something dark and precarious twisted in her stomach the longer he hesitated; Nouke did her best to ignore it.

“Why, Ahk?” she pressed firmly, using that malaise to fuel her reasoning. “Because I refuse to be summoned to your chamber; to be seduced, used, and tossed aside.”

Disappointment tugged at her heartstrings and tightened the knots in her belly, recalling Kahmunrah’s assumption that she was the king’s evening entertainment. A routine of his, it seemed. How many women lined up each night to spend an evening with their handsome, virile pharaoh? She feared to know about those numbers.

Nouke wanted more than a night of wanton pleasures; she wanted all of him—body, mind, and spirit.

Some of her steam evaporated when she felt her heart begin to break with the notion of his thoughts being nothing more than a heedless desire. Nouke exhaled heavily in an attempt to drive away some of the pain.

“Do your words and your kisses mean anything? Or am I simply someone new to warm your bed?”

Ahkmenrah’s eyes darted to meet hers—the first time since she’d pulled away. As he thought, Nouke watched the severity of his emotions drift over his features until finally, they softened; his wide eyes growing sad with a twinge of hurt.

“I would never—” Ahk hung his head, his focus falling to the floor as he searched for the words he wanted desperately to say.

Mist glistened in his eyes when he slowly brought them back to share her gaze. He stepped towards her but refrained from reaching to touch her.

“Surely you must know my feelings for you,” he said softly.

An inkling of relief surged through to find her guarded heart hearing his revelation, bringing hope that would surely leave her broken.

“Color spilled back into my life when I saw you again,” he confessed.

Nouke risked a smile. She knew the feeling he spoke of—she’d been lost in his colors her entire life. But while it thrilled her hopeful heart that her love was reciprocated, there was more. Her initial question still remained in the air between them like a dark cloud, unanswered.

If she wasn’t there, in the privacy of the pharaoh’s bed-chamber to be merely bedded, then gotten rid of, there had to be another reason. She had his love. Nouke could see it in the way he looked at her; in the way he kissed her. His love for her was as real and as passionate as the sun.

But Ahkmenrah already had his queen.

Slowly, and somehow all at once, the unease crept back under her skin as her mind pieced together realization. The thick air of the room stuck in her throat, and she had to swallow twice before it cleared.

“Why am I here, Ahk?” she asked, fearing she already knew the answer.

Ahkmenrah swallowed too.

“The council,” he paused. “The council wishes for me to take—”

“A second wife,” Nouke choked out, feeling her stomach drop.

Her chest grew tight, and she struggled to breathe as her heart shattered.

“Yes,” he confirmed, only causing her more duress.

“No,” she mumbled, clutching her stomach in an attempt to keep herself from unraveling in front of him.

“No?” Ahk repeated, both question and defeat in his tone.

Nouke nodded, unable to bring herself to say it again; a part of her in anguish to deny him.

All of her life she saw the love her mother and father shared. She wanted a sliver of that happiness for herself. Nouke would not settle for a lifetime of feeling jealous or selfish for wanting the man she loved all to herself.

“It’s normal; I imagine, for a man in your position to take multiple wives,” she spoke calmly, but found it difficult to meet his gaze. “But that is not a life I will ever want for myself.”

“Nouke...” When he reached to take her hand, she moved away—cutting herself off from his touch like she should have long before that moment.

“I was given very little in this life—something I came to terms with a long time ago. But if I could ask the gods for one blessing, it would be to be your only one.” Nouke spoke with conviction and truth.

The weight of her words crushed the pharaoh’s regal posture as the sting of her declaration pierced him. The usual spark in his eyes faded, and his muscles grew tense. Nouke’s eyes never strayed as she waited for him to utter a response. Whether it was hopeful or devastating she didn’t care. All she wanted was some recognition that he understood. But what she found in his eyes was emptiness—Ahk was completely closed off.

“Have you nothing to say?” Nouke asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes looked in her direction, but through her; as though she wasn’t there at all.

It was as she had feared, his crown had spoiled him. He was given everything, and now; rejection made him cold. The boy she grew up with would never have surrendered so easily. He would have fought to keep her; she wanted him to fight. But he said nothing.

“Well,” she stated, allowing venom to seep into her tone—just enough to sting.

“Thank you…my king.” Nouke knelt before him, holding it long enough to let him know she understood her place.

There were tears in her eyes when she stood to leave, and for a moment she thought he was going to fight, his mouth open, but he only nodded.

Never had she felt so foolish. Her heart had not listened, and now it ached with a pain Nouke feared would never truly heal.

***

Ahkmenrah stood, breaths shallow, muscles tense, with his eyes fixated on the doors of his chamber feeling as though a hole had just been ripped into the very fabric of his soul, and it was all his fault. He didn’t move; hoping with every passing second those doors would swing back open and Nouke would come back so he could fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness.

The moments, however, stretched into minutes and with them, time brought the realization she was gone. It was an ache that pulsed with a heaviness in his bones. His stomach dropped as tears fought to breach his kingly composure. He was a fool.

A haggard breath shook him as his eyes shut and his head hung, forcing the flow of his tears steadier down his cheeks. The ample silence screamed with an echo of how alone he felt. It was a stillness that was heavy and haunting, mixing sickly with the anguish that worked through him with a chill.

The writhing subsided only when the sound of the chamber door opening rang out, spooking the pharaoh out of his woeful stupor. Relief rippled through him, and the influx of happiness prompted more tears to sting his eyes—she had returned to him!

The relief vanished with a cold sweep of reality when he looked to see Medjay entering and not the woman he loved.

Ahkmenrah hastily wiped his tears from his face and reaffirmed his stately posture as he greeted his trusted guards. His voice was shaky and betrayed his stoic composure, but his men didn’t question him.

“Is there any news?” he asked, valiantly trying not to let his pain taint his noble tone.

He hoped they brought good news; he needed it.

The two men shared a hesitant glance that lent enough clarity that the tidings they came with were not what Ahkmenrah was desperate to hear. The look on their faces sent a surge of worry through his body making his emotions that much more volatile.

“The entire palace and the grounds have been searched, twice over, my pharaoh,” one Medjay expressed solemnly. “There is no sign of Queen Setshepsut, I am sorry.”

Ahkmenrah’s posture wilted as he sighed—grief tearing through him mercilessly. In his heart, he knew his sister's disappearance was due to his foolishness as well. Every word spoken to her and to Nouke had been misconstrued. He’d broken a vow and let the woman he loved believe she was not his only love. Now, they were both gone.

The pharaoh took a steadying breath, gradually building his pose back to that of a composed ruler.

“She must be found,” he told them in earnest. “Her safe return is of the utmost concern. Take men—as many as you require. Search the city. Discreetly, if you can. The people of Egypt mustn’t suspect their queen has gone missing.”

Both Medjay nodded, and spoke in perfect unison, “As you command, my king.”

They held their bowed heads until Ahkmenrah dismissed them with a wave, “Go now. Do not stop until she is found.”

The moment his guardians were sealed behind closed doors, every shred of his collected mien snapped and crumbled. The icy pang of grief snaked through him; the ear-splitting sound of silence rekindling his unease. Tears welled in his eyes again—a manifestation of his regret and ire. His fists clenched into white-knuckled balls as his grief boiled over into unbridled rage directed at only himself.

How could I be so careless?

A piercing ache swelled in his skull, sharp and pulsing, made worse by the weight of the crown on his head. His teeth were set against each other, tight, and his lips curled into a sneer as he took the royal headpiece into his hands. In the glean of the polished metal, he caught his reflection and fury faded to a frown finding the distorted features looking back at him.

Could so trivial an object rule and sculpt him—turn him into the blinded fool he had become?

Ahk’s frown contorted into disgust and with an artless toss, he let the crown tumble to the floor. It clanked against the stone ground splitting the silence with a brash sound that made the proceeding quiet even worse than before. His room was cold—he was cold, and the coupling rendered an unfathomable sadness.

Ahkmenrah stumbled backward; his feet shakier with every fumbled step and stopped only when his back collided with a stone column. All too quickly his body fell limp, sliding until he was on the floor, his tears falling freely as the sounds of his cries filled the empty air—wishing he’d been smart enough to run away first.

Next Chapter-> Chapter Eleven: The Duality of Duty

#Ahkmenrah #Ahkmenrah x Original Character #Ahkmenrah Fanfiction #Night at the Museum #NATM #NATM Fanfiction #Left to Ruin #Rami Malek Character #Rami Malek Character Fanfiction #Rami Malek Fanfiction #Rami Malek

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austennerdita2533 · 4 years

Text

A/N: Just a Literati trifle in celebration of GG’s 20th Anniversary Week. I still have another chapter or two to write but I wanted to get this out before the event officially ended. (Canon compliant + OS + divergences)

Also here: (AO3)

Enjoy!

xx Ashlee Bree

An Archive of Words Between Us

One day, many weeks into it but still no closer to clarity about what it is between them, Rory does what she does best: she makes a list.

Marked at the beginning, from when she and Jess first met, she soon starts to add to it with frightening regularity. A new entry comes any time there’s news, insight, questions, or growing confusion to report. She writes it all down. Out. She compiles everything in a beat-up old notebook she’s taken to carrying around.

Over the years that follow it becomes a confessional of sorts for her, a still developing story. She reaches for a pen whenever the mood strikes, and writes…then writes some more…

Committing to paper all the things they’ve said to each other over the course of their history, as well as many of the things they didn’t.

- i. things we said when we were strangers -

“Hey, Dodger, wait a minute,” she calls out before he disappears behind the gazebo. “Is this a gimmick of yours? Do you always write margin notes in the books you steal from strangers?”

Jess stops. Casts a cursory glance over his shoulder before turning back around with hands in his hoodie pocket.

“Depends, I guess.”

“On?”

“Does it matter?”

Rory shrugs.“You could be a literature-defacing miscreant on the lam for all I know. Your face might be tacked to Wanted posters all over New York City. I’ve got to edge my bets, protect my assets.”

“What,” he says, “you aiming to sentence me without a trial or something?”

“Thinking about it.”

“Wow. I can’t believe you’re going to bust out the cuffs already, Judge Judy,” he chuckles, raising his hands in supplication before rocking backwards on his heels like he’s been shot. “That’s not very neighborly.”

“Sounds like there’s evidence to be had if I dig a bit.” A pause. A teasing quirk of an eyebrow. “Is there?” she asks.

Though he stays silent at this, a spark of something catches deep in his dark eyes as their gazes meet, and Rory's stomach flips.

“Well?”

“You tell me,” he says, all smooth and inscrutable and James Dean cool as hell.

“I’m no Agent Scully at the FBI, but the truth is out there. Don’t think I won’t uncover it,” Rory replies, her wit flowing strong and sure. “If I think it’s warranted I could hire Kirk to lay chase for a while…he likes detecting. Takes payment in Skittles, too. Boxes of which I will have no trouble acquiring, I assure you.”

“Who the hell’s Kirk?”

“Let me worry about that,” she beams back at him coyly, bouncing the book he’d pilfered earlier against her hip.

“Save your Skittles, concerned citizen. I’m clean.”

“Oh, yeah? And why should I believe you when I hold proof to the contrary?”

“Because—” Ambling backwards in the middle of the street, a crooked smirk forms along the corner of Jess’s mouth as he gives her one last idle loll of his shoulder. “I only leave notes for people who might appreciate them. Start with the one on page three, by the way,” he adds with a farewell salute. “It’s a doozy.”

Curiosity piqued, Rory ignores the warmth in her chest as she watches him turn to leave a second time. Instead, she buries her nose in the margins of Howl and peruses. Losing herself in his tiny blocked script the whole walk home.

- ii. things we said because we were lying to ourselves -

Pacifying the town's fears about their friendship isn’t easy.

Especially not after Jess outbids her boyfriend at the basket-bidding festival to win an afternoon of her company. Or the night he shows up on her doorstep unannounced, bearing food and intellectual discussion after she swears to everybody else she wanted to spend the evening alone. Or when he wrecks her car on their way back from a spontaneous hunt for ice cream cones.

Then there’s the time she misses Lorelai’s graduation because she’s stuck on a bus next to some scruffy-looking creep who spits chew into a soda can while he mumbles the names of state capitals under his breath in an Appalachian-sounding litany, Rory having skipped town impulsively to visit Jess in the Big Apple after Luke had sent him packing because of an accident that had no real bearing or blame. At least not unless it was half hers to share in, too, in any case.

She expends a lot of energy defending what they are to people. Clarifying what they’re not.

Pretty soon a truncated version of the truth skips from her mouth like a message she’s spent months concocting, memorizing, and then recording, with her smart enough not to speak it aloud until it sounds convincing. And it does. She makes sure of it.

Tensions abate after that, for a time. Mostly because of the distance.

Mom and Dean, in particular, seem to breathe easier with so much of it stretched between them. They’re much happier once Jess is no longer there to lurk around Luke’s, or clog the aisles of Doose’s, or stake out chalkperson outlines on the sidewalks of town where he can draw her closer to him. Too close for comfort, as far as anyone else is concerned. Even if his only aim in doing so had been to imbibe her in intellectual conversation.

Rory finds it funny how his absence from Stars Hollow makes it both easier and harder for her to placate everyone’s misgivings. The words may be simple to say, but the meaning behind them feels deflated. Half-bodied at best.

Like calculus, it causes her headaches. Forces her to work twice as hard to make everyone believe she doesn’t care that he’s gone and likely never coming back again. That the vacant space he’s left behind doesn’t sting whenever her gaze passes over it, remembering.

Exhausting though it is, however, she does her best. She makes the effort.

She starts by dolling out extra attention and assurances to Dean about her commitment to him. To their relationship. Then she pivots around mention of Jess’s existence to her mom because she knows she doesn’t approve of him let alone agree about any of his good qualities. With Lane, she focuses on school and Mrs. Kim and music they can add to her floorboard collection. And in front of Luke, so as not to burden him with more disappointment, she acts as if nothing is different. Pretends that nothing much has changed.

Omission quickly becomes a habit for Rory. A way of life.

Only once does exposure threaten to spoil everything when her mom confronts her openly one afternoon about a placeholder that’s slipped out of her copy of For Whom The Bell Tolls.

“It’s nothing,” Rory says as she makes a quick grab for it in the kitchen and blushes.

“Really? Because nothing to me looks a hell of lot like a paper plate fragment. One that’s smudged in pizza grease and blue scribbles.” Laughing, completely unaware of her daughter’s wide-eyed discomfort and humiliation, Lorelai hands it back to her without inspecting it closely. “I’m surprised by your choice is all. Messy and makeshift isn’t your typical bookmark M.O., hun.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when Paris accosts you at the break bell. You drop things. People jump, drinks spill. Beloved bookmarks go soaring…”

“Ah. I take it she was yelling in dog decibels again?”

“More like she put out an APB on all aliens living a few hundred million lightyears away and then gave them exact shouting coordinates for where to find her. So same difference, really.”

Her mom snorts. Passes over the ranch dressing.

“She’s a pill, that one. I’m telling you Pink wrote that song with her in mind.” Shaking her head, Lorelai closes the fridge behind her as she bites into another French fry. “So how’d you come by the plate?” she asks, her mouth full.

“It was spontaneous. I was running late so I nicked it from the cafeteria on my way out,” Rory lies, knowing full well Chilton never dispenses paper or plastic dishes for dining.

“Oh.” Her mom considers this. “Well, I suppose there were times even Madeleine Albright couldn’t find anything better to use in a pinch. That was very…replateful of you.”

“What can I say,” she exhales with relief, feigning amusement as her fib is accepted with alacrity, “the Forks was with me.”

“Only the Forks? Don’t tell me you’re leaving out the spoons and the knives. How could you?” says Lorelai, aghast, as she scoops stray kitchen utensils to press them against her chest in a bodily cuddle. “It’s cutlery discrimination!”

“No, it’s punning.”

“Says who?”

“Me.” A pause. A nibble of pizza. “Also, Shakespeare would agree.”

“Psssh, Shakespeare! That old killjoy,” her mom says dismissively, rolling her eyes in good humor as she tucks a box of strawberry Pop Tarts under her armpit and motions toward the living room. “What’s that you have written on the inside there, anyway? French? Calculus? Rolling Stone lyrics? A blueprint for the evil plan you’ve hatched to shoot Grandma to the moon? I’m dying to know.”

Waving her off, Rory tucks the shard back into the spine of her book where it belongs. Hiding it from view. “It’s for school,” she assures her as they settle onto the sofa.

“So tell me about it. I don’t care if it’s boring.”

“Pass.”

“Come on! I could use a good Chilton-instigated snooze.”

“Too bad. No beauty naps for you.”

Lorelai pouts, fake affronted. “Rude!”

(Turns out that ‘shard,’ that ‘thing for school’ which is stuck between the pages of Rory’s Hemingway, isn’t boring at all. In fact, it has a history. A story. The truth is it’s a souvenir she’s saved ever since she and Jess talked books over pizza at Antonioli’s on basket-bidding day.

Toward the end of the meal he’d ripped off a piece of plate so he could jot down his phone number and a quote. Only sliding it into her hand, folded in half, crinkled up like a note passed between desks at school, in the moments before they parted ways and headed home.

It’s stupid she’s kept it. She realizes that now. Stupider still to slip it between the pages of each new book she reads or unfurl it in the privacy of her bedroom to puzzle out if the line he’d included from A Moveable Feast is meant to have double meaning:

“We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and [liked] each other,” it reads.

Stupidest of all, she can’t seem to bring herself to stop looking at it. To throw the darn thing away. A note…a number…a greasy sliver of paper plate!)

“Like I said, Mom,” Rory swallows before smiling over at her convincingly, “it’s nothing. Really.”

- iii. things we said on the verge (of something) -

In early June, Sookie’s wedding day arrives.

Things are static again. Serene. Normal.

Granted, slight changes do sprinkle into the mix here and there because of her dad’s presence, because Dean holds her a little tighter around the waist now than he once did, but mostly it’s the same here as it’s always been. Pleasant people fade into gossip and nonsense while fun blurs into peculiarity.

Life feels simple once more. A tad plain and colorless, maybe, but simple.

Then Jess returns to town on a whim or a fluke or a who the devil knows what he’s thinking and everything goes sideways, pear-shaped, belly-up-and-down in seconds because this is the last thing she’d been been expecting and suddenly the only thing that registers is the length of the grass plus the number of steps it will take to close the distance between them. All that matters is he’s here, he’s back, he’s near enough to touch, and she’s smiling so hard she can hardly breathe as she drinks him in from head to foot like a glutton: her pulse leaping, her heart lurching free from the cage of her chest.

The whole world tilts. Collapses. The pale yellow of the sun shines down like a spotlight so it’s only a rippling alcove she sees. Just him, just her. Just them canopied beneath these flittering fronds of green.

Any rational thought Rory possesses scatters across the wind with the pollen. And then before she knows it, the ground tilts out like a ramp underfoot.

It pushes her forward. Outward. Sliding her toward him until she’s thrust and tangled in his arms with no memory at all of how she got there, or why their mouths feel so hot and wanton like this, so damn unsatisfied. It all seems impossible considering they’re still pressed together in a kiss that can only be described in one way: illicit.

“Not a word,” Rory pants when they stop and Jess pulls back, his jaw taut, his expression shuttered, to nod once understanding.

“Okay,” he says.

“Promise me.” The huskiness of her voice feels at odds with this demand, with the trembling fist she still has curled in the lapel of his jacket, but she cannot think about her stinging mouth or his tongue right now so she clings to desperation instead. “Can you do that?”

“Okay,” he repeats, all eyes, eyes, eyes. And with that single look, she forgets to breathe let alone digest anything he’s promised.

In the end, it’s an impulse that overtakes them not a decision. It’s a moment of clandestine passion they share, not a confession that will alter the circumstances any.

And yet it’s guilt, not regret, that begins to pull like an anchor in her belly until she’s running in shoes that chafe the back of her heels. It’s terror and confusion, not apology, that ripples along her nerve endings until she’s dashing through the trees like a coward or a swindler because she needs to believe behind her there’s still a haven of black and white she can cross with both feet.

Only when Rory stops does she feel the change. Does she discern the difference. It takes one sting, one breathless stitch in her side, for her to know she’s tumbled forward into color without noticing.

Looking down, and there it is. His name already singed across her chest in scarlet letters.

- iv. things we whispered on the hood of your car -

“Tell me something no else knows.”

“About what?” he asks around midnight the following April, the two of them sprawled on the hood of his car at a deserted rest stop off the I-95 on their way back from a concert in the city.

“You, silly.”

“Funny you’re thinking about penning my biography already, Churchill. I’m honored, truly, but aren’t I too young for that sort of enumeration?”

With a roll of her eyes plus a protracted har-har, Rory lifts their intertwined hands, watching, mesmerized, as their fingers thread then unthread as they lay side-by-side parked beneath the Big Dipper in this forsaken parking lot. Though they’ve been together about six months now, prying Jess open has been slow work. It’s like taking a crowbar to cement: one chip, one crack, one crumble at a time.

“Stop deflecting, Mariano,” she warns. “Evasion’s for chumps.”

“Fine,” he sighs. She presses a kiss of reward against his knuckles before curling tighter into his side. “How about this: every year roughly sixteen hundred people in New York City are bitten by other humans.”

“Bitten?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“That’s just it,” he says in his best horror story voice, “could be vampires, could be cranky commuters, could be urban mania or road rage…nobody knows.”

“Oh, please. As if I’d let you off the hook with that obvious dodge. You’re killin’ me here, Smalls!” Rory says with an elbow rib and tsk. “Second of all, you so made that biting thing up.”

When she edges her head back onto his shoulder to look at him, Jess drags his pointer finger down her forehead before bopping her affectionately on the nose, his expression neutral.

“Didn’t you?” He shrugs in that cute off-the-cuff way of his then smirks into her hairline. “That’s unbelievable!”

“It is what it is.”

“So, what,” she says as she throws her leg over his hip to lug him closer, her arm already stretched out across his middle, “is there a case of zombiepox going around that the CDC has neglected to inform us about? Because I’ve got to tell you if that’s so then I’ll need an inoculation ASAP, mister! Frazzled, bloodshot, and half-rotted is not a good look for me. It just isn’t.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Hey!” she exclaims.

“No offense, critter of Frankenstein,” he chuckles, absorbing her retaliatory swat with a grunt and rolling her further on top of him, “but I’ve seen you pre-coffee. It isn’t pretty. We’re talkin’ bolts out your neck, monster glares, frothing purple mouth and everything.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep up your running tally and you might find I bite you next. Rory the Ripper does have a nice alliterative ring to it—you best remember that,” she warns all narrowed eyes and silky breath and arms folded under her chin.

Jess cocks his left eyebrow, brushes his thumb over her bottom lip. “Idle threats don’t scare me, Gilmore.”

“They should.”

“Maybe.” A lazy grin forms at the edges of his mouth. “But yours don’t.”

“Fine,” she blows out a breath. With her head resting in the center of his chest, Rory fixes him with one long steady look, her voice dropping an octave lower as it drains free of sarcasm to assume a more serious edge. “Name one thing that does then. That scares you, I mean,” she says.

He doesn’t answer right away. In fact, he fidgets so long beneath her that by the time he settles with his hands clasped behind his head, lost in thought and translation, peering up at the sky, she’s half convinced that silence or deflection is the best she can hope to expect from him in reply.

Reticence is a quality she’s come to recognize in Jess. It’s one she can reflect back at him in part because they’re both cut from the same quiet, introspective cloth. However, it’s also one that restricts her access to his thoughts and feelings when she most wants it, and that can take a toll. Makes her wonder if they’re parked at different weigh stations in this relationship or not.

It’s bizarre to reconcile how she can understand him so well in some contexts, to the point where she can predict his next reaction or sense a good joke hanging in the periphery that's about to descend; while in others, he’s a total head-scratcher. Like a Sudoku puzzle with numbers that don’t add up to anything.

The silence between them continues to stretch. It becomes an awkward, formless wall.

The stillness, too, which is illuminated only by the light of the moon and the faint din of the car radio, hangs between them until he draws her up his body and folds her over him with a green plaid blanket. His fingers tracing languid strokes up and down her spine.

“Swans,” he says at last, his tone subdued. Scratchy. “Swans scare me.”

“What else?”

“Tennis balls. They’re too small and fast as they zip past. I hate how they can leave imprints on your face like ugly yellow snitches.”

“Okay then. Weird but fair. What else?” Rory asks all warmth and eagerness, her eyes searching his for something he wouldn’t want to slip free.

“Pennywise.” Though she snickers at that, it’s a valid fear. Clowns unsettle her, too. Evil ones especially. She’d had nightmares for eight months after she’d read Stephen King’s It for the first time, and had taken to sleeping with the bedside lamp on for years.

“Anything more?” she asks.

“Cricket bats.”

“Ooh-ho!” Poking him, “So Mrs. Kim got to you, did she?”

“Listen, I tried to be cool and unaffected but who knows what would’ve become of my head if she’d taken a swing with that thing?” Jess shudders at the same time she imagines Humpty Dumpty and laughs. “Jeez.”

“Things would’ve gotten messy,” she adds honestly.

He stalls a moment, then blinks back at her all wariness to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “How messy are we talking here?”

Rory cocks her head and bites the corner of her mouth, musing. “Think pumpkins.”

“Smashed ones?”

“Yep.”

“Figures,” he mutters miserably.

With an encouraging pat, “Don’t worry, I would’ve stepped in before Mrs. Kim buried your handsome yet indignant face beneath the floorboards or behind a brick wall in the catacombs with Fortunato. It’s the least I could do since I sort of like you and all.”

“Sort of?” Jess asks.

“Yeah. I’m no unreliable narrator girlfriend who'd escort you to your doom, you see. I’d much prefer to keep you,” she says with an adoring grasp and swivel of his chin, which he deflects by tickling her breathless as she bends down over him.

“Gee thanks, Casper. Nice to know you care about me.”

“Not about you exactly,” she teases, her flip-floppy giggles still piercing the air. “Just your head.”

That stops him. “My head, huh?”

“Sure.” Still a little breathless, she reaches toward him to fist her fingers through thick black tendrils along his nape. “It’s pretty.” She gives the strands a little tug. “Full of thoughts I’m hoping to pilfer for further study.”

“You know, I always thought there was some hoodlum in your DNA. Now I’m convinced,” he says as he leans over to commence the tickling again. “And you will pay."

The two of them continue to roll then thump against his windshield all elbows and knees until the levity starts to leaden and transform. As Jess reaches over to cup her cheek, their gazes meet in the silvery darkness and hold, kindling like flint.

Quiet washes over them again for a moment. Only this time, it’s bloated; it’s heavy. It’s a mess of a hundred thousand decipherable something’s teetering on the precipice of expression.

A flicker of alarm passes over his features as he frames her face with his hands, palms flat against the car. He hovers aloft, unsure. Indecision mixes with fear to tangle with retreat even as gravity beckons him nearer, his head dropping low enough for their foreheads to touch.

“I sort of like you, too, you know,” Jess breathes softly, his lips lowering to press against her mouth in a quick but lingering kiss. “A lot.” His jaw clenches. “Maybe too much.”

Suddenly there’s a tightrope pulled taut and vibrating in every direction because there’s no shrinking back from the dense electricity pulsating between them. There’s no more room to dance around unnamed emotion whenever it identifies itself in blown pupils, in a bobbing Adam’s apple, in hands that slip and slide until they fit together like aligning planets.

In that instant Rory knows. She knows right then and there she’s falling in love with him, that she’s half fallen already. And it’s both a revelation and a fact so natural she can feel the truth of it whistling from deep in her bones.

Looking nervous, vulnerable, more fragile than she’s ever seen him, he swallows hard then shifts to squint out at the shadowy tree line while scratching at his nape. “It’s just…so many people have treated me like garbage that all I know how to do is spoil things. I destroy, Rory—ruin what’s good. It’s what I do best. It’s all I know. I’m trying here and all, but I…don’t know how to do this,” he says, gesturing lamely between them. “How to do us right.”

“Hey now,” she thumbs his cheek, tries to turn his head back toward her but it won’t budge, and neither will he. “That’s my boyfriend you’re talking about. Go easy on him, will you?” He nods into her palm, softening a little. The tension leaves his body as he gathers her in his arms again, her head conforming to the crook of his neck, but she’s not convinced all is well yet.

“There’s no rulebook or anything,” Rory says placatingly. “We’ll figure it out together, okay? You and me.”

“Yeah.”

“We will,” she says with an emphatic, assuring squeeze. “I know we will.”

With a caustic laugh, a heavy sigh, he runs his teeth over his lip, “I’m a screw up, Rory.”

“Hey. Not true.”

“I am.” Jess sounds so resigned, so convinced, it ties her into knots thinking he sees himself that way.

“Not to me, you’re not.”

“No,” he says with a deadened inflection, with a sad downturn of his mouth. “Not to you.”

Frowning, she feels his cynicism, his self-deprecation, descend like a slash across the gut. Helpless to do anything but try to be a soft place for him and his insecurities to land, she pulls him toward her, embracing him, quieting him, caring for him more with each passing second even though a warning gong goes off in her heart when she leans in to steal another kiss.

“Maybe I’m not a screw up to you yet,” he whispers, “but I could be at another time. On another day.”

“Stop,” Rory declares forcefully, holding her finger against his lips so he knows she means it.

Jess relents. “Okay,” he sighs. “Just know I’ll get it if you change your mind.”

- v. things we cried out at a crossroads -

Strained.

Silent.

Distant.

Those are the best adjectives to describe the status of her and Jess’s relationship as the bus pulls away from the curb a couple weeks later. After the party from hell. From her place on the sidewalk, her chest full of a heaviness she can’t name, Rory stares after it - after him - with little to no regard for the hour’s lateness or for the morning bell which signals the start of homeroom.

It’s the middle of May. That means finals, graduation, and summer loom on the periphery but she doesn’t care. None of it resonates. In the background she can hear Paris barking orders at a few trembling freshman and minted sophomores, but she does nothing to intervene. She makes no move to prevent her frenemy’s yellow journalistic splatter from crushing the innocents to smithereens.

Instead, she watches the hum and bump of the vehicle’s dusty rubber wheels as they roll down the street. She tracks the plume of smoke swirling from the exhaust pipe into the sky, which clouds over with blacks and grays instead of with clearing blues and radiant yellows. She waits until the bus turns left, its engine loud, roaring, to putt around the corner. Disappearing from view.

I hope he calls later, she thinks with a pang, with an iota of hope. We need to talk soon.

Rory’s eyes want to keep traveling with him long after he’s gone. So do her feet. They seek to follow along wherever Jess has gone, to ride beside him until they’re able to make sense of this mess between them and fix it. Fix them again.

Unfortunately for them both, they don’t. And it’ll be some time before they can, let alone before they do.

#gilmore girls #gilmore girls fanfiction #literati #literati fanfiction #ggturns20 #gganniversaryweek #ashlee bree's writing endeavors #it needs editing #but hopefully it's not as awful as i'm imagining it to be #*bites knuckles and hides*

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